Scribbles from a sleepy girl... in no particular order.

A bunch of scribbles from a sleepy girl... in no particular order. 

Drafts, journals, notes... not sure what date for some. But they all made sense together in a way.

I sat up in the bed. Reaching for the leg I thought was still covered in blood. 

Just a dream. Just a dream. 

It seems too simple to say I want them to be safe. 

......

We all took a personality test that said we needed safety in the workplace... not one of us answered with having it. I found that horrible yet right on brand.

.....

"The greatest thing you can offer to a grieving soul is safety." - Rich Perez.

.....

Concrete Rose 

I’ve shared with a few people before that I was told by a woman without an earthly home I was like a weed in the sidewalk. At first I thought ouch okay… but over the years I’d be waking the streets in some big downtown city, and there would be this beautiful flower. Just there. In the sidewalk. Waiting to be seen. Trying its best to survive among the concrete and traffic. And I’d half smile thinking of my friend who saw me way back when. Maybe I was out of place. Maybe I didn’t fit in. But I was seen by her. Just like I was blessed to see her. And I’m grateful for that. 

Years after that first comment, I was handed a paper with the meaning of my Name. “Green shoot” “vitality” “fertility” “blooming” “goddess of harvest” and I thought yeah okay, weird. But cool. I like being joyful and the life of the party. Sure.

Turns out the Devil didn’t like that I was given identity and leaning into a truth, so he fed me a lie. 

Death. Darkness. Grim Reaper. Isolation. 

For years I’ve felt anything but "who I am." it’s not a coincidence that the very things I was surrounded by in reality, started to feed into the lies more than the truth. 

Tupac once said, “Long live the rose that grew from the concrete when no one else cared.” 

I cared. Every time I saw a flower in the sidewalk. I thought how much more that flower needed to fight just to be alive. I thought about how unfair it was that it wouldn’t ever be in a field or a vase. It wouldn’t just be there stuck. Waiting for someone like me to notice it. To thank it for just being. 

But I’ve been doing some resorting of the lies and the truths recently. 

The snow has melted away. 

Spring is around the corner. 

And I pulled that rose right out of the concrete & gave her a new pot. 

With soil & light & water.

Turns out the environment not only changes how we see flowers. 

But how we see ourselves. 

Like Angie Thomas wrote, 

“It's kinda like how we have to do with ourselves. Get rid of the things that don't do us any good. If it won't help the rose grow, you've gotta let it go.”

Like to be reminded that beauty can come from much of nothing. To me that’s the whole point of flowers.

My truth is I was seen a long time ago. Now it’s time I tend the environment I’m in and create more life. 

.....

A dandelion appeared in my yard today. Gods timing is always perfect.

.....

A week ago I walked off the bus and was met with big hugs from some middle schoolers who knew things would be a lot different now.

My phone still full of messages from OG's cracking jokes about how they "never thought they'd see the day."

Email inbox dinging every so often with community partners well wishes.

March 20th, 2025. Spring Equinox. And my last day on staff at Urban Impact. I chose that day exactly why you would assume. So much was out of my control on any given day. But book ending day light savings and the first day of spring around my final two weeks? SYMBOLIC. 

I haven't decided on what to say yet... for now, I am grieving much like always. Celebrating the small wins like they are huge, like always. And forever blessed.

It took me about 5 years to battle some serious darkness before getting to the light. 

But that day a week ago? I felt full of light. Joy. And a peace that I never thought was possible for someone like me. Bound with so much chaos and fire inside it's a mystery to me still.

It's very unlike me to make a decision before running away for awhile... but I guess you could count that time in Charlotte, Vegas, St. Louis, Joshua Tree, Knoxville, and all the times in Louisville combined for this one. Not to mention, I am looking at plane tickets currently...

Oak of righteousness yes, Rooted? I've never really been much for that part after all.

.....

I laughed so hard today I cried. Then I just cried. 

Surrounded by the dead, I slipped and fell in the mud cause with so much rain the newly buried plot caused a lot more muddy spots. Instead of jumping back up I just laid there stunned by how ridiculous I must have looked. But then I realized I was only surrounded by tombstones. My humor has become more and more dark over the years, while simultaneously becoming the lightest thing I can offer someone. 

.....

My therapist put a timer on me recently. He said I was the one who showed up. I was the one who decided it was time to heal... but it had to be for me. "You can't do it for them. They will have to decide one day too."

So now, I'm choosing to heal me.

Day 424

Day 424 of sobriety. 

Today I bought plants. 

Why? Because people don’t tell you on day 424… when life is crumbling around you, kids are dying,  you’re bombarded with bad news every hour on the hour… your immediate response is compulsion.

To numb, to forget, to separate, to isolate. And because you don’t have alcohol, or you don’t have anymore eyelashes to pull and people caught on to when you didn’t eat… you find another thing. 

Plants. 

And you play your music really really loud. 

And you go to the prayer room. 

And you cry. 

They also don’t tell you that people are sad when you don’t drink with them. Even if they don’t say it. 

I never really had an issue with alcohol. However, I do have an issue with numbing. 

I have an issue with reaching for anything that will separate me from pain and sadness. 

Because like someone has said before, I am the personality hire. 

I am joy. 

And feeling anything but happiness is a scary thing. For anyone. But for someone who isn’t programmed to be anything else… I’ve been malfunctioning to put it nicely. 

I’ve been in therapy before for watching an unhoused person die in the street, or for the fact I have multiple levels of OCD and depression… but my self infliction of discipline has remained unmoved. 

I’m not sure why that’s my go to coping mechanism… but here I am. With plants I know will die soon. Because just like I drown out my sins, I too over water my plants. 

I don’t have a solution folks. 

I’m just being honest. 

When will you? 

untitled: 9.22

A year ago I had a group of friends sitting around a fire in my front yard. 

A year ago we were sipping cider, talking about life as young professionals, saying goodbye to summer and hello to fall. I fell asleep with the smell of smoke from the fire still in the air. 

I had no idea that when I woke up the next morning, my whole world would come crumbing down. I woke up to my phone ringing so much it fell off the night stand. 

My eyes groggy I was trying to read the dozens of messages while also trying to call them back. 

Our baby had been killed. 

I didn’t understand. I must have been too tired or too in shock to believe them. Tears on the other line confirmed it. 

I had to call my part time job and tell them I couldn’t come in. 

Our baby had been killed. 

I apologized through tears, He also apologized and said not to worry. 

Not to worry. 

Not to worry but our baby had been killed and I couldn’t seem to get off the floor. 

A year and one month ago… that baby had been volunteering at the center. He was raising a little girl. He had breath in his lungs. 

And in an instant. That ended. 

I couldn’t protect him.

For a year now I have questioned whether or not being alive is worth it. Whether being in this job, in this city, in this body even makes sense. 

I’ve had so much hate built up in my soul that it’s slowly killing me… at least that’s what the drs tell me. I have nothing to offer his little girl, his siblings, his mom. Because the hollowness feels contagious and I fear spreading it with hope, joy, memories is more harmful than helpful. I know that can’t be true. But it’s how I feel. 

Grief is weird. Heavy. Sticky. 

It keeps me up at night and asleep during the day. It makes me more angry to the so called friends that left him on the ground than the boy who shot him. 

I know shooters. But more unfortunately I know cowards. This city is full of them. 

I watch their stories, see them in the neighborhoods they do nothing to support. No amount of T shirts made or tattoos added to skin will remove the reality of them being cowards. And perhaps I am one too. Because I’ve allowed a system, institution, fear… keep me from stepping to them toe to toe. They have a sickness I wish I could remove because they refuse to do better, be better, dream or live. And I know I’m not supposed to think that way, but sun touches us all. 

I am ashamed that I’m still here. My desire to see people free from grief, bondage, sickness, addiction and lies somehow keeps me from targeting the very people that keep us reliving this pain day after day, year after year. 

A year ago I fell asleep saying goodbye to summer not knowing I’d be stuck in fall the rest of my life. 

Perpetual death. Browning plants. Dark hours creeping up more than light. Coldness wherever I go. I’ve lost loved ones before. And I’ve lost them since. But for some reason. When they killed our baby, they took me too. As if it were the final nail in my coffin. Maybe I wanted to go with him. Maybe I wish I could trade him places. I do know I want him here, with us… I’m not sure how I feel. But I am exhausted at thinking days keep going by and every single time fall comes, I am reminded of how they took our baby. 

I wish desperately to ask them why. I do my best to tell the next wave of kids just how exactly things have been or should be. All I can do is pray… or is it? My fight is almost nearly gone. But some days I get a good sense to keep going. Others, I really just want to lay down and close my eyes and not worry about having to open them back up. I don’t question God anymore. All my questions are for the humans he created. And let this serve as an open invitation for questions, for a conversation. I’m not scared to be threatened or to die. I’m more worried that a coward controls the narrative of my life. 

An Open Letter to our OG

An Open Letter to our OG

We often forget to give the greats their flowers while they are here.

Whether it be because of their humility in not accepting the accolades,

or maybe more because we think our heroes never die.

We spend our time working hard to emulate them, in thought, word, and deed,

but somehow expressing love in the moment doesn’t come as easy.

Especially someone as tough as you.

It’s not until they are gone do we truly realize just how much

influence and impact they had on us. 

We lost an OG this weekend. And he didn’t want anyone to know.

Just in his true fashion, he suffered in silence.

And I sure as hell know he is ripping and running with God in Heaven

in a healthy working body.

The pain and suffering for him is no more. All the while,

he worked so hard to comfort those in pain

while he was here. That’s how it goes though, isn't it?

The strongest of us never show our cards the whole way.

Not to be dishonest, but to be “brave”.

We adopted that from him, for better or worse.

We hold our hand close to the chest to ensure folks don’t see the cracks

while we simultaneously hold them up

in love and accountability. 

For the longest time I have said we wouldn’t be where we are today without him.

I certainly wouldn’t.

The way I move throughout schools, throughout the city, is because of him.

Flaws and all, that man cared deeply about young people and made sure to remind folks

that you didn't need to have formal education, training or

letters to your name to be successful.

You needed rapport. You needed the community's co-sign, and man did he have it. 

It’s easy to think about people's shortcomings while they are here,

but I’d challenge that thought and say,

we really want to celebrate and honor folks while they are here.

On the good days and the bad.

Because we truly do not know our last days.

And suffering alone feels less than heroic. 

May we remember Aaron not just as he was on his worst days or his best days.

But may we remember and honor his legacy woven in us,

throughout this city in a way that replicates the mission but breaks free from

individual demons.

A legacy that doesn’t take ourselves so seriously but is very serious about

sharing the gospel and eradicating darkness in our city.

A legacy that literally saved people's lives by stepping in the gap and crossfire daily.

I have so many folks to thank for bringing me up in this life…

but you instilled a skin of armor so thick around my body.

You are the loud voice in my end that breaks through my darkest nightmares telling me

the light is still here. And you saw something in a little white girl from around the way…

that earned your blessing when so many others didn’t get it.

And I will never take that for granted. 

You are a cherished hero whose name is in the Holy book my friend. You are free.

Today, I’m Furious

When someone says they are gonna go visit their son, what do you imagine? Is it at his apartment for dinner? Or maybe at his football game? Some may even think in a classroom. But for too many parents. When they say they are gonna visit their son. They mean at their grave. 

“You don’t know what you’re gonna feel when you leave outta here. It may be peace one day or down right rage another.” 

This is what one of those moms said to me as she readied the flowers for her own son’s grave, right across from a young man… excuse me, too many young people… I knew well. 

“10 years ago my son was the only one here. Now look, this entire section is gun violence.” 

Rows and rows. Sons. Daughters. Mothers. Fathers. Siblings. They all had lives. Families. Names. 

16

18

15

18

10

29

32

The list goes on and this is just one cemetery. 

I need to be honest and say I don’t do cemetery’s well. I very rarely spend time there. I’ve only just recently been able to attend vigils or funerals without completely shutting down. Because I know I have to stand firm. Strong. I need to have a clear mind and a soft heart in order to obtain peace. Justice even. It’s very hard. And I know that not everyone is in a place to do this. But I have to. To educate folks on how absolutely senseless, unholy, and wrong this reality is. 

The other side of this cemetery has folks that lived to be 80 or older. That had grandchildren and made a home for themselves and left peacefully. 

This side of the cemetery is still bleeding out. Was left to die on the street they once stood on. Is being remembered by poorly written news articles and hashtags. This side of the cemetery doesn’t get to watch their own kids grown up. 

And yet. With folks knowing all of this. With people being broken by it. Another grave is being dug. Another friend let down by the hype of their crew. Another mother left to raise a baby without its father. Another sibling left with silence on the other end of the call they wish they could make. 

She was right. You don’t know how you will leave out here each time. Sure sometimes you’ll have peace. But today, I am furious. 

the last/first day

The letter board sign on my entertainment center still says last day of summer. 

Part of me hasn’t had the time or been home long enough to change it. But the other part of me knows that if I do… the reality of what happened on the first day of fall will be too real. 

The sadness. The anger. The guilt. The hate. The hollowness. And the downright grief from seeing our baby taken away from his family. 

————————————————————

Since then more loss, more shootings, more jail visits, more days where getting out of bed seems too much weight to bare. 

Innocent bystanders asking me how I’m doing today where the answer feels like punishing them, or someone making a joke that don’t feel very funny at all. 

I don’t expect people to feel how I feel. 

I don’t expect people to fight how I fight. 

However, I am bothered that they still have some innocence. They have a light that hasn’t dimmed. They have a sense of safety. They periodically grieve for unknown individuals in a mass media post. I visit graves without tombstones because no one planned for this. 

I’m angry and passionate. 

Moving forward feels unfair to the dead or imprisoned. But laying in this emptiness isn’t right for the ones still here fighting to live. 

This is where I’m at. Hurt by people who “avoid politics” but ensure my people never truly exist above struggle and suffering, and preach from the good news of Facebook...

This heart of mine is so tired from shattering over and over again. And yet, it still beats. And I suppose that is the ultimate gift, and challenge.