There is something quietly radical about Black women loving each other out loud. In a world that often asks us to compete, compare, or...

She’s always been my friend. We’ll call her “B”. She is proof that I have never gone without a daily meal or two. She has been a safe space for weary heads to rest, some kings, some flings. 

When I turned 40, something shifted. It wasn’t sudden, but it was sure. I stopped craving rooms that made me feel small. I stopped shaping myself to be palatable or pleasing. I let go of the belief that I had to earn rest, or prove my worth through constant doing. I began to crave something more honest: to simply exist. As I am. In time, in space, in fullness.