However, in my time in this space, I have concluded that there is a group of women who are simply out of my reach. Honestly, they’re out of almost everyone’s reach.

They happen to be:

1. The women who need CONSTANT validation. Those who need to have seen it, heard it, or known it first to feel leveraged. Those who need you to see them and to hear them and to know they’re in the room.

2. The women who lack personal identity. The ones who are usually so inspired by others that they find themselves imitating the very things they love about the people they are ‘inspired’ by. Those who need to have it because you have it or experience it because you experienced it or go there because you went there or do it because you did it or buy it because you bought it.

3. The male-centered woman. The one who doesn’t know who she is but knows she was created to be a wife, girlfriend, or casualty of the male population. Their entire personality is based on their romance, marriage, dating life, or lack thereof.

4. The woman who has adopted the victim mindset (not those who have actually been assaulted or violated in unfathomable ways). The ones who need everyone to know that their lives are just pools of doom and there’s nothing they can do to change it.

I’ve been trying to figure out how and when these mindsets begin to take shape. Somehow, I feel as though they’re all intertwined. As if one personality type can be every woman described above.

It wasn’t until I was preparing to make progress on the book I’m currently writing that it came to me, and I started penning this post instead of the pages of my next novel.

Validation is the underlying factor in every case mentioned. The urge for others’ approval and the measurement of self-worth through others’ opinions and the agreeable nature and the attachment to those who ‘inspire’ you to form an identity that doesn’t belong to you because it worked out for them and the thought that your worth is attached to a role and the need for constant attention and obsequiousness and making someone else your entire world because their presence solidifies your worthiness.

Women wanting to be validated isn’t the issue. Women wanting to be validated who aren’t receptive to rejection (publicly or privately) is. And, unfortunately, the wires are crossed so easily.

Inveterate validation seekers are dangerous people.

Because most will go beyond the norm for credit they believe they deserve.

This is the reason I’m most baffled and stunned that women are part of this group. Our existence is validation.

1. Women populate the world! Without us, civilization would not exist.

2. Women are the nurturers of the world. Without our contributions, the world would look like the first apartment of a twenty-year-old boy who doesn’t know his balls from his ass.

3. Women have supernatural instincts. Without them, everyone would be animals.

4. Not only is the woman’s body a life hub, but a food bank as well. We could feed a nation in a famine… from our breasts.

Like, GIRL. Putting it very lightly, we are the world! There’s no amount of public or private rejection (big or small) that should make any of us believe otherwise. Yet, women still find themselves on the cusp of what’s morally correct and emotionally validating.

1. Fake pregnancies.

2. Marrying men who shouldn’t have even had a chance.

3. Staying in marriages because it’s part of their identity.

4. Being the loudest thing in the room.

5. Bleeding their pockets dry to continue a facade or keep up with someone who isn’t racing.

6. Creating false narratives.

7. Showing up online every day and feeling inclined to join every conversation in their community, even if it means lying.

8. Lying.

9. Studying what works for someone else so they can duplicate it so hopefully it works for them, too.

10. Basing their lives on fictional scenarios they’ve created in their heads instead of the facts in front of them.

11. Catfishing.

12. Always… Always dating or seeking male attention.

13. Finding themselves in the hospital constantly, even when nothing is wrong.

14. Sharing EVERY aspect of their lives on social media.

15. Always farming for opinions — what are your thoughts? what do you think? where should I? what about this? what do you think of this? did I do this right?

16. I seen that first. I heard that first. I experienced that first. I knew that first.

After deep diving (because I’m genuinely interested and keep hearing that voice play in my head that says ‘why you act like that?), I’ve learned that those close to validation seekers are those who are affected the most.

• Conversations are harder.

• Trips (together) are harder.

• Girl time is complicated.

• FaceTimes are vexing.

• Planning is trying.

• Text threads are unbearable.

I needed explanations. I always need explanations. Remaining studious keeps my antennas high and my receptors prepared for impact. I spent hours down a rabbit hole to better understand how or why any woman on earth would seek something that is rightfully hers from conception to cooch/c-section to the cemetery.

Linked personality disorders:

Narcissistic personality disorder | a mental health condition characterized by a persistent pattern of grandiosity, an excessive need for admiration, and a lack of empathy. Individuals with NPD possess an exaggerated sense of self-importance and often exploit others to achieve their goals.

Histrionic personality disorder | a mental health condition characterized by a lifelong pattern of pervasive attention-seeking behaviors and exaggerated, superficial emotions. People with HPD are typically uncomfortable when they are not the center of attention and often use dramatic, theatrical, or inappropriately provocative behavior to be noticed.

Both include those who suffer from an anxious attachment style, elevated neuroticism, and unaddressed feelings of low self-worth.

Linked personality/behavioral traits/frameworks:

The Big Five: High Agreeableness and High Neuroticism are major predictors, driving a fear of social rejection and an endless cycle of self-doubt.

Enneagram: Type 2 (The Helper) is strongly characterized by a core need to be needed, seeking validation through constant service and affection.

Attachment Theory: An Anxious Attachment Style leads to an urgent, compulsive need for reassurance from partners or peers to regulate personal emotions.

MBTI (Myers-Briggs): Personality types that utilize Extraverted Feeling (Fe) as a primary or secondary function—such as ESFJs and ENFJs—are highly attuned to external social environments. They naturally look to others to confirm their relational value and impact.

The People Pleaser: A person who constantly alters their behavior, agrees with opinions they don’t hold, or takes on extra burdens just to secure the goodwill and approval of those around them.

Approval-Seeking Personality: A general behavioral description for individuals whose self-esteem is entirely dependent on external praise rather than internal self-worth

To say my heart breaks into pieces for the women who suffer would be an understatement. While their actions aren’t agreeable, their mental framework is saddening.

Again, I wonder when and how this mindset forms. Moreover, how this mindset is addressed and unlearned with time.

Otherwise the reality is…

The success of others can feel like a direct insult to your existence instead of proof that almost anything is possible. One is often scorned. Somehow wondering, why not me? Even if the words never come from their mouths, the thoughts are in the back of their head and force them to act accordingly. Often quietly. This could result in the attempt to acquire leverage. Great measures are taken.

Poison.

Social media will continue stripping those who are chronically online of their independence. And, suddenly, one’s entire world depends on the traction their pictures and posts receive from total strangers. Drastic measures will be a result of the lack of attention one is getting or the lack of attention one feels they deserve.

Poison.

One’s longing for love to feel a sense of completeness or reassurance will force them into relationships that confirm their worthiness yet demeans every other good thing about them, eventually changing them into unrecognizable people.

Poison.

The list could go on for an entire series of articles on this topic, but I’ll rest there. What won’t allow me peace and quiet is the idea that women have to live with this debilitating disease for the rest of their lives. I won’t accept it. I’ve combined practices that I truly believe will help one fight the venom cruising through their veins in order to live longer, happier, and healthier (mentally, physically, and emotionally).

When someone is winning, CLAP.

Without the need to announce your win or past wins. Don’t go searching for a new win. Just allow them to have their moment, even if it stings. You’ll find out that it didn’t actually hurt as bad as you thought it did once the pain of someone else’s moment subsides. But while feeling those big feelings, be sure to sit down and write all about it. Once the dust settles, revisit those pages and see where your heart turned and how you can avoid those feelings again. Because they aren’t okay. They’ll never be okay, and instead of leaving them unaddressed, you must face them head-on to eliminate them eventually.

When someone is talking, LISTEN.

There’s no need to insert your relevancy to the story or your closeness to the victory. You don’t have to attach yourself to every scenario or situation. It is okay not to be involved. It is also okay not to take credit. There are more ways to carry a conversation, and I think it would be helpful to begin a list of ways to do that.

1. When E is talking about the time she went to New York and met that celebrity. I don’t have to talk about the time I went to New York and met no one. I can listen to her story, and when she’s finished, I can carry the conversation by asking her, “Do you plan on visiting New York again? I enjoyed my time there and would love to make a girls’ trip out of it.”

2. When they’re online talking about a missed opportunity, I don’t have to comment about scoring the very thing they are sad about missing out on. I can just keep scrolling.

Wait your turn.

Your turn will always come, especially if you’re doing the work. There’s no need to pout if there’s no work ethic behind your desires. You’ll always see someone winning who is trying. You’ll see them losing too. But they’re trying. If you never try, you’ll never have a turn. While waiting, express those feelings in a journal. Revisit it later.

Get a journal.

Most things you tell others or feel the need to post online to garner attention simply need a place to call home. That’s your journal. Your diary.

Stop asking these questions so often.

What do you think?

Do you like it?

How do you feel about this?

Is my outfit okay?

Because as soon as you don’t receive the response you are searching for, your confidence in that thing sinks. Not only shouldn’t you ask these questions too often, but you shouldn’t care about the responses enough to keep asking.

Who cares what they think? Your thoughts are all that matter.

Who cares if they like it? You like it.

Who cares how they feel about it? How do you feel about it is the more important question.

Who cares if your outfit is okay? If you felt good putting it on and looking in the mirror, then you’re good to go.

Stop searching for leverage.

You could be resting, but you’re trying to find a way to leverage the last win she had. Or the last move she made. Or the last dollar she spent. Or the last investment she made. Or the last meal she ate. Or the last trip she took. Or the last country she visited. Or the friend group she has. Or the skincare routine she mentioned. Or the workout class she loves. Or the project she’s working on. Or the post she made. Or the articles she writes. Or the shoes she wore. Or the designer she has. Or the size of her home. Or the decor in her entryway. Or the way she cooks. Or the way she cleans. Or her bedset. Or her closet.

Give it a rest. Instead of thinking about how you can one-up someone you love or a TOTAL stranger, how about you make a list on things you can do to one-up yesterday’s version of you? I think that would help. I think that would give you some healthy competition and always prove to be beneficial. Because every time you gain leverage, you’re a better person.

Stop needing to be first.

It’s okay to do it next. It’s okay to do it last. It’s okay to never do it at all. Rushing into something because you’re afraid someone else will do it first is senseless. Think of it like this— if they do it first, I can learn from their mistakes or get pointers on how to do it better.

Get offline.

Instagram. YouTube. THREADS. Facebook.

It’s attacking your nervous system. It’s putting your mental health at risk. It is distracting you. It is exposing and enhancing your need for attachment, attention, and validation. And it is turning you into someone you don’t recognize.

Dangling steak in front of a hungry, untrained dog is never a good idea. Neither is scrolling!

Take time from social media to clear your head. Seven days. Fourteen days. Twenty-one days. A year.

Get a hobby.

Even if it’s sitting on the porch naming the different bird species you see, and learning about them religiously. Oversaturating your existence with the work, life, and energy of others will keep you in the cycle you are currently in. Solitude helps. Learning yourself helps. Discovering what you love helps. Finding something healthier to dedicate your time and energy to helps. Journaling helps. Learn to knit. Learn to draw. Learn to sew. Do something that is not fueled by validation.

Get good at sucking.

Be okay with sucking at something. Not everything will come to you naturally. Not everything will come to you easily. And, some things won’t come to you at all because they aren’t yours to have or conquer or create. Be okay with that. And when you feel like you aren’t, write about it or make a voicenote about it. Listen later. Read later. Allow those feelings to exist without consuming you.

Seek therapy.

I don’t have to explain. Just go.

Admit when you did that validation-seeking thing.

Self-awareness is key to extracting the poison from your veins. Before you do that thing, say that thing, buy that thing, or go to that place… make sure it’s for you. Make sure it isn’t sparked by your obsession with firsts, befores, attention, and attachment. When it isn’t, then check yourself.

I don’t have to do that.

Why does that make me feel better?

Where is this feeling coming from?

How will that help ME?

Am I doing this for me or to continue the facade?

Is this progressive?

Apologize to those around you and ask for their help.

Apologize and ask those around you to call you out every time you do that thing that makes their relationship with you feel like nails on the chalkboard. This will make the blow easier to handle, because you asked for it. It’ll also keep you self-aware when those habits begin to creep in. This will eliminate bad vibes you cause in conversation. This will keep your friends and family from feeling the heaviness in their chest whenever you do that thing you do. This will keep you accountable. Take note of the moments you feel inclined to do that thing, the moments they mentioned you were doing it, and how different your relationship is while actively trying to avoid the histrionic traits you tend to possess.

Don’t give in to consumerism.

You don’t need it because someone else has it. Let FOMO become the favor of missing out instead of the fear of missing out. What is for you will come to you. Otherwise, keep your money in your pocket.

Give the first and last hour of your day to yourself.

Be okay with being the center of your world. You don’t have to be the center of everyone else’s world. Life doesn’t work like that. So, carve out time of each day to work on yourself.

• No scrolling.

• No catering to others.

• No replying.

• No talking to others.

• Just you and your thoughts.

Follow/subscribe to more people who are in your league and a few who are where you want to be (very few).

Otherwise, you’re torturing yourself. Being surrounded by those on the same field as you is more suitable for your personality. It helps you become more comfortable with where you are. Having a few reminders on the timeline of where you want to be helps you remember your goal. Surrounding yourself with people who are where you want to be in life is not healthy for those who have been poisoned with validation. It only intensifies the effects of the drug. More then becomes a necessity instead of a desire. You no longer want the life someone else has. You begin to need it. And that will take you five steps backward instead of ten steps forward.

I guess I said all of that to say…

Validation is poisonous to the woman’s soul and has been proven to be lethal if not addressed properly or promptly.

If no one has ever told you, womanhood is all the validation you’ll ever need. You weren’t put on this earth to second-guess yourself or doubt your powers. We are superhuman. We can do the impossible. We can do the unthinkable. Greatness didn’t stop just short of your birth. It’s within you. All you have to do is dig it up and stop burying it under the opinions, attention, and validation of others.

If they put a tester to your head right now, it would light up green. Because you are the real thing, babe. The quicker you understand it, the faster that poison will leave your system and the better the world will be for us all.

Get more interesting topics like this with The September Letter, my monthly snail mail club. The list is open.

So, I’ve created a list of questions for you to ask the next time you reach for that phone. Save this post or put it in your notes so you aren’t distracted while trying to locate it. Because the last thing I want you to do is lose valuable time with the one you care about for the ones who are total strangers.

1. If we could go anywhere in the world right now, just you and I, where would you want to go?

2. I am most beautiful to you when…

3. What has been the best day of our lives together according to your memory and why?

4. Is there a way that I show my love for you that you never want to go without?

5. What’s your love language?

6. What’s something you secretly love about me that I would never guess on my own?

7. If we won the lottery today (I gave you the numbers and you bought the ticket), how would we split the money?

8. If the world were to end tomorrow, how would you want to spend today?

9. What is your ideal date?

10. Are you satisfied with the amount of time we spend together?

11. What’s one area of our relationship you’d like to see improvement?

12. When you were a kid, did you imagine this kind of love?

13. How can I be a better partner?

14. How can you be a better partner?

15. What are your views on marriage? And divorce?

16. Tell me something you’ve always wanted to try but haven’t had the chance to yet.

17. Where does your mind go when you are alone?

18. If you had a chance to have dinner with one person in the world, who would it be?

19. Has anyone ever hurt you?

20. Has our relationship secretly healed something within you? If so, what?

I hope this list sparks meaningful conversations and you learn something new about the one who matters.

xo, grey

The quest to conquer more, better, healthier, richer, and wiser begins, and we’re willing to sacrifice so much of ourselves to obtain everything we know we deserve. We build the woman we’ve always wanted to become. Rightfully so, our peace is the result of our labor.

While it’s often believed the fight has ended, strangely, it supersedes the tranquility that concludes our quest. It is the constant fear of losing all we’ve worked so hard to gain that forces us to acknowledge the unlawful existence of threats to our newfound softness.

Now that our feet are elevated and our positions have shifted, we can view things, people, and situations from different angles. Things never look the same after you’ve changed.

My right hand held my hair in place as my left hand twisted the black wrapper around it, when, all of a sudden, I was presented with a question that mirrored my current reality. One that I am often complimented for. One that I am proud of. One that I have worked effortlessly to maintain over the years. One that has come with more loss than gain. But I can honestly say that the losses were anchors that needed to be shed like unwanted calories just weeks before summer is set to land.

What are you willing to do to contain the unlawful existence of threats to your softness?

My answer wasn’t hidden in Morse code. Neither was it underneath a pile of thoughts in my head. It wasn’t at the back of my brain. Neither was it buried by selflessness.

“Whatever it takes,” I whispered as I lowered my arms and admired my handiwork in the mirror.

The brief struggle with my hair to create the ponytail became symbolic of the struggle to become the woman I am today. I’m protective of her. She’s the most fragile version of me I’ve ever encountered, and I love her as if I’ve known her my entire life. The lengths I’m willing to go for her safety are no secret to anyone who knows us.

Cut off the closest family member. Disappear from social media. Dissolve my interactions with people who are imprisoned by a poverty mindset. Leave my spouse. Immerse myself in my studies and characters. End a friendship. Check into a hotel for a week. Say no a hundred times. Address people and situations that have wronged me. Pick up and move to a new city. Get on the next plane out.

Whatever it takes–for her.

And, the lack of means to protect her feels too much like using bobby pins instead of an expandable hair tie to secure my ponytail–leaving it vulnerable, weak, and susceptible to harm.

Gaining peace and keeping peace aren’t the same. It’s a truth that haunts us all. But it doesn’t have to, because we’re not using bobby pins to make our ponytails; we’re using them to support them.

Hair ties:

• Dissolving friendships that no longer serve the woman you’ve become.

• Limiting or eliminating interactions with people who can’t understand this version of you.

• Finding comfort in being alone.

• Ending a relationship with the person who darkens your days.

• Divorcing the present, yet absent partner.

• Discovering solace in no-contact.

• Setting boundaries with your mother and father and grandmother and aunts and uncles.

• Choosing not to keep scrolling (social media).

• Disabling your direct messages (social media).

• Limiting certain people to certain contact methods. (Ex. Amy, text only. Jules, weekend chats.)

• Creating rituals that replenish you often and effectively.

• Passing up on the group trip while quietly exiting the group.

• Changing your cell number.

• Opening your Bible (if you are a believer).

• Understanding that you will better serve your child as a single parent.

• Applying for that job in another city.

• Going sober.

• Taking the emergency contraceptive.

• Finding a therapist who suits your needs.

• Saying less, observing more.

Bobby pins:

• Setting FOCUS hours on your cell.

• Ignoring text conversations that don’t suit you.

• Staying home.

• Avoiding phone calls and text threads when your emotions are high.

• Placing time limits on apps on your cell.

• Picking up a hobby.

• Finding a journal you love and telling it how you feel (often).

• Making new friends (who align with the person you’ve become, not who you were).

• Starting a television series.

• Learning a new language.

• Reinforcing boundaries set for family/friends.

• Giving dating a rest.

• Traveling.

• Purging your closet.

• Maintaining your privacy.

Hair ties aren’t hard to find. However, you will need both hands to secure them around your hair. And, when the flyaways appear, a bobby pin will get them back in line.

This was an issue I sent through snail mail to my club called The September Letter. If you’d like to receive letters like this, then head over. The list is open.

We gathered as expected. All in the same building. Different seats. Different outfits. Different dates. I was eager to meet the people my friends had chosen to share the night with us. But by the end of the night, I was saddened by the disconnection between my core group and the new arrival (date).

Her energy is unwelcome.

That was the summary of my thoughts that night, but it’s deeper. It always is. On the surface were big, pretty brown eyes, a flawless smile, carefully applied makeup, and that good, soft skin. Internally, a war was raging.

And I couldn’t help but wonder–

Who hurt her?

I’m not referring to men. If she lined up her entire backlog, I’m almost certain they’ve all had a hand in hardening her core. But that’s with them. It’s hardly that way with us.

Girls.

We’re safe spaces. We’re confidants. We’re magicians. We’re girls. We’re allies.

So, the question lingered all night as she avoided conversation, chose not to laugh even when everyone was doubled over with sore jaws, and sighed every few seconds. Because it wasn’t her reality that I was most interested in. It was the reality of all the girls like her.

The ones who are uncomfortable around women. The ones who are intimidated by other women. The ones who immediately activate their guard when another woman crosses their line of vision. The ones who don’t trust other women. The ones who don’t love other women. The ones who maintain a distance from women. The ones who view women as threats… not allies.

It’s disheartening. And it leaves me to wonder how many women have experienced the underside of womanhood. The side that hardens their core and shifts their gears the moment new women are in proximity.

Curiosity led me to write the words of this article. Because that mug on her face and those ignored questions and that silence didn’t affect the incredible time I had with friends. It affected the wholeness of my womanhood.

It magnified the ugly truth. It dirtied my lens. It ripped away my bandage. And it made me face the fact that there is another side of womanhood where there’s no whimsy, no allegiance, no community, no kindness, no love, no softness, no smiles, and no connection.

And as a result of experiencing that part of womanhood, one is left scarred. Damaged. Hardened. Unhappy. Traumatized. Forced to protect their heart, peace, and sanity by avoiding eye contact, switching into defense mode, twisting the features of their pretty faces, and disapproving of any connection proposed –temporary or not.

Frankly, that must be exhausting. Carrying the weight of the pain that was never supposed to be yours. Dealing with the pressure of liberation in a room full of faces that resemble the ones who have caused you turmoil. Wanting to be a part of something that you know can be glorious, but your heart won’t allow you. Being reminded of what that hurt felt like each time you hear a woman laugh or speak.

So to the women who are feeling the strife of the underside…

I apologize, girl. Though I am not the one who hurt you, I’d love to be part of the committee that heals you.

I apologize for the discomfort they forced onto you. I apologize for the nasty words they said to your face and behind your back. I apologize for the gossiping. I apologize for the physical altercation. I apologize for the betrayal. I apologize for the lies. I apologize for the sneakiness. I apologize for the hardships they caused. I apologize for the secrets of yours they told. I apologize for the joy they stole.

This is your journey, and I can’t tell you how to steer the wheel. But I would be lying if I said I don’t wish you could experience the other side of womanhood where there’s growth, maturity, a village, loyalty, consideration, respect, evolution, laughter, genuineness, whimsy, softness, joy, and sisterhood.

We can’t wait to greet you. It’s incredible over here. Come when you’re ready. Come healed and come whole if you can.

If you loved this post, you’ll love my snail mail club, The September Letter. Every month I send a letter to women all around the world. Every piece of mail includes a letter and a poem.

While I feel like I’ve neglected it a bit, I also feel as though the words weren’t ready to be written. As if they were still developing, still maturing, still unraveling. I didn’t want to rush this piece. I never want to rush these pieces. So instead of adding more to the series for the sake of submitting another article, I waited. It was a long wait, but seemingly worthy.

Now— let’s begin.

I watched my child run through her skincare routine step by step, as if she were a professional esthetician who understands the complexities of skin. With a shake of my head as she stood in front of me, showing her flawless results, with her hair pushed off her face and her skin beaming, I thought…

They are hardly made, but they are ALWAYS born this way. Sickeningly feminine. Obsessed with the softest parts. Highlighting the very things that make them women.

I marvel at the moments when she looks to me and says, “I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

I’m always taken aback, no matter how many times it rolls from her lips. And, I’m always led to ask why.

“Because you write and your nails are pretty and you smell good and you have businesses and your hair is pretty and your clothes are pretty and you have a lot of makeup and because you like perfume and because you have pretty shoes and—”

Each time, it’s a variation of whys, but they all fit in the same category. Almost. My child isn’t telling me she wants the life I have.

She’s telling me she wants my softness. She wants my stillness. She wants my slowness. She wants my femininity. She wants all the prettiest parts of me.

“I want to be a woman, too, one day. A feminine woman. A confident woman. A pretty woman.”

Because I understand she is one of the girls ready to be sickeningly feminine, I have to finish this series. Because one day, she’s going to wonder, and I’m going to have the perfect read for her.

I can’t wait until she’s an adult and I can direct her to this series.

“I think it’s time you understood the philosophy of the sickeningly feminine woman. Here are the rules…”

The sickeningly feminine woman…

understands that skincare is a ritual, not a routine.

My skincare routine this…

My skincare routine that…

The thought of those words often rubs the feminine woman unpleasantly, because she understands that skincare is far more than a routine. It is a ritual.

It’s sacred. It’s altering. It’s life-changing. It’s coaxing. It’s calming. It’s confidence in the form of washes, toners, scrubs, serums, and moisturizers. It’s therapy in a bottle. It’s a nightly vacation to some other place. Some faraway place. Some safe place.

How do they know?

Because they can’t name a time they’ve felt the same before starting their skincare ritual. That cry that had been waiting to emerge all week comes in the shower, the closet, or at their bathroom counter as they massage serum into their cheeks. That solution they’ve been waiting for comes to mind as they watch their reflection in the mirror. The lyrics to that song they forgot existed, yet bring them so much peace, replay in their head as they slather moisturizer on their freshly cleaned skin.

The overwhelming feeling finally settles.

The quiet finally comes.

The pain finally becomes manageable.

The feelings finally subside.

The anger finally diminishes.

The resolutions finally come.

In the first article of this series, I said—

That still stands.

Skincare is less about the skin it’s perfecting and more about the person it’s improving. Because, here’s a secret…

The sickeningly feminine woman understands that no esthetician or skincare routine can undo what is being done on the inside of their body. They know that their face is only a display of what’s happening within.

The feminine woman is aware that hormonal changes, emotional hardships, health signals, and mental stress will show up right on their nose, chin, neck, forehead, and cheeks.

So, the selfish act of creating a ten-step skincare ritual is one of many secrets in the sickeningly feminine woman’s arsenal.

The Art of Caring for Self is a subject that feminine women are fluent in. Skincare rituals align with their practices and promote the progression of their studies. It is another way and another reason for the sickeningly feminine woman to take care of herself.

And, frankly, she will take every reason.

The relief that comes with massaging the skin on her face is enough to settle the voices in her head, relieve the stress of the day, relax her mind, still her world, collect herself, regain control, and reset.

Rituals are undefeated in the life of an ultra-feminine woman. They aren’t part of the program. They are the program.

They afford her:

Predictability

Stability

Accountability

Introspection

Redirection

Honesty

Ease

Readiness

So, no. It’s not a routine for her. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s a ritual. A declaration. A promise. A pledge. A petition. A will. A right. A requirement.

follows the 2/3 rule —religiously

The sickeningly feminine woman is put together even when she isn’t. That’s a rule. That’s one of the most important rules of the rulebook. There are no exceptions to this rule. None.

Sick.

Sorry.

Sad.

It doesn’t matter. Because they’re wired this way. As a writer, it’s in my nature to write something. Always. No matter what’s happening to me or around me. You can always find me writing. The same goes for the sickeningly feminine woman.

She’s always put together.

In labor—

At the funeral—

At the hospital—

At the football game—

At pickup after school—

At the gym—

At work—

At home—

At pilates—

It doesn’t matter where. It doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter how. The 2/3 rule remains in effect at all times.

Hair.

Nails.

Clothes.

The undeniable trinity.

• Clothes and hair are perfect, but need a manicure.

• Nails and clothes are great, but hair in a ponytail.

• Hair and nails are intact, but leggings are it for the day.

The feminine woman understands that she can fall apart, but her fragments will not appear to the naked eye. Again, this is not a performance or attempt to appeal to the public. It is a way of life.

A singer will sing whether someone’s listening or not. It’s all the same for the ultra-feminine woman. She is the same whether in the privacy of her home or the boundless public.

She will exemplify near-perfection in two areas of her physical appearance, always, because she understands perfection doesn’t exist. She’s also a woman who knows her capacity. She’s no fan of pressure. And, sometimes, that’s what conquering the holy trinity requires.

Exhaustion.

Overwhelm.

Overstimulation.

is (usually) physically fit.

This doesn’t always apply to the feminine woman.

However, the sickeningly feminine woman is a woman of discipline. Her discipline doesn’t end with doom scrolling, the 2/3 rule, or personal boundaries. She is aware that she is more of a threat to her health and well-being than anyone around her.

Near or far.

She is committed. Even if she’s not in the gym daily, she’s counting steps. Even if she’s not eating the healthiest, she’s aware of her proportions. Even if she’s not exercising, she’s planning her meals. Even if she’s not on the treadmill, she’s taking a walk around the neighborhood every day.

Fitness isn’t a goal of hers. It’s a lifestyle. She isn’t trying to make room for healthier habits; she adapts them and never lets them go.

And, if I’m being honest, I’m often in awe of her drive when it comes to this very rule. I’m smitten by her urgency to feel better, look better, be better all in one breath.

There are no excuses for her. There are only improvements. There are days off. Because, again, this is not a lifestyle change… It’s a lifestyle. She’s not afraid she won’t get back on track, because she is the track.

She has an aesthetic that she is pursuing every day. It’s not one she saw on television or online. It’s personal. She created it. And, she refuses to stray. Her internal disciplinary counsel won’t allow it.

studies the art of illusion.

The feminine woman wears disguises well. She understands they are for enhancement purposes only while simultaneously acknowledging that she’s just as beautiful without them. She studies film and techniques and products as if they are part of her life’s syllabus.

In fact, they are.

Makeup. The ultimate illusion.

Most ultra-feminine women wear it often. Some on occasion. But ALL have devoted their time to the life-long, ever-changing artistry. The sickeningly feminine woman knows what contour perfectly sculpts her face. She knows what concealer gives her the cheeky eyes. Or, how to apply eyeliner under the lid to highlight those curious orbs.

She’s a sucker for a soft glam, but she’s not afraid of a sickeningly smoky eye. She’s not afraid to ask a fellow feminine woman where her blush is from or what highlight is responsible for their glowing cheeks.

She keeps blotting tools in her purse because she understands that dewy makeup doesn’t always look good under certain light. The powder room is her best friend and probably where she meets her next best friend. Their friendship will only last a few minutes, or the time they’re in the restroom together, but it will be impactful. It will be meaningful. And it will leave them both with something to hold onto.

She’s no amateur with a makeup brush. She’s a modern-day Basquiat.

Number five has come to an end. If you’re still here, thank you. I’m gearing up for episode six. Until next time… xoxo.

Why are so many people so miserable, so stressed, and so disappointed these days?

While I am a witness that life has a way of squatting over you, pulling its pants down, and taking a massive shit, I also know that life can be as beautiful as wild flowers in the middle of spring. I know that days can be cruel, but days can be kind. I also know that not everyone everywhere is living up to their fullest potential, but little pockets of happiness exist and keep them pushing until their wishes become their reality.

So, again, the question presented itself.

Why are so many people so miserable, so stressed, and so disappointed these days?

I didn’t have the answer that day as I sat in my study. I didn’t have the answer the next day, as I combed my hair either. But new thoughts continued to arise.

Surprisingly, it’s not just adults affected by this wave of unhappiness. Children are victims too. Teens and pre-teens, especially. And, so are the grade-schoolers.

It wasn’t until my back was dripping with sweat and my legs started to burn from my time on the treadmill days later that the answer I’d been searching for found me.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s silent, sometimes unintentional competition.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s a deep desire to have exactly what someone else is in possession of.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s anxiousness to be rewarded in one year what it took someone else ten years to receive.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s greed.

That’s not misery on their pretty faces; it’s discomfort from the pursuit of someone else’s reality.

And, sadly, consumption is to blame. Long ago, I denounced the mere idea of personal social media accounts. It feels too much like a stage. Almost everything is performative, intentionally and unintentionally.

I separate myself from my artistry for this very reason. I don’t want to matter (to strangers), consuming my words. All that matters is my message, the feeling they get when they pull open the pages of my book, and how sad they are to see another one end. That’s it.

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I understand how hard it is to separate your reality from others’ when proximity is determined by accessibility now. And, frankly, almost everyone is accessible online. But what’s happening online is hardly ever the full truth.

Only parts of your life are displayed for the world to see.

To study.

To analyze.

To digest.

To hate.

To love.

To judge.

To consume.

To visualize.

To fantasize.

To yearn.

To crave.

To obsess over, knowingly and unknowingly.

Then, the comparison begins. Not long after come the changes.

Words. Wardrobe. Routines. Rituals. Clothes. Colors. Locations. Hair. Makeup. Poses. Interests. Hobbies. Goals. Desires.

The lines blur so easily and so swiftly that you’ll miss the merge if you blink.

My child came to me one day and said, “---’s life is so fun. They play with their parents every day, all day. They even turned their home into a full playhouse. I wish we could do that.”

That day, YouTube became a thing of our past.

Because just as comparison is the thief of joy, misery thrives in the pursuit of someone else’s reality.

I decided to end the continuous consumption of pieces and portions of a life that my six-year-old had begun comparing to theirs.

“Having fun is their job, baby. Playing all day, every day, is their parents’ job, too. And, it’s the payments from the videos you watch of theirs that made them decide to turn their home into a big office where they can work all day, every day. Are you ready for a job?”

“No.”

The answer was clear. Theirs and mine. While I was able to stop my child from falling into the abyss that consuming others’ lives too often and too vulnerably creates, there’s no one to catch most people.

There’s no one telling them to stop scrolling.

There’s no one in their home to keep them too busy to have their faces in their phones.

There’s no one in their home to keep them from binging reality shows.

There’s no one in their circle to warn them against the dangers of overconsumption.

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Too much of anything becomes a problem. We’ve heard it so many times before. It remains true.

And the problem with consuming so much of someone’s reality is that it’s making people miserable.

Not because life sucks so much, but because they don’t have what someone else has.

Not because they don’t have money in their account, but because they don’t have as much money as someone else has.

Not because their home isn’t beautiful, but because it isn’t big as the one someone else has.

Not because they don’t have a roof over their head, but because they don’t own the roof over their head like someone on their feed who just purchased a home.

Not because they don’t have a job, but because they don’t work for themselves like someone else does.

Not because they aren’t in a good place in life, but because they aren’t in the place someone else is at in life.

Not because they aren’t stable, but because they aren’t wealthy like someone else.

Not because their parents aren’t in their lives anymore, but because their parents didn’t hand down riches like someone else’s parents did.

Not because their cell is off, but because they don’t have the latest one like someone else does.

Not because they are unhappy single or in their relationship, but because they aren’t married like someone else is.

Not because they don’t have food in their fridge, but because it isn’t organized in useless containers like someone else on their timeline.

Not because their children aren’t thriving, but because they aren’t as knowledgeable as someone else’s baby genius online.

Not because they don’t look good, but because they don’t look as good as someone else on social media.

Not because they aren’t liberated, but because they don’t take as many vacations as someone else online.

Not because they hate being a mother, but because someone without children is always having fun in their stories.

Not because life isn’t good, but because it isn’t as great as someone else’s.

It breaks my heart. It rips holes in my soul. It brings tears to my eyes, knowing that…

1. The happiness of so many people is dependent upon their closeness to someone else’s reality.

2. Validation soothes the souls of so many, and without it, they’re soulless. Heartless. Careless.

3. Misery is so fluent yet so misinterpreted in our days.

4. No one knows themselves anymore. Individuality is a dying art, and greed is the new sheriff in this town. Because one can’t help but force the belief that if she/he has it, then I should have it too.

5. So many beautiful minds have been lost to the harsh conditions that consumption breeds.

6. Consumerism doesn’t only kill us physically. It’s collecting minds, souls, and emotions for its graveyard.

7. Relationships, friendships, and genuine connections have had their bridges burned by these invisible monsters.

8. It’s a never-ending cycle. Even the babies are feeling it.

Reyna Biddy said, “When love is real, you gather your bones and make supper anyway.”

Now that I’ve answered the question that circled in my head for weeks, I have a new one. But, it isn’t for me. It’s for you if any part of this article has sounded remotely close to your current position.

Is the love you have for yourself real enough for you to gather your bones and make supper anyway?

Because what’s on their plate can’t fill your belly. You don’t like the same foods, and you don’t drink your water at the same temperature. You are particular about your spices, and the beef on their plate will have you breaking your red meat fast. You hate the big light and warming your seconds on paper plates. You only eat with silverware, never plastic.

Don’t tarnish your greatness by trailing someone else’s. Put down the phone. Stop masking duplication with inspiration. Move out of that lane. Keep your eyes on your own paper. Stop visiting their page. Stop studying them. Stop scrolling. Stop consuming. Start creating. Or not.

Retrieve your individuality and create a life that yesterday’s you would be proud of. Because you’re not miserable, babe, you’re in pursuit of something that doesn’t belong to you. Fix your GPS, and you’ll see the sun shining a little further down this dark road. You’ve got this.

Now, go on home to yourself. They’re waiting.

If you love pieces like the woman you’ve read, immersed in feminine richness, you’d love my snail mail club, The September Letter. The list opens monthly on the 1st and closes on the 18th. Here’s how you join —> click.

I’m writing an article from my phone. First time for all things 🤎

Late night thoughts…

This weekend, when asked why I collect cameras, old and new, I almost (naturally) said what I’ve been saying for the last decade.

“I’m a memory keeper.”

But, a quieter, more resonating voice said…

“Because I’m too afraid of being forgotten.”

Not by strangers.

Not by those who devour my books.

Not by those who read my Substack column.

Not by those who consume my art.

It’s by the ones I love and the ones who come after me that I would’ve loved. And, already love although they’re not here yet.

Great greats.

Great great greats.

Great great great greats.

Grandchildren. Nieces. Nephews.

Those who make me want to get out of bed and continue my strides daily. Frankly, none of this was for me. It was always about those after me. Them. They’re who matters to me.

And, I refuse to be a vague conversational piece or an old family tale without tangible proof of life.

After some thought, I realized…

I don’t mind being forgotten for what I’ve done.

It’s who I am and how I lived that I want to be remembered by best.

Confident.

Ambitious.

Trailblazing.

Strategic.

Analytical.

Firm.

Fun.

Well-mannered.

Well-dressed.

Raw.

And, because I won’t be able to, I’ll let my cameras tell my story.

I’ll let my messy vanity prove I paused often.

I’ll let my extensive pajama collection prove I was well-rested

I’ll let my fragrance collection prove I smelled divine.

I’ll let my bathroom prove I accomplished great things in life.

I’ll let my pets prove I cared.

I’ll let my children prove I loved.

I’ll let my wardrobe prove I chose my threads well.

I’ll let the drapes in my home prove I was tasteful.

I’ll let my study prove I was an avid reader.

I’ll let my material prove I was studious.

I’ll let my books prove I was a writer.

I’ll let all of the memories I’ve been keeping keep me alive long after I’ve gone. Because, that’s what memories are for…

Maybe none of this will make sense in the morning. Maybe it’ll make all the sense in the world. I can’t wait to find out.

And there’s nothing more disappointing than having a willing participant who simply doesn’t know how you need it that particular day… time… place…

Because, let’s face it, how you want to be handled today is probably not how you want to be handled this weekend. Or tomorrow morning. Or during lunch hour.

We don’t have time for him to figure it out—every time, because every time things change. Needs change. Desires change. Climate changes. The last thing you want your partner to do is fail the pop quiz.

Set him up for success.

Give him the study guide. Hand over your notes. No one knows your body like you do.

I want to die a well-fucked woman.

If you do not wish to do the same, this post is not for you. Keep scrolling Substack.

Since my late twenties, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the concept of a woman’s selflessness during the most intimate moments of her life.

Namely… sex.

Studies prove that women rarely reach their orgasmic transition during sex with their partner. However, almost 100% of the time, men climax.

The difference is staggering. And, there’s only one explanation.

Women often shrink in the bedroom, giving men more room to expand.

But, in order to die a well-fucked woman, you must reserve space for your pussy to unleash its powers.

If you’re completely satisfied with everything your partner is doing in bed and you do not have trouble getting to higher grounds, then your read ends here.

If you’re considering opening your drawer and grabbing your vibrator once he’s fast asleep beside you, then keep reading.

Understand that this article isn’t to criticize the effort of men, because most of them try. However, there’s often a learning curve… as I’ve stated…

When that familiar throb begins between your thighs, there’s a certain way it needs to be rubbed away… kissed away… stroked away… sucked away… licked away…

And there’s nothing more disappointing than having a willing participant who simply doesn’t know how you need it that particular day… time… place…

Because, let’s face it, how you want to be handled today is probably not how you want to be handled this weekend. Or tomorrow morning. Or during lunch hour.

____

“I want to die a well-fucked woman.”

My declaration was formed strictly due to my willingness to help orchestrate my well-fucked reality.

I am not a robot. I will not lie down and accept every stroke or every touch or every lick that is handed to me.

Because I understand that my submission only materializes after my partner has mastered my course. Before then, my body is a study.

study: noun

a room used or designed for reading, writing, or academic work.

I am the instructor. I am the tutor. I am the tour guide. I am the coach.

And, our curriculum is as follows:

Module 1: Vocal

Express your desires, limits, truths, discomfort, and curiosities before your back is against the wall or on the sheets of the bed.

“These are my sensitive areas.”

“I’m aroused when my nipples are touched.”

“I am more stable on the couch than on a soft mattress.”

“I like to be licked here.”

“I’m a kisser. I can kiss until my mouth is sore.”

“My favorite position is on all fours.”

“I like the sound of our skin touching.”

“My orgasms are more intense when I am lying down.”

“I am a big fan of foreplay.”

“I swallow.”

“I spit.”

“We must use protection unless you present paperwork that’s evidence of your negative statuses.”

“Wee hours and morning sex are best for me. So is weekend sex. Week nights, I’m exhausted and can’t promise a stellar performance.”

“I’ve always wanted to try anal.”

“Anal is a hard limit.”

“I don’t find pleasure in — position.”

“A finger in my butt makes me cum harder.”

“I like when you eat it and then take it out and then eat it and then put it back in.”

“When your finger is pressed against my clit, and you’re inside of me, that drives me insane.”

“I don’t like when you’re sloppy down there. It feels better when you’re licking with precision.”

“Clit stimulation is key to eating my pussy.”

Don’t be shy. Get vocal about your well-fucked reality. Because if you don’t, you will continue to seek satisfaction beyond intimate encounters with your partner.

Module 2: Virtual

Let’s consider this a tutorial of sorts. I fully believe that the secret to a well-fucked reality is masturbation and the confidence that stems from it.

Play with your pussy, babe.

It is the only true way to understand your body, how it works, what makes it go boom, how gentle or how hard, where, why…

All the questions you have surrounding your well-fucked reality can be answered by touching yourself. You’ll discover nearly everything you need to know.

So, before you teach a lesson, be sure to master the lesson yourself. And, once you have, invite your partner in for a session.

No penetration.

He’s a spectator, not a participant.

Show him exactly what you do to get to where you need to be. Allow him to collect notes. Be sure he’s focused. And, don’t hold back.

Let him see what your body can do, how it sounds, the different methods of pleasure, the pressure points, and all there is to know about his study.

Light bulbs will go off in his head frequently. New techniques will be noted. Additional channels will be opened. And, his readiness will be at its peak.

Module 3: Vocational

Once you’ve given him a tutorial… a course…

It’s time for coursework. It’s time to put his studies to the test. He’s still in the classroom, but clinicals have started.

During this time, it should be understood that the vocational period is instructional. While he has the lead, a detailed synopsis will summarize your findings.

Let him have his way.

But, be reminded of our first module.

Get vocal.

“Right here.”

“Right there.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Speed up.”

“Slow down.”

“Harder.”

“Kiss me here.”

“Touch me there.”

“Bite me.”

“Choke me.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Too rough.”

Tailor your experience. Help him understand what you want and don’t want. What you need and don’t need. He doesn’t know most of the time and has been trying to figure this out on his own. Your silence has been a disservice to both of you.

Open your mouth.

Get vocal.

Get physical.

Place your hand where you want his. Move his hand to where you need it to be. Open your mouth when you want to be kissed. Admit when it doesn’t feel good. Be honest about your climax or lack of. Touch yourself while he’s inside of you. Touch yourself while you pleasure him.

Find comfort in expressing your sexual frustrations, needs, and fantasies with the person who is stroking your pussy every chance he gets. Because, I can assure you he’s going to find his sweet spot and reach his peak every time. You have to do the same.

Module 4: Volcanic

Now that he understands your body.

Where to touch you.

How to touch you.

When it’s best to touch you.

And, clinicals have come to an end… It’s time to activate your volcano and prepare yourself for eruption after eruption.

Now, orgasms are a shared experience and not a selfless act of submission.

You can fully submit in the bedroom because you were the instructor for the tour guide. He knows what he’s doing because you taught him. You trust him.

Once he sees just how gratifying it is to know your body, his studies won’t end with what you’ve taught him. He will further his education, and you will become the student. You will begin to learn things about your body that he discovered through his studious nature.

Let’s face it…

Some men will come into your life and teach you almost everything you know about your pussy.

Others will need instruction. It doesn’t make them any less qualified to handle your body than a man who knows women well.

Your comprehension of this article is likely based on the man who is currently in your world. I hope you received something you can carry with you either way.

Because my life’s goal is to not only be well-fucked but to empower women through my column.

Head.

Heart.

Body.

Soul.

Pockets.

Pussy.

I can’t leave any stone unturned here. So, unleash your power. The world is hardly ready for a well-fucked woman.

She’s confident.

She’s radiant.

She’s undeniable.

She’s unstoppable.

To the girls who are well-fucked, toast to you, boo.

To the girls who are on their way to being well-fucked, speak up, babe.

xo,

grey

If you love pieces like the woman you’ve read, immersed in feminine richness, you’d love my snail mail club, The September Letter. The list opens monthly on the 1st. Here’s how you join —> click.

Cheers to more of those in 2026.

There’s a certain kind of woman in this world who is (utterly and consistently) revered in my head… and heart. But to the world, she’s often dismissed, degraded, or downright hated (on).

Most of the time, this woman enters a room and garners nasty looks or thoughts from half the people inside. And that’s before she even opens her mouth. Most times, she won’t. But if she does, the rest of the room might despise her, too.

All except for those who admire her. Who commends her. Who relates to her. And, except for me.

Not even an hour at my vanity could bring me clarity as to why. I put the caps back on my beauty pieces, secured my sponge inside of my dusting powder, and put away my brushes, still not knowing where the distastefulness is born for such tasteful creatures.

Because truthfully… I want to be friends.

Over the last two years, I’ve voiced my desire to be friends with the type of woman who cares about hardly anything more in life than her beauty.

A vain woman.

A conceited.

Arrogant.

Haughty.

Downright vanglorious woman.

To so many degrees, I am confident that we are quite linear.

While conceit and arrogance and haughtiness and vainness are weaponized against women who are sure of themselves, their worth, their values, and their goals… I find them pretty damn impressive.

I’m not referring to the empty, desolate souls. I’m referring to the impactful, joyous, and genuine souls. The ones who have had that ‘it’ factor from birth. It wasn’t learned, taught, or bought.

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What’s the matter with being conceited as a woman who is the actual birther of LIFE?

Arrogant?

Haughty?

Vain?

And, what’s the matter with putting all of your energy into your appearance or your beauty or your wardrobe?

We’ve given far more to others for far less and end up disappointed ALMOST ALWAYS.

I’ve watched ‘hopeless romantic’ women pour their energy into relationships that shattered their entire nervous systems and left them without a tear in their ducts.

I’ve watched ‘happily married’ women pour their energy into marriages that crumbled like old, stale cookies, even after they tried their hardest to make it work.

I’ve watched ‘highly educated’ women pour their energy into their education only to end up with the same pay as a non-qualified, uneducated candidate or a job that doesn’t align with their major.

I’ve watched ‘working’ women pour their energy into companies and corporations only to be passed up by male peers who have benefited from work they didn’t even do.

I’ve watched mothers pour their energy into children who resent them for working hard to provide better circumstances and surroundings.

I’ve watched church women…

I’ve watched ‘stay at home moms’…

I’ve watched writers…

I’ve watched teachers…

I’ve watched women…

Women all over…

Women everywhere…

Pour their energy into people, situations, education, relationships, marriages, and the list continues…

Only to the benefit of others.

So when the world encounters a woman who pours the bulk of her energy into herself, the problem occurs.

It’s as if she is wearing a big, bold tag on her back that reads…

“Others are hardly allowed to benefit from me.”

Boy does it look damn good on her.

The thing about vain women that scares others is—

She’s always having her way. The amount of energy she pours into her beauty is usually the same amount of energy she pours into every other aspect of her life—unintentionally, most times. It’s simply who she is.

• One laugh and the guys at the tire shop are rotating her tires and changing her oil for free when they don’t even offer oil changes.

• One smile at the GM of the restaurant and the tab is covered. Not because she’s flirting, but because she kept the guys sitting at the bar spending money longer just to flirt with her.

• One nice outfit and one extra hour getting ready, and the line at the door of the hottest restaurant suddenly doesn’t exist. Somehow, those reservations that were at capacity seem to open for her and a friend.

• One sappy look and the attendant is making ‘an exception just this one time’.

• One request and it is granted, even by strangers.

There’s a small part of the world that BENDS for a vain woman. The other part of it CRIES, SULKS, or SECRETLY WISH THEY WERE HER.

The vain woman is not oblivious to the differences between her and the average woman. She also understands she’s not average. She will never try to be or pretend to be. No.

Because she is a reaper for women (average, above average, or incredibly vain). An ally. A teammate. A partner. Even if the feelings aren’t mutual. She reaps benefits that have been stolen from women for far too long.

She understands that women hardly have a chance to thrive/win in life. We’re only at ease approximately 12 days out of each month.

We have periods.

We have babies.

We have fibroids.

We have PCOS.

We have to cook.

We have to clean.

We have breasts.

We’re underpaid.

We’re unappreciated.

We’re disrespected.

We lactate.

We populate the world, and still we are NOT revered. We are hardly even respected. So, that little selfishness that rolls off a woman’s skin in the form of vainness, it is electrifying.

In bold letters, underneath the declaration that others are hardly welcome to benefit from her, I see, “This is my superpower. This is my act of rebellion. This is how I will be remembered, because we are hardly remembered unless we’re doing something for someone else. This time, one of us will be remembered for doing something for ourselves.”

Truth is, we’re the only certain parts of our worlds. We’re the only person we can truly trust. We’re the only person we can truly count on.

It feels counterproductive when we aren’t introspective, somewhat selfish, or vain.

I fully support women who—

Pour into themselves.

Blot their faces when their makeup begins to oil.

Lotion their bodies in no hurry at night.

Carry compact mirrors in their purses.

Runs to the restroom every few minutes to check their appearance.

Only wears her finest pieces in public.

Walks with her head high.

Keeps an extra pair of shades near.

Visits the nail salon so much that they know her name by heart.

Spend hours in the mirror making sure every piece is in place.

Calls her stylist out of bed for emergency appointments.

Travel the world to enjoy spas all over the world.

Aren’t afraid to talk about themselves.

Are up on the latest trends, although she understands she is THE TREND.

Sleep in silk scarves on silk pillows.

Sits at her vanity until her legs grow numb.

The world never has to wonder about. They always know why she’s chosen, despised, admired, disliked, and revered.

The vain woman…

Her rituals are sacred.

Her jewels are beautiful.

Her presence is awakening.

Her smile is radiant.

Her movements are calculated.

Her time is precious.

Her presence is an allegiance.

to her peace.

to her nerves.

to her heart.

to her mind.

to her soul.

to her smile.

to her happiness.

to her joy.

to her emotions.

to her body.

to her systems… all of them.

Her vanity is breathtaking. And, there’s a deeper meaning to her existence than her beauty.

She’s not the enemy. She’s an ally. So is her entire purse that serves as an arsenal for the woman in need of a blot towel, lotion, compact mirror, mint, or hair spray. She’s the secret weapon to winning many levels of womanhood.

If you love pieces like the woman you’ve read, immersed in feminine richness, you’d love my snail mail club, The September Letter. The list opens monthly on the 1st. Here’s how you join —> click.

In my happiness.

In my contentment.

In myself.

Not because I was using my favorite products or because my favorite tunes were playing in the background. But, rather, because after a full week of putting the needs of my children, my business, schools, my customers, and my characters before mine, I heard it was time to be selfish.

Ignore the calls.

Ignore the requests for my presence.

Ignore the deadlines I’ve given.

Ignore the school emails.

Ignore the volunteer opportunities for the week.

Ignore the schedule.

Ignore the fridge I once promised to give a deep clean.

Ignore the messages.

Ignore it all.

Ignore them all.

Everything.

Everyone.

Quiet the noise so you can hear yourself.

Your thoughts.

Your desires.

Your heart.

Your urges.

You.

The voice in my head was loud. It was clear. And, it did not stutter.

Be selfish. With your time. With your energy. With your resources. With your assistance.

Submission was the conclusion of the one-sided conversation. It always is. Because I’ve grown to understand that the voice isn’t a figment of my imagination. Neither is selfishness. They’re advocates for the part of me that doesn’t deserve all I’ve put her through.

My nervous system.

That voice is a direct link to the source of my sanity. It is the final indicator that I am stretched thin. Stretched out. And stretched far too much.

It is the final form of chastisement, forcing me to face the internal destruction I’ve orchestrated by ignoring every opportunity to nourish, reset, soothe, pamper, or calm my nervous system, attempting to make every moment of my day a progressive one.

That voice is a reminder that I haven’t been kind to my nervous system. I haven’t been gentle with her. I haven’t moved gracefully in her honor. I haven’t been friendly. I haven’t been considerate. I haven’t treated her with tenderness and care.

And—

My selfishness is the only way to say sorry.

So, even if it’s only for thirty minutes or if my selfishness stretches for a full thirty days, it’s necessary. A new requirement. A boundary. A nonnegotiable.

In my selfishness, I’ve promised to:

• listen to my music loudly

• laugh without reservation

• take long, exaggerated bubble baths

• shower with sex in the city on replay

• explore new fragrances

• buy the bag i’ve been eyeing

• add another day to my pilates schedule

• drink more water

• get massages

• soak at the spa

• lay in bed after my alarm has sounded

• explore the loungewear section of every website i visit

• write as many substack posts for my column as my hands will allow

• ignore things that i simply don’t want to do

• have champagne

• visit my favorite restaurants

• dance alone in my room with the door locked

• avoid taking on tasks that don’t serve me in some way

• skip appointments that don’t align with self-care

• use a face mask before bed 3 nights this week

• avoid my office

• lock the door of my study

• write leisurely

• keep my phone on DND

• close my computer at least 22 hours of each day

• avoid screentime

• take a seat at my vanity every day

This punishment is solace. I welcome the consequences of my actions, because I should’ve known better. I do know better. Still, I allow life’s demands to consume me as if the demands of my body aren’t paramount.

It’s no secret that you can’t be the best anything if you aren’t your best self.

So, I accept everything that I am up against until my system is pleased with my efforts.

I am looking forward to the solitude it demands.

The softness it offers.

The stillness it promotes.

The slowness it manages.

And the selfishness it entails.

My selfishness will save me, and I’m counting on it.

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Becoming the host of my friend group is the best unintentional mistake I’ve ever made.

I’d be lying if I said I was upset about it. Overwhelmed by it. Or figure it’s not all that necessary because it is.

I looked around the table full of those closest to me while hosting the first dinner party this year, and smiled.

I thought…

She was there for me when I needed a listening ear.

He was there for me when I needed a laugh.

She picks up every time I call.

She keeps me sane.

She’s always around when I need her.

She keeps my soul gentle and my softness alive.

Everyone around the table had been a vital part of my journey to becoming the woman I am today. And, honestly, I don’t ever want to glaze over their contributions to my mental, emotional, physical, and financial well-being.

Their contributions are the real reason I began the hosting era of my life.

It’s my way of saying so many things that don’t fall from my lips often but are in my heart, head, and the tip of my tongue.

I love you.

Thank you.

You’re important to me.

You matter.

I need you.

I’m elated you’re in my life.

You’re a true friend.

I appreciate you.

Every tini detail I pour into dinner parties, social gatherings, or craft nights is considered with love and light and purity. It’s a sure way to let my friends know — I am not above catering to your needs, as you have catered to mine at some point in this friendship.

Serving those I love brings me joy. And that’s what has led me to begin the first series on Girl Work. Because hosting is just that. It’s Girl Work.

During the hosting era, we will cover the following:

1. Host Something: The Petition (below)

2. The Tini Details (invitations, crafts, decorations, locations, drink menu, themes, etc)

3. Super Secret Hosting Hacks (cooking, ordering, pre-planning, guest requirements)

4. The Ultra-Chic Guide to Tablescapes (setting the table, glassware, table decor, etc)

5. The Dreamiest Hosting Capsule (building your hosting capsule)

Grab your pen + paper. Prepare to take notes, because this series will leave you with a lot to look forward to. Now, let’s dive into the first topic, Host Something.

Host Something:

As someone who loathes going outside unnecessarily, yet still cringes at the idea of others being in my personal space, hosting sounded more like nails on a chalkboard than unfiltered laughter and utter contentment.

But that all changed over a year ago when the desire to gather my friends around the table to cut out images to piece on a board that would serve as a reminder of our goals and the promises we made to ourselves outweighed all else.

The urge was overwhelming. The vision must have replayed in my head sixty-four times. Every detail. Every question. Every utensil. Every dish. Every crafting supply. Everything.

I thought of every reason not to shoot for the stars, but it was unlike me. Settling or going against my intuition has never served me.

So, I decided to toss caution to the wind. I created an invitation and sent it to all of my friends in the same city. Given that there aren’t many of them.

Still, their RSVPs poured in. It was the first piece of confirmation that girl work was beginning. On the night of, there was a single cancellation. It happened to be the second piece of confirmation that girl work was necessary.

By the night’s end, emotionally-charged responses to questions posed on the detailed printout I’d designed, beautiful vision boards, declarations, and sweet promises of betterment were the final pieces of confirmation that girl work had prevailed.

They were petitions…

To wonder again.

To plan again.

To create an invitation again.

To send out a mass text again.

To prep again.

To bring everyone together again.

To give written permission to pause again.

To welcome smiles again.

To bring joy again.

To do something good again.

To host again.

That was a year ago. I’ve gathered my friends and family around the table again and again and again since then. Admittedly, it’s the most fulfilling task I’ve completed on this side of adulthood, aside from birthing children.

So, this is my petition for you to host something. Big or small. And, here’s why.

They need it.

Showing up is not easy. Not even for yourself sometimes, and especially not for others. When someone shows up at my door to attend anything I’m hosting, I am certain of at least one thing.

They need it.

More than me sometimes. More than others sometimes. And, I can’t say how much it means to provide whatever they need that day or evening or night. A hug. Laughter. A smile. A joke. Food. A picture. Community.

Something. As a friend, providing that safe space is essential.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.

For my first hosting, I thought… Gosh, there will be more people here than I have chairs. They’ll need room. They’ll need space to work. And, what will we eat? If I cook, the kitchen will need to be cleaned before they arrive.

The list went on for hours. Quite literally. But, in the end, I said to myself, “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be.”

And, it’s true. You don’t have to have the perfect setup, the perfect amount of space, the perfect table, the perfect menu, or the perfect entertainment pieces. All you need is the will to gather with good intentions. Everything else will fall into place.

Do not let the pursuit of perfection ruin a good thing. Host it. Perfect it later.

Outside costs so much.

Let’s be honest. I am down at least $500 by stepping out of my house and participating in the world. While the funds are there, who wants to spend them all the time?

And for some, it’s a stretch. Bills are eating holes through their checks before they touch their accounts. Children are expensive. Maintenance is outrageous. Therapy is more than the light bill. And, food prices are constantly rising.

Hosting is an all-inclusive experience for guests. Drinks. Laughter. Food. Fun. Good conversation. A little therapy. Sweets. Games. And the latest tea.

Almost everything is reusable.

This is one of the things I love most about hosting. Almost everything is reusable. You’ll begin building your hosting capsule one event at a time. And, with each hosting, you’ll purchase less because you won’t need as much. Everything in your cabinets will be used again.

Glassware.

Table linen.

Dinner napkins.

Silverware.

Liquor (the leftovers).

Food (for at least two days).

It’s all reusable. Quite frankly, you might not need to purchase anything at all, because everything in your cabinet right now is usable. This takes me back to my second point. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be.

Making memories.

Ahhhhh. As a memory keeper, someone who quite literally walks around with a camera at any event, this is music to my ears.

Hosting your friends makes for the most fond, loveliest memories a girl could hope for. The reduction of chaos, loud music, yelling, screaming, conflict with intoxicated individuals, sweaty bodies, and over-the-top security personnel makes for a damn good night.

Make sure there’s a theme. Have everyone dressed to match it. And, snap away.

Recall moments in your friendship you’ll never forget.

Have another laugh about that one thing that’ll never not be funny.

Remind them of the time you almost lost your lives together.

Don’t let them forget about the crazy guy.

Bring up that time on vacation.

Smile until your jaws hurt. Laugh until your throat hurts. Talk until your vocal cords are hoarse. That’s what the hosting era is for.

It’s your own little social club.

Honestly, I won’t be elaborating because hell yeah.

A few minutes of attention from a friend could save a friend’s life.

Eight minutes. Eight minutes of attention from someone you love and trust can save your life. When I learned this, I think it broke my heart and healed me at the same time. I was listening to a podcast, and a guy mentioned the rule that had been established in their friend group. He said that when a friend is feeling low or at the point of no return, they call and they must ask…

Do you have 8 minutes?

It’s their secret cry for help without ever having to express the words. And, for eight minutes or more, the caller has their friend’s undivided attention.

That’s a phone call. Imagine what eight minutes of joy must do for the human brain! Hostings go on for hours. That’s enough dopamine to carry on for weeks.

Friends matter. So do their lives.

Host something.

That’s it for today. Let’s get into the tini details next, ladies. See you soon.

muah,

girl work

Lord, please.

Amen.

For weeks, I’ve been rewriting this very Substack article in my head every time I’m rearranging my perfume or lighting a candle for a big-light-less bubble bath or showering with Sex + the City peeking through the fog or coating my eyelashes with waterproof mascara that I won’t attempt to wipe off before sliding out of my mules that cost way too much and falling asleep on top of my comforter after a sickeningly good night.

I’ve attempted to let it go. I’ve attempted to talk myself out of posting it. I’ve erased it and written it again.

And again.

And again.

And, frankly, it all reads the same way, no matter how different the delivery. The message doesn’t change with every rewrite. The words do.

So, instead of writing it again in my head, I’m going to put it out into the atmosphere.

Perfection is ruining our legacy.

It’s ripping us of our memories. It’s pounding on our core. It’s ridiculing us. It has called us a freaking joke more times than either of us can remember.

Our pursuit of perfection is the forfeiting of our legacy. And, it’s making it hard for us to remember any time but the present or think of anything but our future.

It makes it easy for us to forget that there is a past. A past that helped us get to the place we are now. A past that is responsible for everything in our possession.

I vividly remember walking down my grandparents’ long hallway and entering a time capsule. One that told the history of every generation after them, and at least one before them.

There I was in the family picture. The smallest. The youngest. And there I was with a piece of rolled white paper in my hand, tied by a blue ribbon. My teeth were small. My smile was big. My eyes were bright. I was in Kindergarten. I still remember the first day.

I remember the picture of my aunt. The hairstylist. And, her work was on the heads of almost everyone in every picture surrounding her. She was really good with the entire styling thing during the cornroll, freeze, waterfall, and ponytail era. Those pictures remind me of waiting by the microwave and keeping a close eye on the plastic bowl containing the boiling water and the tracked hair that she’d be gluing onto someone’s hair soon.

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Then, there was my other aunt and her children. Maybe her husband was in the picture, too. I’m not sure if my memory serves me correctly. That spot on the wall, like many others, is not the clearest.

Aside from images, preserved well and taken good care of, there were small trophies and possibly ribbons of some kind.

Underneath the mattress were even more images, the birth certificates of almost everyone in every picture on the walls, and diplomas of everyone who had graduated out of the house. Because back then, those accolades didn’t belong to the recipient. It belonged to the person who made the accomplishment possible.

Without actually living in those moments or being considered, I felt like I was part of them because I was handed an invitation at birth. I was granted access to their worlds instantly. I was promised their legacy without requesting it.

How?

Because it wasn’t perfection they were pursuing. It was proof.

And that is why I am writing this Substack.

Every time I wrote this article in my head, one sentence kept repeating itself.

“I want proof that I lived. And, proof that I lived well.”

Most people want the perfect home.

The perfect life.

The perfect partner.

The perfect kitchen.

The perfect child.

The perfect closet.

The perfect body.

The perfect job.

No work.

No sweat.

No hardships.

No hassles.

No mess.

Unfortunately, that’s not living. And that’s not living well.

My bathroom becomes the metaphor I never considered it to be when this thought occurs, and this idea revisits me.

Truth is…

Yes, I want my novels written well.

But I don’t want to miss the opportunity to write poorly before writing well. I don’t want to miss the chance to grow. I don’t want to crave the pages of my badly written manuscript to marvel at my progression and not have one to review.

What reality is that for a writer?

Feels like a sad, lonely one if I’m being honest. We need something to remind us of who we were and who we aren’t anymore and who we still are and who we are still striving to be.

Yes, I want my housekeeper to clean my home, but I don’t want her to leave it spotless.

I want traces of life to remain. I want the messy perfume collection. I want the mascara-stained countertop. I want the blackened candle wicks. I want the overused makeup sponges. I want the scuffed red polish on the bottoms of my shoes. I want the only pieces of costume jewelry that made it home with me in my jewelry box. I want the one earring that I refuse to get rid of, even though I’ll never find the other. I want my Rolex watches underneath the bed for weeks while I panic and wonder if one fell from my wrist while out. I want the water stain that makes me cringe at the sight of it, welcoming me to my sitting area every other day. I want the photos with my mouth wide and my eyes with creases at the corners. I want the printed images lying around places I visit most often. I want the latest book I’ve studied on the floor beside my bed.

I want the time capsule.

Because if God called me home today, and my children walked into my room after their hearts hurt a little less at the thought of my absence…

I want them to stop and smile at the thought of my life. I want them to understand that I wasn’t perfect. I want them to find solace in the fact that I never tried to be. I want them to be comforted knowing that I lived. I want them to be delighted seeing that I lived well.

I don’t want to ruin my legacy with white walls that don’t show signs of life. I don’t want my children to wonder how they looked as babies because their memories are all stored in a phone that I lost sixteen years ago. I don’t want to shut out the generations after me.

I don’t want perfection to ruin my legacy.

I want to print photos. I want to frame special pictures. I want to display the trophies and the ribbons. I want the diplomas underneath my mattress. I want to share generational growth.

I want to invite my children into my time capsule. I want to invite their children. I want to invite their children.

I don’t want to replace my family’s history with abstract art because the internet says that’s what the most sought-after interior designers say we should do.

I don’t want all of my perfume in a cool, dry place because I need it most when I’m in the bathroom… so I can layer as I get ready. I don’t want the squeaky clean space without signs of life.

That feels too much like a house.

I want a home. I want a home that is lived in. I want a home that is lived in well.

xo,

grey

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Because beyond the facts of the ultra-feminine woman, she’s fascinating. She’s a wonder of this world. She’s iconic. She’s distinctive. She’s unlike anything or anyone you’ll ever see in this lifetime. Though she isn’t rare, she’s not easy to come by. Her exclusiveness is part of her essence.

She’s not hiding. She simply doesn’t run in circles that aren’t beneficial to her in some form. So when you encounter her, treat her well, compliment her, and openly admire her. She doesn’t mind. In fact, she can’t wait to see you again. She hopes her presence sparks something inside of you that will be obvious the next time she sees your face.

In case you’re wondering how you can get on the same accord, here are the rules.

The sickeningly feminine woman…

gets dressed for bed.

Because she understands it is the most pivotal occasion of her day. The ultra-feminine woman is aware that rest is paramount. She knows that in order to approach the world with as much audacity as she does, it’s important that rest is revered. Nothing and no one matters more than a well-rested version of herself. Her rest is a boundary that remains intact, regardless of who is involved. She respects her boundaries, too. So, she comes dressed for the part.

Her hair is fixed, whether in a bonnet, scarf, rollers, or wrapped. Her pieces match. Top and bottom. Or slips. or dresses. Or nothing at all. Her skin is moisturized with her softest lotions, butters, or creams. Her body smells heavenly. Her aroma lingers in every room she leaves and on the linen on which she rests. Her feet aren’t touching the grimy floor. They’re on top of pillow-like slippers that complement the pieces on her body.

She goes to bed feeling put together. Collected. Intact. Whole. Sexy. Sultry. Soft. Elegant. Sophisticated. And well taken care of. If not by anyone else, by herself.

A woman taking the time to choose her clothes for the most important occasion of the day mirrors a softness that a feminine woman embodies effortlessly. Moisturizing her body isn’t a task for her; it’s a requirement. Prepping her hair doesn’t feel like labor; it feels like love. Spritzing the mildest fragrance in her collection onto her body doesn’t feel like a waste of product; it’s a proclamation. Her official statement. Her declaring her inherent greatness. Her true nature. Her birthright to be soft and supple and feminine and fruitful and pretty and poised and… all the things that make an ultra-feminine woman who she is.

A feminine woman is not in a dingy tee and whatever bottom she can find for bed. Her curated wardrobe allows her to flourish at all times of the day, especially in private settings. Her finest pieces aren’t limited to dinner parties, meetings, birthdays, holidays, and Sundays. Most of her finest pieces happen to be those that are reserved for her sacred chamber. Her home. Her bedroom. Her bed.

carefully curates her wardrobe

Not only is she pleasurable to be around, but she is a walking magazine article. Every time you see her, it looks as if she’s stepped out of a catalog. It doesn’t matter if she is wearing workout gear or a ball gown. Somehow, her presence makes you feel underdressed; as if you all weren’t planning for the same event.

When an ultra-feminine woman walks into a room, you wonder if you chose correctly when deciding what to wear. And, this isn’t a bad thing. It’s a lesson.

To always overdress. It’s always the solution.

The feminine woman is aware of the colors that complement her skin tone. She’s privy to the fabrics that make her look and feel fabulous. She understands that quality matters more than quantity.

Her threads are chosen carefully. Her things are rotated with the seasons. Her closet is color-coded for ease of access and selection.

She has staple pieces that work throughout the entire day. She has dinner pieces that are sure to turn every head in the restaurant. She has Sunday pieces that belong in the front row at church service.

Her collection of dresses and skirts is extensive. Her accessories are never-ending. Her jewelry is dainty, but sparkles when she moves.

She studies the trends, but understands she is timeless. So is her style. Trends will never define her taste or style or preferences. But, they keep her up on her toes and in tune with the fashions.

Her designer collection isn’t loud and obnoxious. She doesn’t need logos across her pieces. Her luxury is quiet, but just like her… it speaks volumes.

She often trades sweats for slacks or denim. She often trades crewnecks for button-downs. She often trades a messy bun for a sleek, low ponytail. She often trades tennis shoes for loafers.

She doesn’t leave home without collecting herself. She’s always put together. She is very rarely seen falling apart. Not outwardly, anyway. Her heart won’t allow it.

nails are never undone.

Manicured nails. Pedicured toes. The season doesn’t matter. The color does. And, she chooses it with ease because it’s usually white or something very close to it. Nudes are also popular amongst the ultra-feminine women.

Soft pinks.

Clear.

French.

Creams.

Browns.

Repetition is the foundation of sickening femininity. The ultra-feminine woman rarely strays away from her normal set. It doesn’t matter the length of her nails or the shape, harsh colors hardly cover her acrylic or dipping powder or clear gel coat.

Unless it’s red. And, when an ultra-feminine woman wears red, you should stay the hell out of her way. Because she’s different from the other ultra-feminine women. She’s as feminine as she is fierce. Her tongue is slick, and her words cut deep. She’s not mean. She’s honest. And her honesty is sometimes harsh.

Almond is the official shape of the feminine woman, but all shapes fit the mold.

The ultra-feminine woman doesn’t choose seasons to get pedicures. Mainly because she was never spending the money at the salon for the pleasure of others. The service is to soothe her soul, not theirs. So, whether it’s below thirty degrees outside or above eighty, her toes are in mint condition.

Number four has come to an end. If you’re following along in the rulebook and happen to have a beautiful collection of jewelry, please comment with an image of your favorite pieces and let me know if you’re #teamgold or #teamsilver.

Observing everything.

Thinking every thought.

Trying to make sense of things.

Finding solace in silent resolutions.

Just thinking…

And something said to me…

There are two types of people in this life. There are people who let life happen to them, and there are people who make life happen for them.

You are not responsible for flipping the coin for the people who are letting life happen to them, because you are one to make life happen for you.

Besides, as soon as you turn the corner, they’ll turn their coin back around. It’s more comfortable on that side. It’s warmer. The other side is cold. Unfamiliar. And feels too much like success. They’re afraid of succeeding. They’re safer in their silhouette, hiding and hoping to remain unseen.

Put away your seeds this year. You won’t be sowing in gardens with undernourished soil and a year-round dry season.

You’ve been trying to sow into those who are beyond redemption. There won’t be a harvest for them. They’re not looking to be saved. They’re most comfortable with settling.

Most comforted by their sorrows.

Most comforted by their errors.

Most comforted by chaos.

Most comforted by sadness.

Most comforted by the grief of an unfulfilling life, unmet goal, missed opportunity, failed relationship, loss of control, or the sheer distance from the life they’ve always wanted and where they are now.

And if there’s nothing more you know about grief, it’s that it has no timeframe. It moves when it’s ready. It stays as long as it wants. It lingers. And, it loathes liberation.

So pack your tools away in the garage or pour them back in your garden. But don’t mind the others. They will find their own seeds to sow when their desires outweigh their disappointments.

As those words wrapped around my neck and held on tightly, I began to gain more clarity. And another intention was added to 2026.

Moving forward, I want to be intentional about where I plant seeds. I want to plant them with people who are prepared for a harvest. Those who have been waiting to harvest. And who are willing to work until the harvest is upon them.

It’s been fifteen years of advice, suggestions, strategy, time, energy, ideas, funds, and thoughts… Because I genuinely crave happiness and success for everyone around me.

But, slowly, I’ve learned that not everyone around me craves success and happiness for themselves. Even if it spills from their mouths, their actions tell the true story.

So, I owe it to myself to be more vigilant. To be more reserved with my offerings. To be careful with my excitement when I began to visualize what’s possible for others. To seal my lips when ideas are pitched. To keep quiet, even though my ability to strategize and create a plan in a matter of seconds wants me shouting at the top of my lungs with fifty ways to maximize the potential of their idea. To make room for my seeds somewhere in my garden.

Because while it’s the most beautiful thing to see something you inspired or helped succeed flourish in real time, it’s heartbreaking to see the bones piling up in the graveyard of unused ideas, strategy, energy, potential, time, faith, labor, and funds.

Being a visionary is my gift, and it is my curse. It’s brought me as much joy as it has pain. I am slowly grasping the concepts I’ve missed and gradually understanding that what I see clearly is still a blur to everyone else.

In so many ways, I’m to blame for my naivety in this particular realm. My judgment is spot on in every other area of my life. Discernment is my greatest blessing. But, even when I know things might not come to fruition for others, I still try, hoping that somehow the success will materialize anyhow… anyway. But, it won’t. And, I understand that now.

It won’t!

Life beats everyone the fuck up… daily. You can either lie down and allow it or get up and fight back. But you can’t do both. Neither can you stay on the ground too long because you’ll never have the strength to get up and begin swinging.

You have to strap up your boots at a young age. Bring out your claws or squeeze a whole fist. Be prepared for whatever it throws your way, because the blows will come.

No matter the tax bracket. No matter the circumstances. No matter what.

Put away your tools…

That’ll be my constant reminder.

Because they’re not ready to make life happen for them. They want to keep letting life happen to them a little while longer. Not because it’s their happy place. But, because deep down they're afraid.

Afraid of winning.

Afraid of failing.

Afraid of flying.

Afraid of falling.

Afraid of it working out.

Afraid it’ll never work out.

Just afraid.

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Because time isn’t on my side, we’re only expanding on three rules this week. However, these rules happen to be some of the most important and favored of mine.

But, before I begin, it’s been sitting on my heart to elaborate on the woman I’m outlining in this rulebook.

There are huge differences between a girly woman, a woman pretending, and an ultra-feminine woman. And the differences are striking.

A girly woman may wear pretty clothes, speak well, have a thirty-step skincare or shower routine, love feminine things, have feminine ways, add value to spaces, and maintain her appearance. However, the similarities to the ultra-feminine woman typically end there.

Femininity is not an accessory. It is a mindset. It’s a way of life. It’s a language.

A woman pretending might present all the characteristics of a feminine woman to obtain things she wants/needs, but the facade fades with time. It doesn’t matter how long it takes for the truth to reveal itself, but it always will. Her family knows. Her exes know. Her past knows. And, no matter how much makeup she smears on her pretty face, her insides are still tarnished.

Not all of the rules will apply to the girly woman or the woman pretending, but they will always apply to the sickeningly feminine woman to some degree.

Now…

To the rulebook.

Ferociously curious.

Remaining curious keeps the feminine woman on the tips of her toes and the top of her game. She’s never too knowledgeable to learn more. She’s never too confident to seek more information. She’s never too prideful to ask questions about things she isn’t familiar with. She’s never afraid to warrant the unknown.

Because a feminine woman understands that knowledge is power.

She also knows that vulnerability breeds change. And to be curious is to be vulnerable.

A feminine woman is intentional with her studies. She retains information by writing it down. Carrying around a pen and paper isn’t for jotting her number down. It’s for making notes of things and people and places, and pieces of information she doesn’t want to forget even after the encounter has ended.

A feminine woman craves substance in all she’s involved with. She seek those who are more knowledgeable because she never wants to be the one to know it all. If so, she understands she is in the wrong place and with the wrong people.

The ultra-feminine woman studies words, people, places, hobbies, tools, beauty, occupations, history, and the list goes on forever.

Curiosity doesn’t kill this cat. It nurtures it. It fosters a sense of pride. It contributes to the uniqueness and exuberance of a feminine woman. It keeps her wide-eyed and wondrous. It tugs at her doubts and eventually transforms them into tiny pieces of knowledge that enhance her confidence. It is her liberation, freeing her from the pits of the unknown. It leaves a sweet taste on the tongues of everyone around her.

Doesn’t over-explain.

“What I meant was…”

“Oh, I was just…”

“Because, you know…”

“I say that because…”

“I made that choice because…”

A feminine woman is not one to try to convince others of why she did what she did or said what she said. Neither is she one to convince them it was the right choice to make or thing to say.

She’s cemented in her self-awareness. She’s rooted in her beliefs. She’s a sure thing.

And because she’s slow to speak and quick to observe, her accuracy is almost one hundred percent.

A feminine woman says nothing at all if she doesn’t know what to say. A feminine woman does nothing at all if she doesn’t know what to do.

Slowness is her saving grace. So, no, she’s not explaining anything to anyone because her reactions or actions are hardly spontaneous. They’re calculated. Just like her.

She owes no explanation. She understands it and moves accordingly.

Aren’t sorry for existing or taking up space.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“My bad.”

“Let me move out of your way. Sorry.”

These are things you’ll hardly hear from a feminine woman. Just like she’s not one to over-explain, she’s not one to apologize for what she is not responsible for, like…

Existing.

It was beyond her control, and just like she has, others must accept it too… along with everything that accompanies it.

Her presence in a grocery aisle.

Her extensive search for the right nail color, though there are others waiting.

Her time in the bathroom.

Her curiosity.

Her beauty.

Her likeness.

Her confidence.

Her.

You’ll hear a feminine woman say ‘excuse me’ far more than ‘I’m sorry,’ because she’s not. And she doesn’t have much to be sorry about. Mainly because she’s a good girl, inside and out. She doesn’t pretend. This is truly who she is.

Kindness is her tour guide. Curiosity is her fuel. Quietness is her seatbelt. Observation is her windshield. Discernment is her wipers. Consideration has the steering wheel.

She’s careful of what she says. She’s careful of what she does. She’s not sorry. Not for existing.

Gosh, I could go on forever. But for the sake of discipline, I’ll stop here. This series is just getting started. Buckle up. Next are the physical elements and accessories of the ultra-feminine woman.

If you love pieces like the woman you’ve read, immersed in feminine richness, you’d love my snail mail club, The September Letter. The list opens monthly on the 1st. Here’s how you join —> click.

And, I don’t mean the famous or wealthy or horrible kind of people. You know, movie stars, singers, artists, wildly successful entrepreneurs, murderers…

No. I mean people. People with a distinctive core that is unable to be forgotten—by anyone.

Not because they’re pretty or smart or stylish. Not because they are always around. Not because they are closest to you.

The thoughts began rolling in…

I was quickly reminded of my child. The ball of fire I have crowned the most dramatic child to ever see the earth’s surface. On the flip side of their explosiveness, there’s a part of them I never want to change. I never want them to let go of. I never want them to lose. I never want the world to strip them of.

Their thoughtfulness.

I have ‘just because’ cards lined up in the study. On any given day, I’m tasked with a store run so they can buy a gift for someone they’re thinking of (sometimes that person is me).

“Can you take me to buy you a water bottle?”

“Can you take me to buy you a gift?”

“I want to make Dad something.”

“I made this for —.”

“But, I worked so hard to make this for — to make her/him feel better.”

Their thoughtfulness has often led me to believe I am not thoughtful enough. It has led me to take notice of when others are being thoughtful and make note of those who are most thoughtful around me.

One person in particular stood out immediately. Within a year of becoming friends, I’d stopped myself from crying at least six times in her presence or from something she’d done in preparation for her absence.

Every date she thought was important to me, she was sure to remind me to stop and smell the roses. Some of which she actually gifted. She’s aware of how fast life passes me by, and stopping to celebrate wins is rare. But her thoughtfulness forced me to.

One day, I walked into my office, prepared to begin writing my next novel. Everyone around me knows it can be stressful for me sometimes. Not the writing itself, but the limited mental capacity that I’m forced to operate in, in order to become one with my characters.

There was a note on my desk. Simple. Straight to the point. Wishing me well on writing my next novel.

For releases, she knew I loved purchasing a personal-sized cake to share with the people who saw a different version of me during the time I was writing. Once she came into my life, I didn’t purchase another cake. She found so much joy in making them for me.

Cards.

Cakes.

Cookies.

The most beautiful set of wine glasses.

Jewelry.

Time.

Energy.

Effort.

I was always surprised at her audacity to be so kind, wearing it as a badge of honor as if the world isn’t as shitty as it is. But then I remembered, thoughtfulness doesn’t cater to a certain environment, and neither is it situational. It’s natural.

Our dynamic wasn’t one-sided. Reciprocation for me came naturally. It comes naturally. It helps me sleep better at night. So does sowing seeds. And watering the gardens of the people around me.

I’m still not sure what I poured into her or how much I poured into her or if I helped her cross bridges she couldn’t cross alone… but her thoughtfulness makes me feel like I did something right.

Because to be in favor of a thoughtful person is a blessing that can’t be disguised.

My friend moved away. Secretly, I cried for two days because I don’t have many people in my life like her. I wasn’t emotional because our work relationship was ending. Not at all. I was sad because our time together was ending.

However, after the clock struck midnight, marking the transition into the new year, I was reminded that thoughtfulness doesn’t have a zip code. Neither does it whither with distance. I opened a vintage Polaroid camera she’d sent through the mail simply because I’d asked her where hers had come from a few weeks ago.

She’s aware of how much of a memory keeper I am and how much I love film. I was searching for a camera for weeks. She’d already put one in the mail.

Just like my child, my friend made me wonder if I’m thoughtful enough. She is also one of the reasons for the goal to be more thoughtful moving forward.

Though it’s beginning to sound like a post about a friend I’ve had for only a year who has shown me the art of thoughtfulness… (unrushed, unchaotic, guiltless) It’s more than that.

It’s about me remembering the people who life won’t allow me to forget.

So, as I crossed the light, just minutes from home, it finally hit me. I had the answer I’d been longing for since I settled into my vehicle.

A thoughtful person is never forgotten.

Your heart won’t allow it.

It won’t let you forget how they made it feel.

How fast they made it beat.

How much it expanded when they did that thing they did or said that thing they said.

How much better it felt after they said or did that thing,

How much it longs for more of that from the world in general.

How rare it is to have a thoughtful person in your world.

How much of a blessing they are.

How gentle their core is.

How genuine they are.

How they helped you heal a little more.

How they made space for you.

How they thought of you even when no one else was.

How they think of you even when no one else does.

The nature of thoughtfulness and softness is linear.

The nature of thoughtfulness and desire beautifully co-exists.

The nature of thoughtfulness and consideration is interwined.

To be thoughtful must be such a soul cleanser. It requires real work that doesn’t feel like work for those it comes naturally for. It feels like resetting, refueling, recharging… recalibrating.

birthdays…

holidays…

special occasions…

milestones…

things mentioned in conversation…

triggers…

inventory…

colors…

preferences…

Their ability to hold space for these things and to store them so effortlessly for when the perfect moment comes… It’s fascinating.

A supporting friend/family member is much different from a thoughtful friend/family member. I am grateful to have both.

A supportive person is the actual cake. A thoughtful person is the icing and cherry on top.

Somewhere inside of every thoughtful person is a longing… a desire… to be considered the way they consider others. Not in a selfish way. In fact, in the most selfless way, because they believe all humans should receive the kindness they give. This ideology isn’t reserved for only them and the people they love.

They’re strangers to scarce thoughts as such. Deeply, the idea of it being the human experience is the foundation for their actions, words, and wonders. Thoughtful people aren’t only doing it for you. They’re doing it because it fuels parts of them that are rare in this world. It’s dopamine. It’s pleasure. It’s passion.

I’ll end this by saying how grateful we are for thoughtful people. I pray their lives are full of joy. And I pray for reciprocation. I pray life brings them peace. I pray their energy is shared with deserving people. I pray their hearts are always fulfilled. I pray they never feel empty or hopeless. I pray they never lose their spark. I hope they are never forced to be thoughtless.

But life wasn’t slowing down, and neither were my responsibilities. In fact, they were tripled. So, while adjusting to the new norm and writing the sixth book of my eight-book series (start here), The Huffington Note suffered my absence. And, my heart felt it each Sunday when a post wasn’t written or drafted.

It’s the first day of a new year, and it feels like the perfect day to share what’s been on my mind lately. Welcome to Season 2 of The Huffington Note.

Last night, I sat in my beautiful garden tub, television replaying my favorite comfort show.

The night before, I stood in my shower, watching my favorite comfort show through fogged glass.

The night before, I sat in my garden tub, touching my breasts for signs of abnormalities while replaying my favorite comfort show.

The night before, I stood at my counter, flossing between every tooth, television replaying my favorite comfort show.

The night before, I slid my body down the vanity and onto the plush mat with a smile on my face, chuckling at a scene from my favorite comfort show.

The night before, I ran the multi-surface microfiber cloth across the beautiful marble tiles while listening to my comfort music —a playlist I curated that emphasized the words of artists like Sade, Pip Millet, Olivia Dean, Sza, Snoh, and Cleo Sol.

The night before, I sat in solitude on the toilet with the door to my bathroom and the door to my toilet room closed/locked. My pants were up. My bladder and bowels were both behaving.

The night before, I soaked. I needed to feel the calmness of the water surrounding me. Hugging me. Caressing me. Comforting me.

The night before…

The night before…

The night before…

It wasn’t until last night that I sat in my beautiful garden tub, television replaying my favorite comfort show, that the revelation punched me in the left region of my chest, temporarily disabling me. As I rubbed away the pain, tears pooled around my heart. It had become evidently clear that…

I’m not here for a soak. I’m here for my soul.

I’m not here for the perfect song. I’m here for my sanity.

I’m not here because I need soap. I’m here because I need a saving.

My naked body was suddenly clothed with my naked truth.

The.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

Shattering.

Debilitating.

Harsh.

Unrefined.

Yet, grounding truth.

I seek refuge in my bathroom.

I should’ve known it when I chose the home. It was the bathroom that had sold me. While swiping the images, back when I was searching, I was desperate to see the most important place in the beautiful dwelling. The place I’d need most. The place I’d see most. The place that would swallow me whole and spit out a new woman each night. A better woman.

It wasn’t clear then, but each night I run from the world, carving out space for my solitude, I land on my feet in the center of my bathroom.

Because—it recenters me.

In the bathroom…

I’ve cried my thickest tears.

I’ve screamed my deepest desires.

I’ve affirmed.

I’ve fallen.

I’ve won.

I’ve been my ‘hurtest’.

I’ve been my happiest.

I’ve been my weakest.

I’ve been my strongest.

I’ve unraveled.

I’ve collected myself.

I’ve longed.

I’ve lusted.

I’ve touched myself.

I’ve exposed myself.

I’ve hidden.

I’ve shrunk.

I’ve expanded.

I’ve grown.

My bathroom has witnessed every version of me. It’s where every part of me finds solace. Good. Bad. Ugly. Ungodly. Undiscovered.

It’s more than a toilet or a tub or a grand shower or a beautiful vanity or a gorgeous view.

It’s my soul’s landline. It’s my heart’s defibrillator. It’s my head’s beige couch. It’s my wound’s bandage. It’s my tears’ pillow. It’s my body’s cushion. It’s my pain’s medicine. It’s my future self’s saving grace.

I’m more intentional with my decisions and tasks and participation in the bathroom than I am anywhere else. I don’t try to make time for my moments in there. I demand time for my moments in there. They are a requirement.

No exceptions.

No interruptions.

Bathroom time is a hard boundary I’m not willing to bend. Moments there are too meaningful to the woman I am and the woman I am becoming. These moments can’t be disrupted.

Because not only do they recenter me.

They restore me.

They rewire me.

They reset me.

They are my stability on shaky grounds.

I will never sacrifice the hour-long beauty marathons or the soaks or the time on the toilet doing nothing or the foggy showers or the time on the cold floor or the cleaning sessions or the dedicated playlist or the reruns of Sex and the City or the silence or the solitude…

Because each night I step into my bathroom, I find parts of my soul that had gone missing.

I need them.

I need them badly.

Because without them, I am defenseless, and life assaults me too often to not carry my tools.

xo, grey

Happy New Year.

Like, I know without a doubt, each time she looks at me, she’s saying in her head… I’ve got you, girl, mainly because I’m saying and thinking the same thing. We’re on each other’s team by default, and I feel it every time I see her pretty face, hear a compliment, or see her smiling back at me.

I don’t make the rules of Black sisterhood. I follow them.

The other day, she halted in her stride, lifting her head and then lowering it. Her lips were pursed. Her eyes were wide with pride. And, inside, I was already prepared for the words about to roll off her tongue.

“Well, don’t you look cute, girl! I love it. Headed somewhere?”

“To your table over there where I’ve set my things down to reserve my seat,” I chuckled. “No place to be. No occasion. I feel better when I am pleasantly dressed. I’ve challenged myself for the next week. It’s an experiment of sorts.”

It wasn’t an explanation. It was an invitation. It was my way of admitting what I’d always known.

I feel better when I am pleasantly dressed. It doesn’t matter how simple or complex the attire. If it fits well, pairs well, looks remarkable, and keeps me out of the pits of my emotions, then I consider it a hit.

On the days I dress like shit, I feel every bit of it. And that’s why it’s been so important to show up for myself during my favorite season—the season of emotional and mental decline.

Maybe… just maybe that’s why it’s called fall, huh? You’re just falling apart, so winter can wrap you in its cold and put you back together.

I’m kidding.

But… my stance remains the same. Getting dressed has saved my sanity this season. I feel my best on days I consider the worst because I slid into my Prada loafers instead of the furry slides. I chose denim instead of sweats. I picked the monochrome pair instead of mixing colors that didn’t match the mood. I traded the oversized sweatshirt for a fitted, buttery top and a tailored jacket.

I walked into every room looking exactly how I wanted to feel, and that shit happens to be contagious.

But, just last night, I realized I’d been getting it wrong when it comes to putting on clothes, and maybe you have, too.

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It’s November and we’ve all been feeling every fucking thing. So much so, we’ve collectively forgotten the undeniable power of that quiet ritual that saves our sanity every time it’s remembered.

honored.

considered.

planned.

manifested.

completed.

It’s not rocket science. It’s not a dissertation. It doesn’t require a degree. It doesn’t require much of a sacrifice.

Like tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, pumpkins, and olives are often mistaken for veggies… This simple act is often categorized as a routine rather than a ritual. There’s hardly anything further from the truth.

Because, as I’ve said before—

Rituals are those things that relieve you of the mental stress life tends to carry. Rituals lighten your load–mentally, physically, and emotionally. Rituals feel good, and they make you feel good. Rituals calm your soul and hum to your heart. Rituals cater to the ideal of ease and simplicity. Rituals are nurturing.

Soul-stirring.

Quieting.

Slow.

Savory.

Still.

Memorable.

Peaceful.

Followed not forced.

Rituals are the bread and butter for the feminine woman.

“Sunday nights are for resetting.”

“Mondays are for pilates.”

“My manicure is scheduled for every second Tuesday of the month, because they are my slowest and least demanding days.”

“I don’t cook on Fridays. I rest.”

“I wear my good slippers on Saturday and Sunday evenings.”

“I add bubbles to my bath three times a week.”

“I light a candle every Friday night to welcome the weekend.”

“I change my handbag every three days.”

“I have a latte by seven every morning.”

“My morning brew pairs well with my writing tasks in the early hours.”

“I only make hair appointments for Saturdays.”

“I rotate my closet every season.”

“I don’t send messages or take calls after seven.”

“I visit nature at noon every day.”

“I read four pages of my current book every night under candlelight.”

Rituals are invisible boundaries that remind you to take care. They make you feel better, lighter, and lovelier. They’re tiny little love letters to your inner self. They’re something you’re always in control of, even when you feel like you’re losing control of everything else.

Life feels better when you actually get to add bubbles to three baths that week. Or when you have that latte by seven every day in the month of June. Or when you rotate your closet for spring. Or when you actually rest instead of cooking on Friday. Or when you read those four pages under candlelight.

That’s why feminine women have rituals, and they are hardly associated with their routine. Routines usually involve other people and their needs/desires, and the things that must be done. Rituals are selfish. Routines are (usually) selfless.

Femininity requires the peace rituals supply.

So, that forgotten ritual that silently saves our sanity?

Getting dressed.

I don’t mean tossing on the biggest shirt and oversized sweats in your wardrobe.

I mean setting the tone of your day with each piece you put on your body.

I mean determining you’re going to be the best version of yourself by the shoes you choose.

I mean carefully selecting your top and bottom to help de-center the downpour of your emotions.

I mean really considering the colors you’re choosing and being sure they match the mood you want for the day… not the one you have.

I mean putting on those pieces you plan to save for the special occasion when all along you are the occasion.

I mean dressing for the part. Not just the one you’re playing, but the one you are auditioning for every day you get up and start your day.

I mean finding the courage to get dressed despite what’s happening around you.

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Getting dressed, I mean really getting dressed, is an instant boost to our mental, emotional, and sometimes financial situations. Pulling yourself together brings about change and hope during moments when you feel hopeless.

I discovered things during that personal challenge… You know the one I told my coffee shop girlfriend (again, I don’t make the rules) about?

Yes. That one. Here’s what I learned.

Your visibility increases exponentially.

People pay more attention to things and people who look well put together. People who look like they have their shit together are almost ALWAYS well-dressed. Putting on clothes makes others aspire to be something more… feel something more… study something more… want something more… create something more… do something better. Even if it’s just wearing that outfit they’ve been telling themselves they should save. You’re a walking billboard, an inspirational structure, when you’re dressed.

Your productivity feels less like a privilege and more like an inevitability.

It was bound to happen. It was supposed to happen. How could it not? When dressed, there’s hardly anything on my to-do list that won’t get done. In fact, on the days you’re truly well-dressed and your mood has shifted in the right direction, you can expect to overachieve.

If you work for yourself, put a few extra tasks on the list because they’re going to get done before your internal alarm lets you know you’ve done enough for the day.

If you work for someone else, clock out after your tasks are complete or ride out the rest of your day on autopilot.

You do not shy away from opportunities.

You’re more inclined to take them. You’re already dressed for the part. And that’s not to say that fabric makes you more deserving. No. Effort does. And, that’s the entire point of this post.

Opportunities you would’ve turned down or not even inquired about automatically become yours when you pull yourself together by the threads of your garment.

Other discoveries worth mentioning:

• Your energy improves as the day continues.

• Your light shines brighter.

• You have an automatic icebreaker/conversation starter. (I love that blazer. Where’d you get that from?)

• There’s a high chance you’re going to meet your next best friend/associate/pal.

• It’s tiring but worth the effort.

• You begin to build an incredible wardrobe.

• More people are inclined to include your opinion, thoughts, and suggestions.

• You smile more.

• Compliments are plentiful.

• You make more connections.

• Your sense of pride is undeniable.

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It’s Friday. Don’t wait until Monday to start. And, don’t avoid starting because it’s the weekend.

Get dressed.

Get DRESSED.

Get up and get dressed.

xo,

grey

My kid had done a great job. It was only right, because we’d studied so hard and practiced enough times that we both felt confident in their abilities. But as I sat with the paper between my fingers, there was an ache so deep in my heart I thought I’d need a medic. I rubbed away the pain as I realized what had just happened.

Time had just punched me in the chest.

And, frankly, it wasn’t a cheap shot. It ran off so fast, as it usually does, that I was left wondering… where’d it go?

Seriously, where’d it go?

This moment reminded me of how fast everything around us is moving. Just yesterday, my child was against my chest, mouth on my breast, drinking pure liquid gold. They were just trying to find their footing, placing one hard-bottom in front of the other. They just mumbled the word ‘Mama’ and I went insane. They literally just— learned not to poop on themselves. Or stick things in the socket. Or how to eat with a spoon. A fork.

My God.

Where’d it go?

The question circulated in my head long after we’d ventured home, eaten dinner, and bathed before heading off to bed. And, it wasn’t until I opened my Substack that I decided to write a note letting everyone who this post could possibly reach know how to avoid the haymaker time hit me with as I held that test in my hand.

Years feel like months.

Months feel like weeks.

Weeks feel like days.

Days feel like hours.

Hours feel like minutes.

Minutes feel like seconds.

And, seconds don’t seem to exist.

In the digital age we’re in, everything feels like a blur. We’re hardly experiencing anything, yet life is still happening.

Work consumes us to the point of exhaustion.

Social media steals hours of our precious time.

Weekends are more about resting than resetting, because there’s hardly enough time to do both.

Cable is becoming a thing of the past. There’s no more waiting for episodes. They are putting full seasons up at once.

The children are glued to their screens and growing at a rabbit’s pace while watching the lives of others play out in front of them.

Every moment must be captured on camera.

Everything is increasing in price, which means more work. More hours. Less rest. Hardly any time to stop and smell the roses in the garden where you planted seeds.

So, how do you catch your breath?

Visit a thrift store instead of the mall or an outlet.

Thrifting requires you to slow down. Pay attention. Feel the fabrics. Pick through the threads. Sift through the glassware. Wonder about the pieces and their stories. Explore new treasures that became someone’s trash. Discover diamonds in the rough.

Create a new playlist.

Take the time to curate something that melts your heart. It doesn’t matter the genre of music or the style of it. As long as it makes your body happy, then add it to your playlist. Each time you push play, time will somehow halt.

Go inside the ‘fast food’ restaurant or grab a spot in the parking lot.

Don’t speed out of the lot, down the road, and to a red light, hoping it lasts long enough for you to open your sauce. Take a moment to step inside. Grab a table and enjoy your meal. It looks much better on the table than spilled all over your lap. If going inside doesn’t interest you, take a moment to park. Eat your food and play your music. Fast food doesn’t have to feel fast or rushed or like anxiety or stressful.

Pull the digitals from your phone + print them.

Memory books that become bright and colorful stories through images are becoming a lost art. Create a new folder in your Photo album. Dump all the pictures you’d like to share with future generations into that folder. Visit a printer and have the images printed. Take your time and write dates, times, or small messages on the back of the images. Stuff them in the clear pouches and repeat the same steps every quarter.

Pick up a magazine.

I’m sure it’s been forever. Grab one. Flip through the pages and read up on what’s going on in the world. Or, flip to the back and find a crossword, word search, or something to keep your brain occupied and your fingers from scrolling. Sample a perfume. Check out the gift guide.

Keep a book in the bathroom (leave your phone in the bedroom).

If you want to get through a book or get back into reading, keep a book in the bathroom. Swap it for screentime! Open the book each time you sit down.

Number 1: One page.

Number 2: At least two pages.

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Bake something sweet.

Saturdays and Sundays are the sweet spot for baking. Weekdays are full enough already. Decide on a dish by Friday night. Have your ingredients by Saturday morning. And, choose a delicate, scheduled time to bake something sweet that you’re certain you will enjoy. Baking is a task that requires your entire heart. You can taste it in whatever it is you’re making. It forces you to slow down, pay close attention, and use your critical thinking skills. Baking feels so outerbody; it should be studied.

Search for historical events/facts that are related to your birthday or birth year.

Educate yourself. Discovery is a gentle reminder that your time hasn’t been wasted. Reading and writing and scribing things in your memory somehow feels like the cure to slowing the speed on life’s treadmill. It forces us to sit with our thoughts, our curiosities, and get lost in the diminishing artistry of self-education. It’s the best rabbit hole to find yourself in.

Hand sew.

Something small. Something meaningful. Something to remember. Gifts sewn by hand are some of the most meaningful gifts to have and to give. Begin building your gift trunk for birthdays, graduations, holidays, etc.

Or, begin filling your home with hand-sewn pieces that halt everything around you at the sight of them.

• Dinner napkins

• Pillow cases

• Pillows

• Hand towels

• Aprons

• Table cloths

• Hot pads

• Decorative towels

And more things that won’t take more than an hour or two for construction. Not only will you feel a sense of pride when they’re in use, but you will remember just how deep and refreshing each breath was when you were creating them.

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Other ways to catch your breath not mentioned above:

• Have a picnic in the park

• Choose a day to do NOTHING

• Carve out time in your schedule to create (color, draw, write, etc)

• Have a cup of tea

• Find a spot in the closet, take time to gather yourself

• Watch your favorite television show (no need to binge. one episode a night can become the ritual you never knew you needed)

• Volunteer at an elderly home

• Take a walk

autumn is a look inside your soul. a search within yourself. a scavenger hunt for your heart. a breeding ground for your anxiety. a challenge for your sanity. a song for your hardships.

september is the city of loss.

october is the realm of discomfort.

november is the foundation for newfound and buried feelings.

december is the birthday and the funeral.

fall stretches you thin while simultaneously adding layers to withstand the turbulence it brings. it’s the most beautiful death you’ll ever witness. so much of you will die. but, so much of you will be born. i, wholeheartedly, believe that fall is the most pivotal season of the year for everyone.

it’s transformative.

it’s awakening.

it’s humbling.

it’s calm.

it’s quiet.

it’s a revelation in itself.

the quietness of fall forces you to dig deep within and discover who you are and who you want to become. it reminds you of the things you said you’d do and the goals you made when the ground was cold and the wind was stiff.

it taps you on your shoulder and tells you that you’ve yet to reach those milestones and that time isn’t quite up. it asks you to be sure you want to take certain parts of your life with you into a new year. it forces you to tally the times people in your life had you fucked up this year to make sure they’re still on the list of people you’re bringing into another year. it demands a look at your finances and bad spending habits. it pushes for a total overhaul of your wardrobe, contacts, junk drawers, social media, and all the other things that need a deep clean.

my God, is it taxing.

and…

november…

november is when you will feel it all.

every bit of everything.

here’s how we’re handling it.

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listening to wordless music.

there’s enough going on in our heads already. so many words. so many thoughts. so many scenarios. so many things. the last thing we need is more words. more things to keep track of. more mysteries to solve. listening to music without words, preferably soft music, is like a delicate hug. a way to quiet the noise but fill the silence. it’s relaxing. soothing. calming. it reduces stress and relieves a bit of that heaviness in your chest.

meditating.

it doesn’t have to be for long. five minutes a day will keep your head on straight. align your body and mind by taking a second to tap into them both. choose the same time daily… find an app or meditation video you love… and have at it.

meditation has so many benefits for our mental and emotional health. it even improves our ability to focus when overwhelmed or under stress. meditation is also linked to reducing depression.

limiting our time on social media

i’m not one to be on social media often, but i know the entire world is. in a month as sensitive as november, i’m not opposed to a social cleanse altogether. but, for those who don’t want to go that route, how about we limit scrolling? how about putting a limit on your screentime?

seeing the ‘perfection’ on screen during a time when every part of you is experiencing extreme sensitivity is harsh. for you. your heart, your body, your mind, and your emotions. don’t harm yourself with aimless scrolling. put the phone down.

candle-lit baths.

one of the many little luxuries that make me feel good after only the first candle is lit…

i’m not sure what it is about bathing and darkness and candles that is so freeing, but we’re doing more of that this november. pair it with the next coping mechanism and possibly the first—and BAM. november and her emotions hardly stands a chance.

reading.

we’re reading this november. i’m not talking long, drawn-out books that feels like yet another task. i’m talking short, quick reads that can make you feel better soon.

a few books to start your november—sensitivity, muse, my person, as we learn, just wanna mean the most to you, maid fohr love, unhand me, peace & quiet, whose love story is it anyway, and the list goes on.

i am working on a list of books for the lover girls in november. stay tuned.

ending calls sooner.

there’s nothing that hits you harder than feeling like you’ve overshared after the sharing has ended. or feeding into an emotional trap. or sitting in your emotions much longer than necessary. or saying things you didn’t mean. or wishing you could take words back.

one thing i’ve learned is to not take calls or make calls when i am in a rut. it has never ended well for me. i’ve hardly ever ended up feeling better about the things i felt bad about before taking or making the call. it’s hard to when you’re in the feeling.

ending calls sooner, not taking them, or not making any until you’re truly ready will save you more sadness and unnecessary heaviness. if no other time of the year, choose this time to sit with those feelings and work through them before picking up the phone (unless you’re considering harming yourself or someone else. please reach out.).

quick replies for missed calls will set boundaries for your emotions that you’ll thank yourself for later.

hey, i’ll call you tomorrow.

i’m not taking calls at the moment.

i’ll return your call later this week.

now is not a good time.

or simply silencing your phone.

stepping outside to catch some fresh air.

this is the most underrated (and free) coping mechanism i’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. it has never failed anyone i’ve ever discussed it with. stepping outside into the fresh air to clear your heart and free your mind is undefeated. it opens up your airways, urging your to breathe and to release and to let go of anything that’s holding your thoughts captive.

watching movies that feel nostalgic.

okay, tossing this one in somewhere felt necessary. there are some movies that just does it for me. i hardly turn the television on. the occasion is incredibly rare. but, if it happens to be november and the screen is lit up, it’s usually because i need to feel the way the movie i’m watching made me feel the first time i saw it.

no additional commitments.

don’t say you will do it. don’t volunteer to do it. don’t try to make it. don’t say you’ll be there. don’t commit to anything that isn’t required of you in november. use your free time to rest and prepare for the reset december offers.

journaling.

it doesn’t have to be a full page. it doesn’t have to be a half page. it can be a few sentences. it can be one sentence. write it down. make it known that your feelings are real. they’re facts. so the work can begin within to dissolve them.

dancing.

have you ever tried moving your body to release your inhibitions? slow, uncalculated movements that have no sense of urgency or direction? because you’re not telling your body what to do or how to move. your heart is. your troubles are discovering their escape route and getting closer with each move you make.

try it.

it doesn’t matter how silly it looks or how silly it feels at first. it’s liberating. it’s altering. it’s pivotal. it brings about change.

exercising for at least 15 minutes a day.

move around. it doesn’t have to be extensive, but get your body moving. meditation, dancing, and stepping out for fresh air often have similar results to exercising under stress. however, with exercising, you are contributing a little more to your physical health, which make some feel a bit better about everything, including/especially themselves.

making small goals.

the cheat code to overcoming the november blues is tapping into instant gratification. we’re not going grand. we’re keeping it small and we’re remaining victorious. because those small wins will be the hit of dopamine we need to stay afloat.

so, let’s do this instead of that.

plan to work out 15 minutes a day instead of 60 minutes a day.

cooking dinner four times this week instead of seven.

clearing twenty emails instead of one hundred.

returning one call this week instead of all three.

sending four important emails instead of ten.

losing two pounds this week instead of four.

the list goes on.

encouraging ourselves daily.

you have to. if you want to survive november’s emotional torture, you must tell yourself you can and will. otherwise, she will drag you into december with a broken heart, head, and soul.

buy a sticky pad. write down 10-20 affirmations. stick them in places you frequent.

• the car.

• the bathroom.

• the closet.

• the vanity mirror.

• the kitchen fridge.

• the pantry.

• the bedside table.

• the doors.

• the hallway

leave no room for doubt, or november will do you dirty.

cry.

don’t hold it in. don’t toughen it out. don’t shove it down. i’ve learned that crying is the cousin of growth. change. alterations. if the tears are present, something is shifting. not even a home’s foundation stays the same when water is involved. neither will you. you’ll shift, too.

don’t be afraid to let the tears fall. anyone knows a good cry will lead to good sleep and you won’t wake up the same person.

giving ourselves grace.

lastly, we’re giving ourselves grace, and we’re starting with our hands around us. squeezing. the world is harsh enough. we have to give grace when needed. if no other month of the year, november is the one.

it’s okay the laundry is piling. you’ll get to it.

it’s okay your car needs cleaned. you’ll get to it.

it’s okay you haven’t had the energy to cook every day. you still ate.

it’s okay you missed a day at the gym. you’ll be there tomorrow.

it’s okay.

daylight savings is beating our asses with a brick already. don’t join the fight.

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edit: november already told me my edits were perfect but i’ve found six mistakes since publishing. i really do not trust this woman.