What do you do when you need to fall apart… but there’s no one there to hold you?

This Support Snippet is me sitting with that exact question — and remembering what emotional care looked like back when I didn’t have to ask for it

I’m reflecting on what emotional care looked like before life got complicated — and what it means to create that kind of care for yourself now.

I’m taking you back to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made with intention, quiet afternoons that felt like exhaling, and the kind of support that didn’t require me to be okay first. No fixing. No pressure. Just presence.

These days, I’m the one everyone leans on — and maybe you are too. So I’m also naming what it feels like to carry that weight quietly, especially as a Black woman, and what it means to admit you still need to be held.

If you’ve been moving through your days on autopilot, missing the kind of care you didn’t have to ask for, this episode is for you.

Because emotional care for Black women isn’t optional. It’s necessary.
And we shouldn’t have to hold it all in just because nobody’s offering to hold us.

For so many Black women, emotional safety started in the kitchen.

The smell of Blue Magic, the sizzle of a straightening comb, the sound of “Hold your ear” — those weren’t just routines. They were rituals. In that chair by the stove, we found connection, care, and permission to let our guards down.

Those moments — ordinary as they seemed — were often the first time emotional safety showed up for us.
We didn’t always have the words for it back then, but we felt it.

And these aren’t just memories. They’re reminders.
Reminders that emotional safety is still possible, even if it looks different now.

For Black women navigating life without those small sacred spaces, this episode is an invitation:
To name the need.
To remember you still deserve to be held.
And to reclaim the truth that emotional safety isn’t new — it’s something we’ve known in our bones all along.

When we talk about loyalty, most of us think about relationships, family, or friendships. But there’s another kind of loyalty we don’t talk about enough — our loyalty to struggle.

As Black women, we’ve been taught that struggle is part of who we are. That staying in relationships, jobs, or communities that drain us somehow proves our strength. That choosing ease means we’re abandoning our people, our roots, or our role as the “strong one.”

Choosinng suppot is not about abandoning your people or being selfish. It’s about telling the truth: you don’t owe struggle your loyalty and staying in struggle is costing you more than leaving ever will. 

We love to romanticize Ruth and Boaz like it’s the ultimate love story — but what if it’s really a story about being supported… for once? In this first episode back after my summer break, I’m digging into the part church never talked about: the quiet power of being chosen without earning it, being cared for without proving you deserve it, and receiving without struggle.

This episode isn’t about marriage or fairy tale endings — it’s about softness, legacy, and what happens when you position yourself to be supported… and then pass that support down.

In this episode I share:
• Why support is often missing in the way the church teaches Ruth’s story
•  What Ruth teaches us about positioning ourselves to be supported
• Why Boaz’s role wasn’t savior — it was support
• What it looks like to pass support down through generations 

Let’s talk about protecting your peace — and whether that’s really what you’re doing… or if you’re just getting your lick back in silence.

In this minisode, I’m breaking down the Room to Breathe Support Language™ — the kind of support that shows up as space, quiet, and the ability to step away without guilt. But I’m also naming the moments when we call it “protecting our peace,” and it’s really a low-key way of making somebody else feel the pain we didn’t say out loud.

I even share a moment with my therapist that made me pause and ask myself if I was healing — or just withholding.

If Room to Breathe is your Support Language, or if you’ve ever needed space but didn’t quite know how to take it without using it as a shield, this episode is for you. This episode is a reminder that space is sacred — but only when it’s rooted in care, not control. You don’t have to go silent to feel safe. You can protect your peace and still stay connected to the people who love you right. Take your time. Take your breath. Just be honest about why you need it.

In this episode, I talk about:

What Room to Breathe actually looks like

When silence becomes a weapon instead of self-care

That one therapy session I’ll never forget

Why relief isn’t the same as revenge

How to know when your peace is real and when it’s rooted in proving

I’m just gonna say it — I get annoyed when I see Black women using the phrase “women of color” when I know they mean Black women.

In this episode, I’m talking about why that bothers me, where I think it comes from, and what it’s actually costing us to keep softening, shrinking, or diluting our language — especially in spaces that are supposed to be built for us.

I share a recent moment that made me want to reflect out loud. Not to be messy, but because I think it’s time we talk about what happens when we keep trying to make ourselves more acceptable — even in our own healing work.

This isn’t about being divisive.
It’s about being clear.
Because when we say Black women, we’re not excluding anybody — we’re finally being honest.

They told us love was supposed to be everything. That if somebody loves you, that’s all you need.

But how many times have you felt loved… and still felt completely alone?

In this episode, I’m talking about that gap — the one between what people say and what they actually do. Because the truth is, love is not enough when it doesn’t come with support.

And I get it. It’s hard to admit that out loud.
Especially when you know they care.
Especially when they say the right things.

But if you’re still carrying everything by yourself…
If you can’t fall apart without it turning into a problem…
If you can’t rest without guilt or breathe without feeling like a burden…
Then it’s time to get honest about what’s really missing.

So if you’ve ever felt like something was off in a relationship — even when love was present — you’re not crazy. You’re not needy. You’re not asking for too much.
You’re just finally telling the truth about what you actually need.

And the truth is: love without support will never be enough.

Let’s talk about it.
Let’s talk about the difference between being told you matter — and being treated like you do.

Inspired by the new Netflix series Forever, this Mother’s Day episode is a soft but honest conversation about what happens when fear leads the way in parenting. When love is present, but support… isn’t.

This isn’t a recap.
This is a reflection.

Because a lot of us were raised on protection that looked like pressure. On expectations that felt like love, but left little room to breathe. And now, many of us are trying to re-parent ourselves while still holding space for the mamas who did the best they could with what they had.

This episode isn’t about blame — it’s about truth.
It’s about naming what was missing and choosing to offer ourselves something different.
It’s about parenting — our children and our inner child — from trust instead of fear.

If today feels complicated, this one’s for you.

Today we’re talking about support yourself during the hard seasons—and what it looks like when you have to be your own safe place.

Some seasons are heavy.
Some days, getting out of bed feels like a miracle.
Some days, breathing through the next hour is the biggest victory you’ll claim.

In this episode, I’m sharing what support looks like when you’re in the thick of a thing — when there’s no map, no quick fix, and no easy way to name the weight you’re carrying.

We’re sitting with the real and the raw:

How support can mean letting yourself fall apart without rushing the cleanup.

How being your own safe place might be the softest, hardest thing you do all day.

How support during hard seasons often starts with giving yourself permission to not be okay.

If you’re in a season where life feels too heavy to dress up in pretty words…
If you’re breathing your way through sadness, loneliness, or silent grief…
If you’re learning how to stay soft with yourself when the world expects you to be hard…

This isn’t a how-to guide.
It’s not a motivational pep talk.
It’s a soft landing.
A real-time reflection.
A slow, sacred breath in the middle of the storm.

Because even in the thick of a thing, even when you feel like you’re falling apart, you are still worthy of support — especially your own.

Today we’re talking about receiving support as a Black woman—and why it still feels hard, even when it’s soft and real.

What happens when someone shows up for you with tenderness and care… and your first instinct is to flinch?

What do you do when support is being offered—but your body doesn’t know how to let it in?

This episode started with a comment from my daughter…
And what should’ve felt like joy, pride, even gratitude—turned into hesitation. Doubt. A quiet refusal to receive.

So today, we’re getting into the deep, unspoken patterns around receiving support as a Black woman—especially when you’ve been conditioned to be the strong one, the giver, the safe space for everybody else.

We’re talking about the ways emotional safety and mindful care can still feel like a threat, even when we want them.

How support can feel unfamiliar.
How softness can feel suspicious.
And how healing often starts with noticing the moment you want to push it all away.

If your Support Language is Emotional Safety or Mindful Care, this one might speak directly to your nervous system.
Because this episode isn’t about “being open.”
It’s about building the capacity to receive—slowly, gently, without guilt.

So if you’ve ever felt yourself shrink when someone tried to hold you,
If you’ve ever pushed love away before it could land,
If you’re still learning what it means to feel safe in softness…

This is your invitation to start again.
To be held—without apology.
One quiet moment at a time.