The Invisible Black Woman

So here we are on a random Wednesday, and I’m finally posting. Again.

I don’t even know if falling off is the right way to describe it. Truth is, I’ve been emotionally hiding. Laying low. Trying to process all the noise without letting it drown me.

And honestly? A lot of it is because watching this country burn, literally and figuratively, has been a lot. Ever since that man took office, it’s felt like we’ve been living inside one long, drawn-out panic attack. And no, I’m not about to pretend to be neutral about it. If you’ve been following me for any amount of time, you know exactly where I stand.

I’m all in when it comes to Black women. Period. Full stop. And one thing I know for sure—without question—is that the individual currently sitting in that office is not. I don’t care how many excuses folks make, how many headlines spin it, or how many times people try to gaslight us into thinking we’re imagining things. We’re not.

But this isn’t about politics. Not really. It’s about how hard it is to hold it all—to carry your own struggles while witnessing the world around you crumble. To try to protect your spirit from everything seeping in, slowly, quietly, until suddenly you realize you’re deep in your shell, wondering how you got there.

That’s where I’ve been. Full turtle mode. Not gone. Not checked out. Just trying to breathe without breaking.

And if I’m being honest, I don’t know when that’s going to shift. I’m working on it. I’m pushing through, even if pushing through looks like showing up here with a few short posts until I find my rhythm again.

So, if you’re still here, still rocking with me, thank you. I appreciate it more than you know. Just hang in there with me. I promise I haven’t disappeared. I’m just… surviving.

And sometimes? That’s enough.

Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the marvelous you are.