Blossomed UP

Do you velvets one another or correct in a way that’s so humble as such.

Blossomed UP

Patterns woven into you stitched so patiently that I couldn’t help but stumble up upon a vivacity as peculiar as such.

Power we hold moving as in is above the totality, go bug.

Inhale, Inhale. Exit the petty ways you did clutch. Gender has no relation, patience is a virtue for those of all, trust.

Dear Sister,

I see you. I see your strength, your struggle, your resilience. I see the way you carry the weight of the world and still manage to show up with grace. I see the dreams you’ve tucked away, the battles you’ve fought in silence, and the fire that still burns inside you — even when life tries to dim it.

This letter is for you. For every woman who’s ever been told she’s too much or not enough. For every woman who’s had to fight harder, speak louder, and stand taller just to be seen. For every woman who’s been overlooked, underestimated, or dismissed. You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. You are powerful.

Empowerment isn’t just about titles or achievements — it’s about identity. It’s about knowing who you are and whose you are. You were created with purpose, designed with intention, and called with authority. The same God who spoke galaxies into existence also spoke life into you. That means your voice matters. Your story matters. Your presence matters.

I’ve walked through seasons where I questioned my worth. Where I let fear silence me and comparison shrink me. I’ve believed lies that told me I wasn’t smart enough, pretty enough, spiritual enough. But God didn’t create me to live small. He created me to walk boldly in the calling He placed on my life. And the same is true for you.

You don’t have to wait for permission to be who God called you to be. You don’t have to apologize for your ambition, your passion, or your voice. You don’t have to dim your light to make others comfortable. You were made to shine. You were made to lead. You were made to rise.

Women empowerment is about lifting each other up — not tearing each other down. It’s about celebrating the wins, holding space for the losses, and reminding one another that we’re not alone. It’s about sisterhood, solidarity, and strength. When one woman rises, we all rise. When one woman heals, we all heal. When one woman steps into her purpose, she opens the door for others to do the same.

I’ve seen women overcome impossible odds. I’ve seen single mothers build empires. I’ve seen survivors turn pain into purpose. I’ve seen quiet voices become powerful movements. And I’ve seen faith move mountains. That’s the kind of power we carry — not because of who we are, but because of who God is in us.

So if you’re tired, keep going. If you’re scared, keep praying. If you’re doubting, keep believing. You are not weak for feeling — you are strong for continuing. You are not broken — you are becoming. And you are not alone — you are surrounded by a generation of women who are rising with you.

Let this be your reminder: You are worthy. You are chosen. You are equipped. You are empowered. And you are enough.

With love and fire,

I still feel numb when you strike and I’m out
You come up with a theory
While I fantasize everything is alright
You hurt me
When I try and tell myself
I’m ok
Things are better now
I can’t cry
I’ll just stay down
But yet I’m just not my best bet
You are an essence of life Im greatful to have
I confide but yet you try and whine
I stay still in a line and yet you still will aim to make me cry
You’ll bend me
Break me
Till you make me
That’s it
You want to remake me you want to crucify me with words
Break me take me
Put me in a wake
Make me sleep make me close my eyes make me feel
One at at time I got a lot on my mind
When it comes to you I just don’t have a way to go to other than down
You never smile
At least not when I’m around …

indecisive clarity
Steady pace of a beating heart
My heart beats there
But yet it beats fair
I can’t choose
Love or peace
War of my indecisiveness
Similar to spiritual warfare but lighter
Im trying to think clear
I see with my heart
He’s there
I see him
I feel him
But he makes me cry
He makes me sad
He makes loving him hard
But I can’t find peace of mind
Only on occasion
When he allows
Im controlled by his waist
Im controlled by his provision
Im locked in
I can’t get out
im stuck
Im in love
But I can’t have the clarity
to truly understand why
He is no good
But I love him
And he loves me
I never listen
My brain tells me
My intuition does as well
But I choose to see with the eyes of my heart
They peek through hoping
one day
That little girl is held right by all the love in someone’s body
To their last breath
I’m not hopeless
I’m not delusional
I’m in love
His waistline and my spine connect like a pecking bird to a tree
our breaths collide
And our pattern is livid
But I love it
Because
I love him
Why can’t I give that love to someone greater

Love is…
Something unexplainable,
Something that hurts like hell,
Something damaged,
Yet so mended by the torment—
Is it worth it to feel all the pain?
It is the literal best feeling on earth
‘Til its corruption.
As a kid, I was told you would know
deep down…
Inside…
All around…
When someone loves you.
But it was only another mis concept,
That was greatly taught.
How…
Could someone who has ever only had damaged love
Truly know, deep down,
The phenomenon of a healthy, deep feeling
Of love that is connected to pain—or trauma?
I thought I found the person at one time who loved me—
And the reciprocation exceeded way more than I received.
Then our love made a cry
That didn’t get to sound.
I was lied to when I cried… yelling:
“Baby taken out of this womb of mine”…
I can’t even sing its lullaby.
All this pain in my heart that I’m feeling—
I can’t sing you your lullaby.
My love? Laughed it off…
I was alone in love,
Gripped of a true love
I didn’t even get to grasp.
But the pain exceeds
Way before…
My love’s? Time.
Parents are there…
They guide.
They protect.
They show you what love is.
I’m clueless…
Learning through time
With wind…
With fire…
With water…
With hurt.
Love is something undefined.
In my time, love just leads to anger.
I’m angry…
So, what I guess I’m saying is,
In this time,
Love isn’t alive.
Love is—but a lie?
Better yet, instead of the question of who love is,
And not what love is—
Why is love?
I want love…
Am I capable of love?
Do I have love?
Will I ever love?
Am I already loved?
Behold beauty in the eyes of the maker…
Deep concurrent thoughts on how, and why,
The sky between you and I
The anxiety is anchored to our divide…
Oh, why—but behold its beauty,
In the eyes of the maker.
We have found why,
Through all the bad crime
That now weighs on mine

At the first aim to a deer, is a tear innocent?

Is it possible for something made from more to be nothing less?

Could a beast escape its routine?, still I cry—

Made to feel more than emotions. Yet colors are my spine,

anyone — including you — felt it on my sleeve.

“Please don’t touch me.” Lost and fragile thoughts on betrayal.

Large gasps, sunken cries, the one thing giving me my sleepless nights.

Aimed at the deer, shot at the child.

The purity that once was mine no longer there.

After all, I am just a Momma, without the arms to bear

His morality has taken me for granted.

Roots of a little girl, dead after exposure.

Oh, to be grown on your own. Sadly, his time had no code.

My mind has a long road. His eyes were dark. My heart is shattered—

individual pieces labeled with separate death dates.

Died so many times, I reside in a constant state named revival,

Housed in a shell of grief.

Grieving a little girl, grieving a part of me

that should’ve stayed intact.

The first aim to a deer, triggered, and I am the tears unheard.

*loud trigger sound*

Can you hear me now?!

i said CAN YOU HEAR ME .,now!
please… hear me

The woman in the Window’
Hey, Sista, how are you? I hope you’re staying strong and keeping your mind filled on the more positive things not your current circumstances. Just in case you have haven’t thought it, wrote it, even if you’re finding it hard to believe because reality has smacked you in the face Hunny. as your Sista I ‘am going to remind you of this. ARE YOU’RE A PHENOMENAL WOMAN. And keep your head held up to the sky. How are you going to see God miracles if you’re looking down at him? I know you like to hear about my little adventures so, this past week I’ve been volunteering at a women’s shelter in the neighborhood ‘’ 7 sisters’ on the corner of MLK Blvd. and I usually take the same route to the shelter every day and I walk pass this apartment building and it’s a women sitting in the window she always sitting in the same chair, same stare, same stillness. I find myself drown to her watching her to see if she makes a move or even notices me, but she hasn’t. today she wasn’t there! I find myself relying on her stillness and dedication to her routine to keep myself going. If she can do it so, can I. maybe she was waiting for confirmation from God and she received it, maybe she had a doctor’s appointment or maybe she was tired and slept in. maybe she’s reminding me that it’s okay to slow down. To take inventory over my own life and assess things. You can’t give from an empty cup. I wonder who she is? I think next time I see her I will speak to her to get to know her . Maybe she’s a teacher and she only gives wisdom to those that seek it. Well, that’s everything I’ll keep you updated. Let me know if you need anything, don’t forget to write back! Communication is a two-way street

Some wounds don’t just ache, they echo.

This past year felt like I was drowning in the dark, with no one coming to rescue me. I watched the man I married choose alcohol over love, cruelty over kindness, and vengeance over peace.

In September, I walked away not because I was ready, but because I had no choice. Safety demanded it. He fought me until October. I fled to a my daughter’s house just to sleep without trembling. In November, he filed for divorce. And in January, I found a new home.

Two weeks later, my son was diagnosed with cancer.

I hadn’t even unpacked my strength before life asked me to carry more.
While my son endured surgeries and radiation, I faced another kind of violence: emotional torture from a man who once promised to protect me.

He unleashed my private photos to the world like venom. He posted lies about my health, my past, my character. He contacted people I loved and people who had already hurt me before, reopening wounds I thought were long buried.
He told me he wanted to wrap a rope around my neck.
He said jail didn’t scare him.
He made me afraid to breathe.
But I still got up.

Every morning I packed hospital bags. I smiled for my son. I held his hand through surgeries while my own soul collapsed inside itself. I explained away rumors. Hid my address. Took medication just to survive. And I never stopped loving my children with a ferocity that turned fear into grit.

I have been humiliated. Threatened. Lied about. Abandoned.

And yet, here I am. Still rising. Still writing.

Because I refuse to let him own my story.

To every woman reading this who’s been manipulated, gaslit, made to question her own reality, I see you.

We’ve spent too long being quiet for the sake of peace. This is me breaking the silence.

You’re not overreacting. You’re not weak. You’re not too emotional.

You’re surviving. You’re healing. You are powerful beyond what they ever saw in you.

We are warriors in mascara. We are heartbreak laced with hope. We are the ones who still show up: for our children, for our work, for ourselves, when no one applauds.

I wrote this not just for me.

I wrote it because the world needs more of us.

With fire and truth,

Thank you for giving me a safe space to exist, even when there were unsafe people around me.
Thank you for having the strength and willpower of a thousand swords, cutting down any obstacle—or person—that stood in our way.
Thank you for screaming so loud you liberated the souls of our ancestors.
Thank you for tenderly massaging my bruised and battered body when no one else would stand by our side.
Thank you for nourishing me with the love that comes from the belly of the Great Mother Earth.
Thank you for using your healing hands to create works of art that speak the truth of our soul.
Thank you for never giving up on life, even when life seemed to give up on you.
Thank you for wrapping me in warmth when there wasn’t a roof over our head.
Thank you for laughing so joyfully it shifted the frequency of the world.
Thank you for never turning your back on others, because you understand the power of healing and community.
Thank you for believing in love, even when your heart was broken.
Thank you for crying when our body was ready to release.
Thank you for laying your head on a pillow, even when the dreams were sometimes worse than reality.
Thank you for speaking kind words when our mind was telling cruel stories.
Thank you for walking away from those who harmed you—and never looking back.
Thank you for always seeing the potential in me to be better, to do better—for our entire family line.
Thank you for trusting in a power greater than ourselves, so we could surrender into a softer life.
Thank you for learning to receive blessings of love and prosperity—because we simply deserve them.
Thank you for being a voice for the ancestors, so they could finally tell their families they love them.
Thank you for courageously facing the legal system to teach the world that the power of the people will ALWAYS overcome the power of the oppressor.
Thank you for singing sweet songs of kindness and generosity—expecting nothing in return.
Thank you for allowing us the space to make mistakes and try again.
Thank you for always, simply, being there.

Dear Mary, daughter of Joachim:

I thought it appropriate to write to you on this eve of the celebration of your son’s birth.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when we met, but it was very early in my life. As a child, I was introduced to you through my Catholic upbringing. I learned of you and revered your place in history as the mother of Jesus Christ.

Through teachings in the church, I learned that you were chosen by God to deliver a son who would eventually die for our sins. As a mother, I can’t imagine giving birth to a child that I knew was destined to die to save the world. That’s a heavy burden.

Through stories told in the Bible, I learned that not only did you and Joseph take on this challenge, but you did it with the utmost grace.

How proud you must have been as Jesus taught us to live in God’s light, to do His work and act in ways that put the rest of us to shame. Through every adversity, your son rose to the challenge, even when He was falsely accused of witchcraft.

Ironically, those who questioned His powers were the same people who brought Him to the cross.

Mary, if given the chance, you and I would have a cup of tea and talk for hours. I have so many questions, one mother to another.

In closing, I’d like to thank you for your sacrifice as Jesus’s mother. I’ll refer to one of my favorite Christmas songs: “Mary, did you know that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters . . . And when you kiss your baby boy, you’ve kissed the face of God.”

I watched you from the shadows,
a quiet, steady beat.
You moved through the world
like the ground kissed your feet.

I studied the curve of your laugh,
the shine in your eyes,
dreamt of moments we’d share,
but they were all lies.

I was invisible, a ghost in the crowd,
a whisper, a breeze, never too loud.
But inside, my heart raged,
a storm I couldn’t tame,
trapped between silence
and the sound of your name.

So one day, I stood tall,
my fear on display,
and told you the truth
in the boldest of ways.
But your smile held pity,
your answer a no—
a wound I expected,
but it still cut low.

Yet from that “no,” I found my voice,
discovered in me, I had a choice.
No longer hiding in the cracks of the wall,
I became the light that burns through it all.

Now I walk taller,
no fear in my step,
because loving myself
is the best move yet.

You didn’t choose me,
but that’s okay,
I’ve learned to love me
in a brand-new way.