Archives for May 2022

Just Say Yes…

“Just say yes.”
There was love, gentleness and a quiet plea in his eyes.
Happy, my Service Dog, had swatted right in the height of traffic of bustling couples looking for the perfect engagement ring.

I looked around the jewelry store for an exit.
I felt trapped.

My tongue felt like sandpaper.
I couldn’t say a word.
I tried to walk away.

But his hands were gently but firmly on my shoulders. I couldn’t move.
Not because of his hands.

His eyes.


“Take of your shades, babe.”
“Why?” I croaked from my desert dried throat with my sandpaper tongue.
My Him slowly took them off and dropped them in my purse.

“Because,” as he slowly traced my face with his finger tips, “I want to see you say yes to marrying me Venus.”

I stopped breathing.

Then I started to pant.

I turned my face away from his.

“I can’t.”
Completely unbothered by my response, we kept stoking my check with his finger tips.

“Why not?”

I didn’t have a good reason.
At least not one he hasn’t already heard and dismantled.

My Him gently turned my face back to his. I gasp. His eyes had turned hungry.
His heart wide open
for all the world to see.

Softly, “Do you love me Venus?”

I could feel my heart break for him.
His mother died when he was 15.
He couldn’t save her.
She didn’t tell him how sick she was.

His mother wasn’t the type of woman to say I love you.

My Him grew feeling like his mother didn’t love him. He KNEW she did but he wanted—needed—to hear the words.

In his grown man face I saw little boy eyes.
Reach out to me.
Asking me for something beyond words.

My heart ached.
My eyes filled with water.
I put both of my hands in his face.
“Yes, I love you. With my whole heart.”

I could feel him relax because my heart stopped hurting.

“Then say yes.”
I froze again.
I felt like a deer in headlights.

I can take care of you.”
“I know—“
“Talk to me, babe. Tell me. Please.”

My mind flooded with thoughts.
I’m not ready.
I don’t know what I am doing.
I have never been with a man like this.
I have a Calling on my life.
I have PTSD.
I can’t cook.
I need my own space.
I can’t have children.
I don’t want to be a stepmom.
I don’t want to blend money.
I would need a prenup.
What if I piss him off?
What if I’m too demanding?
Hot tempered?
What if I scare him off?
What if I get fat?

“Tell me.”
Tell me all of it.”

So I did.

It took over and hour.
Each concern he addressed.
In the middle of the jewelry store.
Happy sleeping on my foot.

He heard me.

“What else you got?”
His eyes were smiling.
My heart started to smile.

“I’m afraid you will change your mind.”

He smiled at me as he pulled me close.

Happy had settled into a ball of pure white fur at my feet, woke from his nap when I stepped into the hug.
Happy stretched, linked some cocoa butter off my leg.
He then trotted to my Him and licked some lotion of his leg.
Then he settled down again to nap.

My Him held me close and whispered in my ear, “I need you Venus.
How could I leave you?
You are my only need.
You are my heart.
My soul.
My life.
You are the center of my world. Everything else revolves around you, around our love.
Including my children.”

My Him gently nuzzled my neck right behind my ear.

His breath was warm.
I felt myself relax in his embrace.
He softly whispered in my ear.

“I love my kids. But I need you.

I try to pull away, but he held me close.

“They are going to hate me!”

My Him laughs and looks in my eyes, his hands on my waist, “They already LOVE you!!! I’ve made sure of that.

Of course he had.
His thoroughness is both infuriating and inspire.
I wanted to kick him.

“Anything else?”

He was smiling outright now.
He knew he had masterfully tended to ALL of my concerns.
Again, I’m impressed and infuriated simultaneously.

He grew sober in the second it took me to answer his question.

“Are you saying yes? If you say yes I will buy that ring.
I will dedicate my life to making you happy. I will never leave you.
I love you too much.”

His heart was in his eyes again.

I took a deep breath.
Then I offered a compromise.
“ How about a conditional yes.”

He smiled and shook his head.
“Ok. I’m listening.”
My words tumbled out of my mouth rapid fire.

I knew I had only one shot at this!

“You can put down a DEPOSIT on the ring, and we can take time for me to become acclimated to the idea.”

“How much time?”

“A year?”
Please God, I prayed.
Help him not push me.

He stared in my eyes while I watched his mind do the math.

So you’re saying you are committing to commit, correct?”

I vigorously nodded my head up and down like an idiot. It was the best I could do.

Then a slight grin washed over his face.

“You have until your birthday for the ring. AND we can be engaged UP TO one year. How does that sound?”

I felt my body exhale.

I ran into his arms—dragging Happy out of his nap—and hugged his neck. I held on to him for dear life.
His neck was a life raft keeping me from drowning in the sea of emotional overwhelm raging in me.

“Thank you.
Thank you so much.
You are so good to me.”
I rained a shower of tiny kisses on his eyelids, forehead, cheeks, and chin.

Then Happy jumped on my Him to kiss him as well.

My Him laughed as he bent down to let Happy kiss him all over his face just as I had done moments before.

As I watched my Him with Happy, I realized my body wasn’t shaking.
No panic.
No anxiety.

Peace was present.

“Thank you God.
For the healing power of love.
Thank you so very very much.”

Buffalo Massacre

I keep hearing gunshots in my dreams.
Smelling burning flesh of ancestors tarred and feathered.
Seeing black bodies swing from contorted trees that have been nurtured by the blood of strange fruit.
Each report of Black lives being savagely murdered by coddled Caucasian males makes me both angry and afraid.
I see angry mobs of White faces  justified in beating us with billy clubs.
I’m too scared to sleep.
More scared to go outside.
To the grocery store.
Leaving my home is a death sentence.
I am not safe.
Buying oranges gives a white extremist permission to kill me.
White friends sympathize.
Feigned helplessness.
THEY didn’t have slaves.
THEY didn’t pull the trigger.
Or bomb the church.
Or knell with a knee on his neck.
The truth is they didn’t.
But they benefit.
Whiteness protects itself in silence.
We had abolitionists before we had allies.
Without both, Black America would never have survived.
The Civil War was a “white fight.”
State rights versus Governmental authority.
Slavery was the bone of contention.
Each contingency had very different values and definitions of life, liberty, and justice for all.
Each side, willing to go to war for their self-interests.
For what they valued.
For what they believed.
Until Black Lives are in the self-interest of a contingency of white people that value life, liberty, and justice, Black lives will continue to be terrorized.

Happy Mother’s Day!!

Happy Mother’s Day to all the people who are mothering other people’s babies!

To the singles Dad’s who are being BOTH mother and father to their children!

TO ALL THE FUR MOMS LOVING ON THEIR FUR BABIES( Like Me!!!) :orange_heart::dog::dog2::guide_dog::poodle::service_dog::feet::cat::black_cat::orange_heart:

To all the Grandmoms raising babies as their own!

Just THANK everyone who is being a NURTURING PRESENCE on the planet.

You are magnificent!

Happy Mother’s Day!


Happy Mother’s Day Message


I’m ashamed of myself…

I’m ashamed of myself…
(Please don’t judge me😭)

I’m ashamed of myself.
I know I shouldn’t be, but I am.
When you are successful, people expect you to have it all together.
To conquer every mountain.
To be impervious to pain.

But the worst part about all of that pressure of absolutely impossible standards to uphold is this: I put it on myself.

I have PTSD and Social Anxiety Disorder. I’m also neurodivergent (look it up) dyslectic, and I am a high functioning Autistic.

Please hear me: none of that is bad.

It would be unrealistic to NOT have Special Needs considering my childhood of malicious violence, poverty, and surviving the streets.

The impact is real. I live with it daily.

Truth be told, it’s BECAUSE of my special needs that I have four degrees, including a Ph.D. from Stanford and have made over $6 million in the past 7 years. I have two best-selling books, a hit special on Amazon prime with over 8 million views, and am blessed to be loved by a Black Man who delights in as well as accepts and approves of ALL of me.

I’m prefacing my shame with my accomplishments so you don’t discredit me because I am handicapped or throw pity in my face for what I am about to share.

COVID was hard on me.
My brother transitioned from it.
My live events and tour business died.
Besides for my Service Animal, Happy, I was alone for two years.

I had planned on doing a live event this May and was thrilled.

But here is why I’m ashamed of myself.

I didn’t realize I wasn’t well.
I thought I was who I use to be in 2018, 2019–before quarantine.

Before George Floyd.
Before protests for social justice.
Before the rise of tribalism.
Before being attacked on social media by White Extremists
Before being crucified by wounded Black people

Before it ALL had tapped out my sympathetic nervous system.

But I didn’t notice.
I took my body for granted.
I thought I was stronger than this.

I thought I was healed.

I had so disappeared my disabilities from myself, I lived under the illusion of wellness.

Until last month.

Due to a series of unfortunate events I had a MAJOR PTSD episode.
I pushed myself.
And I broke.
I shattered.

Think Humpty Dumpty trying to put all the pieces back together.

I had to cancel EVERYTHING.

I couldn’t talk to people.
I couldn’t get out of bed.
I couldn’t bathe myself.

I couldn’t function.

Yes, I could muster the mental clarity, focus, and energy to do small things in spurts. But nothing more than an hour every few days at best.

Life became to hard to live.

I spend my LIFE talking about self-care and self-love and yet, I pushed myself to the point of collapse.

And I am ashamed.

I feel like a hypocrite.

How could I be SO out of touch with my well-being considering how I have my entire life set-up to be well?

As I sit and pray with it all, I realize that while my feelings are valid, there were factors beyond my control that caused my collapse.

I’m learning to slow down and to just stop when things get hard. I realize now that I can’t have people in my life who listen to themselves instead of what I say.

I’m also learning how to let my friends, family and my Him take care of me—especially when my PTSD is triggered and I loose the ability to cognate.

Let me be clear: I’m not ashamed of my needs.

I’m ashamed of my inability to see that I wasn’t well enough to deal with the breakdowns of people on whom I was relying. When they dropped the ball, I stepped in.

And it cost me.

I kept trying to make things work.
I kept making excuses for people.
I kept tolerating missed deadlines.
My pride was in cahoots with my ego about not being a quitter. But it was like using a tea cup to get the boat out of the water of a sinking ship.

And as the ship shank, I nearly drowned.

As I be with the shame of my self-evident self-hate, I can feel the Holy Spirit whispering in my broken heart, “you haven’t danced so badly my love.” That’s a line from one of my favorite writers, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, who wrote it in one of her books I read decades ago.

I can feel my stressed-induced aching starting to unknot.
I am able to take a deep belly inhale.
I’m starting to feel my ice cold chest starting to melt.

I’m starting to see Grace peaking around the corner of my mind.

I see Mercy waving her big beautiful heart at me wearing all smiles.

I hear Innocence giggle, like a giddy schoolgirl, behind my neck as she wraps her chubby little brown arms around my neck.

The twins, Empathy and Compassion, grab a hold of each of my legs and laugh while the absorb all the shame from my body. Each time they laugh, a dark cloud of righteous, angry, and ferocious Shame leaves their mouths and turn into rainbow colored skittles. Hearing them hit the ground tickles the twins even more!

Their laugh turns on the light in my heart. And I thank God for ALWAYS speaking to me in a way I can understand.

Perhaps I haven’t danced so badly my Lord.
Perhaps I’m not the fuckup Momma said I was.
Perhaps I didn’t bring the beatings on myself.
Or the stomping.
The whippings.
The tubs of hot water.

Being forced to swallow.

Perhaps my special needs born in the belly of trauma are what makes me special.

Perhaps God has a plan for my life that REQUIRES my disabilities, handicaps, and special needs.

My favorite Bible verse is “beauty for ashes.” It’s my favorite because it acknowledges the trauma: the all consuming fire of pain, unearned.

When fire consumes, the only remnants are ashes. Just the thought, “beauty for” if uttered quickly, sounds like “beautiful.” Something beautiful coming from something so spiritually ugly gives me a glimmer of hope.

Perhaps my shame is a kind of mourning.

There have been so many losses to mourn.
And from them, have bloomed the beauty of my life.

So for now, I will focus on beauty for ashes as I continue to heal.

I give my shame to God.