Since Feb. 2016, I’ve encouraged myself and others on this honest blog, Roots and Hope. I love to share my heart about faith, mental health, & young adulting.
Sometimes, love means staying where you are rooted and learning to be unashamed of the soil inside your garden even though it is still littered with the history of broken glass and broken people broken by white supremacy, so broken that though they looked like you, they still tried to break your mirror, Black girl.
You should have always seen yourself as beautiful. You should have always been protected. You should have never had to heal before your time.
But you, Philly sis, grew into something far more than a wound. You are a whole organic fruit tree, tall and Black, leaves leaving legacies of broken cycles, seeds planting exhales of permission in your people’s mouths, like: “it’s okay to be Black and cry”, “it’s okay to be Black and say, ‘that hurt me.’” “it’s okay to be Black and air dirty clothes in therapy and moments with anyone needing to listen, to know they’re not alone.” “it’s okay to stay hood and demand respect with the defense of being human.” “it’s okay to be Black and tend to your garden, to make up your Black mind that love is your water to pour just as it is your water to drink.” “it’s okay to be Black and name gentrification a disease contagious between cities.” “And no matter how much they try to displace you, it’s okay to be Black and fight for home, to be a tree and speak forests of stories from the ground, living and planting deep beyond the pull of digging and demolishing, shading and feeding your people, unapologetically.”
I am a writer, and my first published piece was a love note to a boy named Antoine*. I saw him and instantly knew that he was the one. I mean he was cute, and that was enough. I never had a class with him or spoke a word to him. He had no idea that I existed, and that was my safe place.
That same year, Ciara and Bow Wow was the “it” thing way before she and Russell were even thought of. They had me singing their duet, “Like You,” without taking one breath. In the same era, Usher released his seminal work, Confessions, on which the classic “Superstar” had me shamelessly singing, “I’ll be your groupie baby ‘cuz you are my superstar. I’m your number one fan. Give me your autograph, and sign it right here on my heart.” So, in February 2006, it was only natural for me to lyric my own truth. I penned a secret admirer message for the Valentine’s Day school newsletter. I can’t remember what all I wrote, but let me tell you this: its depth rivaled all the best ’90’s/2000’s R&B on my Mp3 player.
“Who wrote this?” Antoine was at a loss. The whole 7th grade wanted to know, “Who wrote that letter?” I never wanted him or them to find out. To me, I was ugly: ugly hair, ugly skin, ugly face, ugly clothes, just ugly. A year later, some boy even posted a list of the “ugliest girls in 8th grade” on the Crush Spot website. Yours truly was on there. Surely, if Antoine and the whole school found me out, I would be clowned. He would be embarrassed. I didn’t want to do that to him.
One of my best friends to this day spilled the beans to another boy that I crushed on for years. Antoine finally knew my name, and I did my best to hide. Time eventually made me irrelevant to school gossip, and we all moved on.
For most of my life, I’ve been single. I’ve never quite stopped hiding from “boys” out of fear that they’d reject me. I’ve authored so many romance novels in my head for boys and men that I couldn’t look in the eye in real life. I’ve hidden my beautiful smile from guys that gave me butterflies because I didn’t want them to think I liked them. It even took me years to develop real friendships with men because I didn’t know how to speak to them. I didn’t know how to just be my plain amazing self.
I am a whole blossoming person of many realities: single and sometimes lonely; single and sometimes really happy; single, scarred, and sometimes scared.
I hope that I won’t be single always.
I am dope and desire to share myself with someone who’ll celebrate me like I’ve learned to do for myself.
I dream about sitting in a restaurant, on the couch, or in the car singing along to the radio with bae.
I have an exquisite imagination and wonder where I’ll meet my love. Will it be in the summer? Will I be sitting on a bench near the Detroit Riverwalk in my pretty sundress while reading a book about Blackness? Will he see me and politely pursue his curiosity?
Sometimes, I fear that my imagination disqualifies the best from happening. Maybe, it’s too good to be true. I have to remind myself that God is capable and proven to exceed what I envision. My imagination isn’t too good to be true. It simply isn’t good enough to know what all God can do.
In this life, I am more proud of being a friend, daughter, sister, niece, mentee, mentor, and cousin than I am of any material accomplishment. I look forward to when my partner meets my support system. He’ll see that each of my seasons without him were already full in their own way. We’ll explore fullness in new, refining ways, together.
I want my future children to have an incredible father. From him, I want them to learn that masculinity and vulnerability actually complement each other. I laughingly picture them being embarrassed by their parents who kiss and hold hands in public. Ewww.
Lastly, I am practicing how to choose my words with care. No more proclamations of:
“Forever alone.”
Singleness is not a death sentence. If ‘alone’ turns out to be what God has for me, he’ll grace me through it. Yet, as I wait for what I hope, I’ll speak kindly to myself. I’ll write honest words to encourage others as I, too, carry along.
I crave to be held, chosen, and seen, but I won’t settle for anything. Not even a good thing. I am praying for the best thing that God can give me. Whoever is for me will overwhelmingly embrace me. My journey with anxiety and depression won’t scare them away. My healing father wounds won’t repel them or ruin my destiny. My lack of rhythm will endear them and not humiliate them. My love for both quietness and deep conversations won’t discomfort them. My relative lack of romantic experience won’t dissuade them.
As I grow kinder toward myself, my insecurities are being repurposed. I am cultivating greater grace for my future partner.
This Valentine’s Day, I don’t have any plans. I hope that changes one year soon. But for now, I’m okay. I feel sad every now and then, but I’m still expectant. I am grateful to be myself. I have an identity in Christ that anchors me. If or when I find a person, what a blessing they’ll find in me.
Life is not passing me by. I am neither solely existing nor a mistake. Rather, I am soulful and irreplaceable. I don’t need every 1st of January and birthday to validate that life is a celebration, that I can still dream. Every day, I get to experience newness and continuity. If only I can perceive it.
If only I can remind myself.
I know what it’s like to feel unremarkable, wallflower-like, weighted, suffocated, or maybe even numb. Lately though, I’ve been attentive to moments when I most feel alive. As it turns out, sky dives, randomly finding dollar bills, and falling in love aren’t necessary (though all would be sweet and the last would be AMAZING). Just simple things can uplift my day, root me in the present, and grant me permission to hope. Below are ways of being and doing that animate me:
Reading: In high school, I stalked celebrity life stories on Wikipedia. In 2019, I spent days researching the beef between Ireland and Northern Ireland, all on my cracked Android. In August, I moved into my apartment and Googled my burb’s role in the Underground Railroad. Over the years, I’ve treated reading as food for my random and inspired curiosities. Just this weekend, I read Yaa Gyasi’s Transcendent Kingdom and Tara Westover’s Educated. Beyond boasting masterpiece sentences, these books were surprisingly similar, thematically speaking. They kept me awake, eyes eager and burning, as they journeyed through:
family trauma and joy
pursuing a formal education and discovering knowledge of self
the narrators’ grappling with faith and trying to make it true for themselves
Music: Learning how to DJ is on my bucket list. I create actual playlists and ones that I never save, like when I play one song which inspires the next to queue and so on. My friends say that I’m like a song association game. They’ll say a word, and I’ll sing a connected lyric every time. Select songs remind me of people I love. When I hear Eric Roberson’s “Change for Me” (Joey Negro Remix), I smell charcoal. I see myself, a child staring through my bedroom window at the backyard. My (step)dad is vibrant and dancing, aloof to the neighbors’ feelings. And I’m hungry, already tasting sweet steak seasoning with MSG on my tongue. When I listen to John Coltrane’s “Naima,” I picture what my birth dad must have been like. According to legend, he always wore a well-tailored suit and loved jazz. Though both of them are no longer here, I keep their memory alive through melody and imagination.
Laughter: Sometimes, people ask me to repeat what I’ve said because I spoke it “too softly.” I’m not gon’ lie. This annoys the heck out of me ‘cuz I always think I’m audible. On the contrary, no one has struggled to hear my laugh! It’s weird, loud, boundless, and so me. It reminds me of my spark.
Eating Alone: At the risk of sounding anti-social (I’m really not), I like to eat in solitude. Just yesterday, I sat on my couch, holding a microwaved pot pie in my lap. I savored the fake-butter crust; the barely bearable, burn-my-tongue salty gravy; and the mushy carrots and peas. The meal wasn’t luxurious, but I experienced its flavors with a slow, satisfied focus.
Bringing People Together: I love opportunities to intentionally connect people, whether through a writing group, birthday party, or a team meeting. One day, I want to own a house. It’s not an urgent goal, and I seldom dream about its aesthetics. I know for certain, though, that it needs to have a guest room or two. I want family and friends to visit and sense belonging. If anyone in my community craves rest and recognition, I’d love to be their host. Throughout my life, I’ve battled in waves with feeling left out and inadequate. As my faith grows, I rejoice over the realization that God sees me and accepts me. I am drawn to share that love with others.
Writing: Of course, right? During my toughest bouts with anxiety and depression, writing reminded me that I was not empty. I had a voice, and I could pray with my pen and paper. I could encourage others as I encouraged myself, as God encouraged me. Even if it is 4:30 in the morning, as soon as a revelation or question comes to me, I’m grabbing something to record my mind. With this being said, I’m learning to be gracious to myself when words feel impossible. If I don’t feel creative, I can still write a few words about my day. I can scribe a few bullet points in my gratitude journal. I can write an affirmation and post it on my wall. I can write my to-do list rather than typing it. I can also find other ways to create, like trying out a new recipe, coloring in my book, or re-organizing my desk. These things all help me to be involved and patient.
Breathing and Beating: This one sounds simple, but for me, it’s easy to consciously abandon. Whenever I’m stressed, breathing deeply and touching my heartbeat tells me that I’m vital. My body is intricately designed and functioning.
Anger: Stay with me here. It’ll make sense in just a bit. I remember telling my friend JB that I never get angry. He looked at me like I was a ghost. At the time, I almost swore that I was telling the truth. Honestly though, I repressed anger as an emotion. It was tainting and always unproductive, so I thought. This belief kept me from healing from experiences that hurt me. By actively burying a human feeling, I forfeited living with integrity. Now, when I feel upset or rage, I try to acknowledge and channel it in healthy ways (e.g. through prayer, journaling, using my voice to combat injustice, etc.).
Speaking Life: I’m tryna be a best friend to myself. Every now and then, I think, “Jess, all that time and energy you put into ensuring that people know you love them, how about you do that for yourself, too?” One way that I’m aiming to love myself is with my words. Jessica, you’re amazing! God can accomplish infinitely more than you might ask or imagine. You’re enough. The list goes on. Funnily enough, I thought about Black mamas, how they say stuff like, “If only you knew your spelling words like you know them songs on the radio.” LOL. By speaking life to myself and others, I want to become so familiar with beautiful words that I remember them like the catchiest hits, that I believe them.
Worship: In the Bible, there’s a popular story about Jesus and the Samaritan woman. When he meets her, he actually sees her and instructs her about real worship. He says, “For God is Spirit, so those who worship him must worship in spirit and in truth” (John 4:24, New Living Translation). Apart from going to church or using music to soak in God’s goodness, I seek to honor God with all of my life. I want to honor him with how I live: mindful consumption, gratitude, loving others, growing my friendship with him, obedience, and more. I never always get it right, but I am growing to take the limits off of worship. Just as I can love God by studying his word, I can also love him by crazily laughing and being present. “So whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God” (1 Corinthians 10:31, New Living Translation).
So, there you have it. I’m alive and grateful for its evidence.
I’m sitting alone inside my car. Just outside of Kroger (a grocery store), a dude plays Christmas music with a woodwind instrument. Ain’t nobody paying him no mind, just grabbing baskets and Purell wipes, likely praying the cranberry sauce is still in stock and the checkout lines ain’t too long. He looks content though, just doing his own thing. As I wonder if I’m right, I smile because I feel a peace within myself. My head hurts a little cuz I haven’t had much water today. My stomach sings the blues cuz I’m ready to go home and eat this free chicken in my backseat. Hopefully, my neighbor comes out of the store soon. It’s chilly. I’m hungry. Roxie, my dog, probably deposited unpleasant surprises on my carpet. But I’m grateful for this moment to pause, to observe strangers who aren’t performing, who may not realize that they’re seen and wondered about. And I marvel at this: I see them, God sees them, and God sees me: all of the regular, yet remarkable steps we take. I have the gift of wonder during a people watch session, the pang of hunger juxtaposed with the simple miracle of daily bread, and the respite of breathing in this car, in solitude without cloth hiding my nose ring and smile. I’m doing the mental math of counting every little thing to remind myself that I’m far more surrounded than I am alone.
My memory can’t always give me the peace of a precise beginning. All I know is that my sadness started somewhere and stayed.
From secret sadness to downpour sadness, from sadness with a clear cause to sadness with no perceivable why, I’ve felt them all.
Shame bullies me into feeling worse.
I am unworthy because I keep feeling sad.
My friends and family will get tired of me if tell them I am struggling…again.
People can sense when I’m crumbling inside; I need a stronger mask.
Why do I feel this way when I have so much to be grateful for?
I must be defective.
I’ll never get it right.
How easy is it to forget my progress, my help, and my unbreakable bond with love and purpose?
3 All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. 4 He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (Bible, New Living Translation)
10Don’t be afraid, for I am with you.
Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you.
I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
Isaiah 41:10 (Bible, New Living Translation)
God would never turn me away because I’m hurting.
…
While home alone yesterday, I washed dishes. As hot water and soap ran over silverware, sticky with Sweet Baby Ray’s, an unfamiliar song met me in solitude. I listened to every word.
Like a long lonely stream I keep runnin’ towards a dream Movin’ on, movin’ on Like a branch on a tree I keep reachin’ to be free Movin’ on, movin’ on
‘Cause there’s a place in the sun Where there’s hope for everyone Where my poor restless heart’s gotta run There’s a place in the sun And before my life is done Got to find me a place in the sun
Like an old dusty road I get weary from the load Movin’ on, movin’ on
Like this tired troubled earth I’ve been rollin’ since my birth Movin’ on, movin’ on
There’s a place in the sun Where there’s hope for everyone Where my poor restless heart’s gotta run I know there’s a place in the sun And before my life is done Got to find me a place in the sun
You know when times are bad And you’re feeling sad I want you to always remember
Yes, there’s a place in the sun Where there’s hope for everyone Where my poor restless heart’s gotta run I know there’s a place in the sun
Roots & Hope 