Archives for March 2022

Supreme Court History Shows Healed Black Love

“As it says in the Bible, let the work I’ve done speak for me. Well, YOU (Judge Ketanji Jackson Brown) have spoken.” -Senator Cory Booker

It moves me to tears to watch this amazing Black Man, Senator Booker, defend, advocate, & speak LIFE into the first Black Woman IN AMERICAN HISTORY be nominated for a seat on the Supreme Court.

Watch as he breaths life back into her battered soul from the absurd & vicious attacks from racist Senators tearing at her credibility & her confidence.

Watch the whole video. It will show you the power of a Black Man covering, protecting, providing for a Black Women when she needs it the most.

This is what Healed Black Love looks like.

Please share in support of Judge Brown Jackson.

She needs us… right now.

Watch it here 
Via PBS News Hour

Which One?


Earlier this week I did a live stream about what to name my upcoming in person and virtual event.

I thank everyone for your insightful feedback.

After much consideration and prayer the name of the event is:

“Healing Black Love: Manifesting Millions Together.”

I love the simplicity and directness of this title and tagline. I am using “Healed Black Millionaires” as the url as well as the offer for people who want more.

So now we come to the graphic.

Which one? (Please comment below!!!)

  1. Saturated Orange with Ancestors
  2. Gold without Ancestors
  3. Saturated Orange with megaphone
  4. Gold with megaphone

My mind thinks I should have a smiling photo but that could be an old marketing habit. The real question is does any of these graphics make you want to jump on a plane and heal Black love so we can manifest millions together?

If so which one and why?

What does the one you pick say to you?

My team is still tweaking small details but this is the layout I love.

Thanks for powerful and empowering partnership.

I love you,

Dr. Venus

Loving A Black Man As A Queer Woman

I am afraid.
I can feel quiet terror arising in my chest.
Anticipating being attacked.

I’ve heard the rumors.
Read the comments.
Deleted the vicious emails designed to tear me down.

◦ “Does he know you’re gay?”
◦ “Now you want a REAL man since your lesbian marriage failed.”
◦ You are an abomination to God. Sick. Pathetic.🤮

The attacks hurt. They always have. Not like they used. I still feel the daggers.
Just not as deep.

Except when the attack comes from my Him.

Let me be clear: my Him is not being ugly, narcissistic, or abusive. In truth he is being everything I need when I need it, with the exception of when he gets triggered.

When my Him feels hurt by me, he reverts to his 15 year old self, when his mother died from cancer. He took to LA gang culture as a means of survival.  The gang became his family. Gang culture is rooted in retaliation and being right. When he hurts, he fights like a justified street-justice teenager who will get me back for hurting him.

When he retaliates in anger, I feel blindsided by the Black Man who says he loves me.

I feel emotionally unsafe.
I spiral.
My PTSD kicks in.

He gets himself sorted out.
Puts in the correction.

The impact on me takes longer.

My nervous system takes days to regulate.
My heart hurts and my joints ache.
My trust diminishes.

To his credit, his retaliations have GREATLY decreased as well as the swiftness of him being accountable and putting in the correction is impressive.

So he is not the problem.

It’s me.

If life is a mirror of our internal thoughts, feelings, and behavioral patterns, then I picked a person who punishes me for being truthful. For being myself.

The person who punished me the most was Momma.

I have been attacked, sucker-punched, beat with a water hose, stomped, blamed, called a liar, choked, starved, whipped with extension cords, brooms, mops, pushed down steps, pushed through a wall, sat naked in bath tubs with scalding hot water—etc.

In order to survive Momma, I became a people-pleaser, an over-giver, and extremely accommodating to make her not hit me.

It worked. Until it didn’t.

Mamma was a sadist.
She liked making me wait.
To worry, wonder.

She would wait until I was completely happy and off-guard to attack. She would wait until I was in front of others and beat me in public. The kids on the block would then verbally attack me with ridicule and mock how I contorted my body or ran to get away from the beating.

I felt shamed.

So I never told her or anybody about giving my first blow job at six or being molested at eight by a teenage girl.

I never told about the white men pedophiles who fondled me on the Greyhound bus or showed me naked bodies in the plush green areas of Ft. Worth.

I never told about the men in the neighborhood or the women on the streets or the white police officers who “helped me” —with strings.

I never told about being choked into submission, being forced to swallow, being pinned by my throat in a closet with my panties around my ankles by a “friend.”

And being trained to like it.

The ONE time I did tell about one of Momma’s “friends” she attacked me, called me a liar, and beat me until I passed out.

I attract people who attack me.
For speaking my truth.
For bring my authentic self.

I am queer.
People say sexuality is a choice.
But what does it mean when the choice is taken from you at 6? And 8? By both genders?

I didn’t “choose” to be an unprotected child.

My body has been trained, manipulated, and hurt by people who said they loved me. If love, sex, and violence are what I have been raised on, how would I be able to choose anything else?

I have never been a lesbian AND I had the honor to be loved and nurtured for 10 years by my former wife. She helped me stop drinking, took care of me, and loved me.

I ended our relationship as an act of love.

I didn’t want my PTSD to damage her. If I had been well enough, we may have stayed married. I thank God for this season of my life and am not ashamed.

It was in her love that I healed my “mother wound” which allowed me to love and accept Black Women. That’s how I was able to create my Black Women Millionaire brand.

My father kept Momma from aborting me. But he didn’t stay. I felt confused. How could he love me enough to keep me alive but not enough to stay? I couldn’t make it make sense so I reduced him—and all men—to a “donor.”

He was good for something (I wasn’t aborted) but primarily he was transactional.
Take him or leave him.

I took on healing my Father Wound in December 2017 when I prayed to God to remove everything in the way of my destiny.

I never thought it would be my marriage.
My womb,
My health.
My business.

It took all of that loss to get me close enough to God to confront the price of not having my father.

As I healed physically, I started therapy to heal mentally. In doing so I started to heal emotionally, specifically in terms of my father.

My father was a street hustler.
He had his own crew.
He had his own girls.

He did bad things.

He was a leader.
And he was MASTERFUL at flipping paper fifty ways.

As God and I went back and forth about why keep me alive, the more I could see that as long as I rejected my father in my heart, I would never receive or embrace the blessings from his lineage.

The blessings are passed down through the paternal lineage, biblically.

The truth is my father kept me alive BEFORE I was born.

That means he wanted me.
I was wanted.

That means he loved me.
That means I was loved.

All of my siblings and I have different daddies. I have my fathers genius with people and money. I also have his ruthless love for that which he calls his own. He threatened to kill Momma if she aborted me.

He wasn’t kidding.

My love is just as fierce, just as raw as my father’s love.

It took a few years for me to shift my sense of self from my mother’s pain to my father’s protection.

The more I healed my relationship with my father in my heart, the more room I had for Black Men to show up in my life on my side. I realized that I had never given a Black Man the opportunity to love me for real.

Letting my wife love me was a choice I made, knowing I may be attacked. But love won. We didn’t have any significant bashing in the 10 years together loving each other openly in Dallas, Texas.

I had never tried with a Black Man.

I have had lovers of both genders my entire life. Sex is not personal to me. It can’t be when you live on the streets. But I had never known the love of a Black Man.

So I prayed.

I told God, if I can forgive Momma then I can forgive my father. I wanted to know what it feels like to be loved by a Black Man.

I started dating and exploring my sexuality. From swing clubs to dungeons I checked out what arouses me. I discovered Kink as well as Sub/Dom Culture.

I discovered there was nothing wrong with my sexual appetites and I needed to learn me NOW not what I was born into.

If I hadn’t been molested by both genders, or lived on the streets or grew up in violence on all levels, maybe I would have been straight.

I wasn’t.
I’m not.
I am queer.

I love, accept, and approve of me.
And so does God.

My Him’s retaliation button is being tended to by him and his therapist.

We are starting couple’s therapy just to focus on his retaliation trigger as well as to see if I can heal enough to not be so devastated by his wound of feeling hurt.

We may or may not make it.

I pray God can heal me of feeling attacked and attracting this sort of energy.

Or perhaps God let’s me be attacked so I can live free and unafraid in the public eye.

I don’t know.

I do know that loving a Black Man as a Queer Woman is not about gender or sex.

It’s about healing so much that no matter what wounds we both have, love wins…

… be it for a season or a lifetime.

I am grateful I have known and am experiencing the imperfect and unconditional love of a Black Man.

As a queer Black Woman, I thank God that my Him loves me.

Just as I am.




Why Ukraine Racism Triggers Black Trauma

Each time I see Black bodies being
◦ held at gun-point or
◦ being violently pulled off of a train or
◦ made to go to the back of the line after standing for 12 hours

…the trauma from Chattel slavery, the Black Codes, or the Jim Crow South makes my body shake.

Only this time, it’s not Georgia, or Mississippi, or Alabama.

It’s the Ukraine.

African families, students, and even professional athletes are being regulated to the “back of the bus” so European Ukrainians can pass first—and safely—to board countries. The peaking order seems to be:

◦ Europeans (aka White) first
◦ Middle Easterners second
◦ Africans last.

What’s more, African men are being asked, and in some reports, made to stay in order to fight for the freedom of Ukraine against Russian military might.

My mind goes back to WWI and WWII where Black men soldiers fought on behalf of America. They thought White America would see them as equals.

They. Were. Wrong.

They fought for the USA only to return home to unemployment, denial of home loans, and in some cases, a noose as their reward.

I am a Black America, the descent of enslaved Africans into generational oppression. I have visited Senegal, Gambia as well as the “Door of No Return” in Africa for my dissertation research at Stanford University. I have traveled to Paris, Mexico, Dubai, Jamaica, Costa Rico, Vancouver, Italy as well as other countries. I have toured the USA four times—so far. EVERY country, city, and town I have been blessed to experience, Europeans have defamed each location AND her People.

We talk like White/European violence USE TO exist during Chattel Slavery and Colonialism. Every culture White/Europeans debases is accused of being “violent”, “barbaric”, and uncivilized. And yet what makes White/Europeans who they are is their violence.
Their abuse of power.
Their righteous entitlement.

We, the oppressed, absorb these behaviors, these traumas, into our DNA but then are criminalized for acting out the violence and oppression that’s been acted out and CONTINUES to be acted out on our bodies—worldwide.

Whether Chattel Slavery or Colonialism; be it light-skinned or dark-skinned; “good hair” or “nappy hair;” gay or straight; educated or street smart; rich or poor – WORLDWIDE – Black people are subject to violence and injustice regardless of borders.

Dr. King said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

I agree with Dr. King.

Any and everything I can do to help our People in the Ukraine, I will.

AND I’m taking on expanding me teachings to address the African Diaspora. My area of expertise as a Thought Leader is rooted in American Chattel Slavery. I do not claim to be an expert in Colonialism. But whether you are made to sit in the back of the bus in Selma or Ukraine because you are Black— you are one of mine.

Simply put: I stand in support with my Black Ukrainian Family.

◦ Here is an article with various ways (free as well as monetarily) to our
inclusive Ukrainian Family as well as general information about the Russian invasion:

I invited you to do what you can.

I love you Family,

Dr. Venus

Ps: I invite you to support. Right now it’s the Ukraine. Tomorrow it could be America. Don’t think we are “safe” because we are America. Racism is worldwide.

Don’t be afraid.

Get involved in a way that works for you.
Share an article.
Boost a post.
Make a donation.
House a refugee.

Any and all support WILL make a difference. I’m committed to living in a world where “Black” does not equal the bottom or the back of the bus.

We can transform this…
…when we support each other.

That’s what our ancestors did. 😊

And it worked. I’m choosing to take a page from their playbook!🤣😊🤣

Do you?

I pray the answer is yes.

Purist Love

I woke up thinking about you.
Praying for you.
Praying for an “Us” you saw
long before I could hear you.
I think on God and
what it means to love someone.
To be loved by someone.
Then my mind floats to you.
I think about you driving two hours to park in my garage, just to make sure Happy is feeling better and my anxiety has gone down.
I love you for letting me know it’s ok not to let you in.
You just wanted me to know that you are here for me.
Any time.
All the time.
You didn’t make me talk.
You texted.
Then you drove home.
I marvel at how you navigate the landmine called my heart.
With its strategic tripwires designed to discredit you so I can justifiably send you away.
You simply smile at me with your eyes.
While you quietly detonate my emotional bombs.
You kiss me when I expect you to yell.
You hold my hand when I think you should hit me.
You make me laugh when I am certain you are going to get fed up with my wounds and walk away.
I think of God and how He loves.
The patience.
The mercy.
The compassion.
The grace.
The consistency.
When I think of the character of God…
…I see your face.
And I weep.
First, single-strand tears that roll slowly from the corner of my right eye…
…then an avalanche of water that makes it hard to see.
I do my best to try to feel worthy.
To try to rest in the steadiness of your love.
Yet, I am afraid.
What if I am too damaged?
To be worthy of such a love?
The softness of your smile when I try to tell you my fears…
…comes through in your voice when you whisper in my ear:
“I’m never going to leave you Venus. I’m not going anywhere babe.”
You baby me.
Cradle me.
Sometimes you even rock me.
I feel my little girl self trying to comprehend.
Her eyes closed tightly shut.
I/She/We hug your neck for dear life.
Afraid and desperately hopeful.
At the same time.
I don’t know what to do with your tenderness.
Your gentleness softens me.
I sometimes feel like I am breaking into chunks of me with jagged edges too vicious to touch.
You gather up the pieces of my brokenness and love me into healed wholeness.
I pray to God you love me like it feels you do.
I pray I feed your soul the way you heal mine.
I pray you can feel the depth, purity, the holiness of my love.
I love you my Him.
With my whole heart.
I love you in the broken places.
I love you in the space when my inhale naturally becomes my exhale.
You have my heart.
You have my loyalty.
You have my trust.
You have my purist love.