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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Share

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Share

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Share

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.

Subscribe now

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

I’ve already put it in my book; weekends are for Substack writing. Sundays, especially.

Admittedly, it feels incredible to write leisurely. I am a national best-selling author with a plan so strategic and specific that I hardly have time to think about play projects or fun projects or writing non-fiction pieces that will provoke thought and change.

However, my little Substack did. Almost 3,000 people have come across the first issue in this series. If I was to say that didn’t stir some goodness in my soul, then I’d be lying.

See, because here’s the thing…

I’m a sucker for womanhood. I live and breathe the evolution of the woman. It doesn’t matter where she is in her journey, I always think there is room for women to grow—and it doesn’t matter the pace. So, I’ve written book after book after book, hoping my fictional stories depict the true passion I have for the growth of women. When I started my Substack, I knew what my main topic would be and why. It was never a question.

• Girlhood.

• Softness.

• Sex.

• Stillness.

• Seasons.

• Love.

• Fiction.

• Femininity.

• Change.

• Slowness.

It all boils down to one thing. It all surrounds one type of person. The woman.

To the women reading this post.

1. Thank you for returning. I appreciate you so much.

2. The person you’re striving to become is on her way.

3. Growth is growth. Whether fast or slow.

4. This Substack is dedicated to you.

5. Share these posts with someone you love.

6. Things will get better.

Share

Okay, now… for the rulebook.

Never be too quick to turn down assistance.

Feminine women do not pretend to know it all, do it all, see it all, or have it all. In fact, feminine women will appear to have everything and nothing simultaneously. Why? Because she has never been too quick to turn down assistance, in platonic or romantic relationships. But, especially in romantic relationships.

I don’t have the exact words, but my mother has always told me to be needy even if you aren’t when it comes to men. If they think for a second you have it handled, that will be the moment you lose your right to femininity in your relationship.

I have found this to be true. I am not saying that you must turn into a totally dependent person, but I am saying watch what you are quick to take on or tackle in a man’s presence, and when he is away. Your job isn’t to do everything by yourself. It doesn’t matter how much free time you have on your hands or how strong you are.

When you show your strength, you will have to use it for the rest of your life. Platonically and romantically.

If your mother wants to help you with laundry this week… let her.

If your man wants to take you to the eye doctor for new glasses this week… let him.

If your best friend wants to get the children while you take a nap… let her.

If your man wants to buy dinner so you don’t have to cook tonight… let him.

Remove statements like these from your vocabulary:

No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.

Oh, I can handle it.

I can take care of it.

Don’t worry, I’ll get to it.

Let somebody else handle it if you can!

The feminine woman leaves her plate as empty as possible because she knows that with free time comes rest. And, rest is a requirement for femininity.

Add value to conversations.

A feminine woman understands the importance of value. If she has nothing to add to a conversation, she doesn’t join. Instead, she listens and waits for the opportunity to insert herself or be called upon when topics she is well-versed in arise.

She is not quick to jump into chatter just to be heard or seen. In fact, she’d rather not be either. Again, femininity is loud and obnoxious itself. She doesn’t have to say a word.

One way feminine women are making sure they are bringing value to conversations is by continuing their education. Not all feminine women have a college degree or any certifications. However, they are learners and continue to educate themselves every chance they get.

They are hungry for knowledge. It doesn’t matter if it’s the precise moment to remove your browned butter from the stove for the homemade chocolate chip cookie recipe everyone would love. Or, if it’s the condition of the stock market. Or, the best home remedy for a bee sting. Or, if it’s the book of the Bible that mentions adultery at great length. Or, if it’s details on the best wedding venues in the city.

Basically, it doesn’t have to be ABCs. Feminine women have a wide palette when it comes to knowledge. There’s hardly any telling what they truly know or how helpful they can truly be.

Share

Create a nighttime ritual that makes your mornings smoother/easier.

Ritual. That part is important.

One thing I’ve noticed about the woman in survival mode versus the woman living in her ultra-feminine era (that lasts a lifetime) is the preparation. Feminine women don’t think about the time it takes to make their lives easier. They don’t.

It doesn’t matter if rolling their hair at night takes an hour. They understand the consequences and that their arms will be tired. But, gosh… they also understand how long it takes curls to set and how much volume those curls will have. They are also aware of how incredible their results will be.

One thing to note: They aren’t doing it for others. They’re doing it for themselves.

A feminine woman doesn’t mind taking twenty minutes to complete their eight-step skincare ritual or their ten-step shower ritual or their four-step moisturizing ritual.

The feminine woman is about results. And time is a non-factor in their eyes. Because time doesn’t exist when it comes to their rituals. It only exists when they’re in routine.

They carve out time for preparation and will not bend or break when it comes to it. Not because of anything or anyone but themselves. Breaking rituals for her is worse than breaking a promise to herself.

Because that’s what rituals are to her.

Promises to take care of her.

Promises to show her love.

Promises to take a moment for herself.

Promises to always remember her.

Promises to be there.

Promises to meet in the same place at the same time to catch up.

Be kind.

Feminine women are NOT mean girls. Until this day, I consider the mean girl trait a trauma response or a character flaw. Feminine women understand it takes too much energy to be anything but kind and pleasant more often than not.

By no means am I saying feminine women are pushovers. Nope.

What I’m saying is that feminine women do not sink to the level of most. They require them to elevate and reach the level they are currently on. It goes back to this point I made in the last set of rules…

And, believe it or not, she makes others want to speak better, speak up, act better, or simply have some tact. Her body language and secretly sensual nature naturally make others want to impress her with their ability to be as refined, radiant, and ravishing as her.

She’s the originator of influence. The OG influencer.

Feminine women radiate kindness. I mean, you can hear it and feel it and see if from so far away. It’s infectious and rare and alluring. And, it’s hardly an act.

Because, honestly, the truly feminine women do not have it in them to keep up a facade for as long as their kindness lasts.

Never beg.

Begging is beneath the feminine woman; asking is not. A feminine woman knows what she’s entitled to, and asking for it usually doesn’t happen. Mainly because just like a feminine woman knows what she’s entitled to, so does everyone around her.

And, they are happy to give it to her. Oftentimes, it’s more. In the event that she is not given what she rightfully deserves, then she will live without it.

I will not be explaining.

Look good, even when no one is looking.

Femininity doesn’t come to a halt when you don’t have a crowd to witness it. It’s a twenty-four-hour commitment.

At home.

At work.

At the salon.

At the nail appointment.

At the doctor’s.

At the children’s school.

At the gym.

At the DMV.

At the grocery store.

At the park.

If there’s no other type of woman I can spot anywhere, it’s a feminine woman. She’s just different. She’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Everything about her makes you wonder or smile or aspire or consider or recommit to your own goals.

She’s a walking billboard for commitment, loyalty, and dedication to self. She’s the poster girl for what could happen if you focused on yourself for a few minutes out of the day.

She’s not choosing sweats every day. She’s trading them for tailored pants. She’s not in sneakers every time you see her. In fact, the only sneakers she owns are for running, walking, or the gym. She’s in slingbacks, mules, loafers, flats, or boots.

She is not wearing a bonnet outside of her home. Garments worn inside her personal quarters are off limits for outside, public places, or government buildings.

She’s not only tidy outside of her home… She’s a kempt woman inside, behind closed doors, too.

She loves:

• Silk gowns

• Robes

• Satin pillow cases

• Flexi rods

• Fuzzy socks

• Pajama sets

• House shoes

• Silk hair ties

• Rollers

• Bonnets

• Headbands

• And her nightly readers (glasses)

Don’t diet. Change your eating habits completely.

The feminine woman is hardly dieting but forever altering her lifestyle to match her fitness/health goals.

The feminine woman is not complaining to others the second a compliment about her rolls from their tongue. Her security is set.

“You look amazing in that dress.”

“Oh, girl, I’m trying to lose a little of this weight to look even better.”

She allows compliments.

Makes changes. Silently.

The feminine woman understands that an overall purge of habits that no longer reflect her goals is far more effective than any diet. Because diets get old fast. The change of lifestyle is a pivot that will become background noise after your body and mind adjust. It becomes part of who you are instead of what you’re doing for the moment.

Well, that was quick. We’re already at 1,600+ words, and 1,500 was my maximum. That’s it for now. This series will continue. There are so many more points to be made. If you haven’t already, please share with a friend. Until next time, girls…

xo,

grey

What about the girls who want a good night’s rest, too?

If you haven’t already figured it out, I’m a sucker for my kind. Women. Black women, especially. And, knowing that some struggle to keep their eyes closed because the weight of everything is far too heavy.

There was a time in my life when my eyeballs were glued to the ceiling at UNGODLY hours. I flipped from side to side countless times. The volume of my thoughts was so loud I heard nothing else. And, my emotions were so high that tears drenched the mattress beneath me.

The truth is, hardships don’t have a tax bracket. A type. A name. A demographic. A preference. Neither does stress. Anxiety. Or weariness.

I know you get weary. I know your heart aches from uncertainty. I know your mind wanders to places you wish it would return from. I know you’re tired. And, I know a good night’s rest won’t save you from life, but it will help you fight the battles of life a bit more rested, energized, and prepared.

So, this one is to you.

I have thirty minutes before lights out, so I pray this post finds you and the words resonate. Here are some things I’ve done in moments I’ve felt like things were falling apart when truly they were just falling together.

Verbally release all that’s holding onto you.

Maybe through affirmations. Maybe through prayer. Maybe through denouncing. Maybe through meditation. Maybe through song.

Add L-Theanine to your nightly routine.

It’s natural and beneficial for those struggling to collect themselves and their thoughts. It’s known to help with rest, relaxation, and relief.

Take a dark shower.

No direct light. A candle works. Release your eyes from the stress that continuous light causes. And, while you’re at it… Close your eyes. Scream if you need to. Cry if you need to. Hug yourself if you need to. Let it all come down.

Settle in the bath after a shower.

Bubbles if you have them. Keep that candle going. Take a second to pause. To breathe. To acknowledge where you are in the moment. Declutter your headspace.

Have a cup of tea.

Specifically, something with lavender, chamomile, passionflower, and valerian root. Your body will naturally begin to enter rest mode.

Calm your body.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Reflect on a time you felt your best to remind yourself of what goodness feels and looks like for you. Stay in that moment for as long as you can.

Lotion your body —from head to toe.

Moisturizers that have magnesium inside of them work wonders. So do moisturizers with melatonin or lavender or chamomile. Don’t rush this process. Truly feel your skin. Your pressure points. The places you’re tense. Massage away the knots and smooth out the kinks as best you can.

Put on something comfortable.

Something comforting. Whether it is your favorite t-shirt. Your grandmother’s robe. Your silk sleep dress. Or nothing at all. Whatever makes you feel best, wear it.

White noises, nature sounds, sleep sounds, or soft tunes.

These sounds are important. They help you tune out the thoughts and worries circulating in your head… keeping you awake. They were created to induce sleep and promote relaxation. They reduce anxiety and significantly improve the quality of sleep.

Silence notifications.

Schedule your focus mode so your notifications are automatically silenced each night. Most things can’t wait til the next day.

Avoid scrolling.

Don’t fall into the vicious cycle of scrolling. It’s daunting. It’s pure doom. And, sleep will find you much later if you fall into the trap social media has sat before us. Program your apps to lock after a certain hour. Because, at some point of the day you have to tune the world and their millions of opinions, complaints, theories, altered photos, AI images, Chat captions, and lies out. This is the perfect time.

(Optional but suggested) Masturbate.

Yes. Touch yourself if the moment permits. Your body will be forced to release all that’s holding onto you. Your climax will be the quickest transition. One minute you’re active and the next you’re jumping from your sleep because your snores happen to scare you.

Goodnight. Sleep well.

grey.

Note: This piece is unedited. My eyes are crossing, and my bedtime is here. Will republish tomorrow.

Stuck up.

Boujee.

High-style.

Picky.

Extra.

High-class.

Fancy

There were so many words used to describe these women by others. And, honestly, I secretly despised the descriptors. They all felt too much like jealousy, disguised and reworded.

Code for:

I’m not like her.

She’s not all that.

Don’t be that way.

Keep your nose down.

She’s difficult.

She spends too much time on herself and her self-care.

I can’t do my hair like that.

I don’t have those kinds of clothes in my closet.

I can’t speak the way she does.

I didn’t pay attention in class like her.

I don’t take myself as seriously as she does.

It wasn’t until adulthood that the once surmised became evidently true. I was not like the others. The ones who consider the Claire Huxtables, Whitley Marions, Denise Huxtables, Fran Fines, Joan Claytons, Toni Childs, Hilary Banks, Ashley Banks, Regine Hunters, Francesca Monroes, and Lisa Laundrys a problem instead of a display of passion.

For life.

For love.

For womanhood.

For self.

For femininity.

There. I said it.

Their ability to be and present themselves as ultra-feminine, well-put-together women was befuddling for some. For me, it was emancipating.

Joyful.

Inspiring.

Exhilarating.

Striking.

All-consuming.

I waited for their faces to grace the screen, holding my breath until I heard their voices. I was always desperate to know what they were wearing, saying, doing, and loving at the moment. They made the shows for me, whether they were a supporting or main character. Those women became my study material. My guides. Perfect subjects. Examples of the sheer beauty etched in our birthright to be wholly and unshamefully a girl. Watching them was like watching a nineties crash course on the feminine woman.

Because let’s face it.

The world (today) is such a difficult place to navigate that women are hardly able to think about thriving when survival of the fittest is the game.

Still, there are a select few who want to show up well-dressed, well-educated, well-spoken, well-versed, well-rested, and looking damn good for the wars we fight each and every day as humans. As women. As creatures.

And, though times have changed and this isn’t the nineties or a television show, you, too, can be well-dressed, well-educated, well-spoken, well-versed, well-rested, and looking damn good for the daily war.

Here are the rules.

Observe more. Say less.

Speaking too soon and too often usually separates the slovenly from the kempt woman. The difference is striking.

Femininity is loud and boisterous. Simultaneously, it is gentle and reassuring. Charming and hearty. Comforting and quiet.

It speaks volumes. It doesn’t require words, especially not at an alarming rate. The most feminine women in the room are observing, taking note, savoring moments, wondering if she chose the perfect fragrance for the occasion, analyzing the room, remembering to say hello to the newlyweds, sipping champagne, and saving her energy for the strict nightly ritual she has strategically designed for herself.

It is the main reason why when a feminine woman speaks, almost everyone stops to listen. They wait patiently for every word to fall from her perfectly lined lips. Anticipation seeps from their pores as they began to settle in the fact that they’re going to be listening for as long as it takes her to conclude.

Femininity is silent structure. The feminine woman is a direct order, herself. She commands attention without asking or begging. She quietly beckons for eyes and ears. She commands the moment. She demands the floor for as long as it takes for her to add value to the conversation.

And, believe it or not, she makes others want to speak better, speak up, act better, or simply have some tact. Her body language and secretly sensual nature naturally make others want to impress her with their ability to be as refined, radiant, and ravishing as her.

She’s the originator of influence. The OG influencer.

Study proper etiquette.

Spines straight.

Elbows off the table.

Chin up.

Proper utensils.

Legs crossed.

Feminine women reserve every moment for a chance to practice proper etiquette. No moment is too small or too private. The only exception might be when they are on their knees and their partner’s pole is in their mouths, but I imagine they’re still using sir, please, and thank you.

The videos on proper etiquette are plentiful. So are the books. Pick up one!

Feminine women are able to move so gracefully and notably different from others because they’ve studied the material. They’ve woven their findings into their daily lives. And, so, it doesn’t feel performative. It feels natural because it always was. They just needed a match to light the wood they’d already prepared.

Remember names.

I can’t stress how important it is to remember the names of the people you meet. Even if that means jotting them down in a small notebook with short descriptions that you can revisit later.

Remembering names can be pivotal. And, the feminine women are cognizant of the fact. Not only does it make the person they’re in conversation with feel special enough to have been remembered, but it’s the start of new connections.

Bridge building. That’s what it translates to. It doesn’t matter if it’s the guy at the grocery store, the parent at gymnastics, the mail carrier, the guy at the front desk, the concierge, the old lady across the street, the barista, the man who’s always running when you leave out for work, or the mother of the tallest kid in your child’s class.

Remembering someone’s name has been the ice breaker for so many meaningful connections.

“Good to see you again, James.”

“Good to see you again, too, Sonya. I was just telling my wife, Hazel, there’s a former gymnast at the coffee shop I love so much.”

“Hi, Hazel, I’m Sonya.”

“James mentioned you. I know you’re semi-retired, but our granddaughter is trying for the gymnastics team next year. I was wondering if you’re up for offering private lessons two or three times a month.”

“Of course. I’ve been posting about my private lessons for a full week now with no promising leads. It’s perfect timing.”

“Well, now you have one.”

It’s simple. It’s kind. It’s a small gesture to make someone feel better about life for the moment while simultaneously serving as a stepping stone to new connections, experiences, and opportunities.

Develop rituals, not more routines.

When it comes to femininity, almost nothing is a routine. It’s a ritual. 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.

Share

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.

Maintain your discipline.

Feminine women are disciplined women, though the softness of their appearance might say otherwise.

How do you think their hair is always perfect?

And their makeup?

And their clothes?

And their skin?

And their words?

And their nails?

And their bodies?

Discipline is key to femininity. Even when they don’t want to, they do. Even when it’s easier not to, they do. Even when they’re tired… overwhelmed… unsure… they do. And, they do it well.

Feminine women hardly look like what’s happening, not in their heads or their lives. They are the epitome of not looking like what you’ve been through or going through.

Laziness is a disease to them, and they avoid it like the plague. They have time, energy, and effort. When they don’t, they make it.

A feminine woman’s discipline and dedication can easily be compared to the discipline of a soldier. It’s just softer. Quieter. Calmer. Slower. It’s feminine.

Speaking of discipline, I’m exercising mine. Ugh. It sucks because I could go on forever. I will. Just not here. Not now.

This series will continue with more rules in the book. However, we’ve reached over 1,500 words with this post, and my plan wasn’t to keep you here this long. Part two is pending. Stay tuned.

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.

Maid Fohr Love was born out of sheer uncertainty and the fear of the unknown. The reference became too tough for me, so I shelved the book. I was going through the actual crisis while trying to sweeten it. That wasn’t working.

People were dying. Everything had closed. The market was crashing. Nurses were fighting for their lives. Hospitals were full to the brim. People’s ears were peeling from masks. Mothers were birthing babies alone. And, the list continues.

At the beginning of the year, I finally started to get over the madness of COVID. The first project I picked up was Maid Fohr Love. I reworked the outline and tweaked a few story details. When I started penning, my fingers wouldn’t stop.

What I was left with was an undeniable, incredibly beautiful display of love. This book summarizes what it feels like to be adored. Enamored. Considered. Admired. No matter the circumstances.

It puts into words what happens when a man is utterly obsessed with you—in the healthiest way.

While I had so many favorite parts, I’ve chosen one to share with you.

Note: Fohr is mine for the keeping.

Maid Fohr Love - read here.

Draped in a rust-colored two-piece that complemented her orange undertones, Kit waltzed past me as if she didn’t understand the magnitude of her presence and how effective it was on me. Without a care in the world, she disarmed me. Uprooted me. Displaced every feeling I’d ever felt in my entire life and made me wonder if there’d ever been one greater than encountering her.

Nah. I admitted as my lips parted to speak.

Letting her walk away unscathed was not on that list of things to do that I was toying with moments prior. Though she was walking at a somewhat normal rate, it felt like she was moving at a snail’s pace and as swift as a bunny simultaneously. I was unsure of when or how soon I’d lose sight of her.

“Kit–” I called behind her, stopping her in her tracks.

She didn’t move another inch. My voice commanded her attention. Proudly, I stiffened my chest. There wasn’t a ball I’d knocked out of the park or a deal I’d signed that made me feel more accomplished. More successful. More purposeful. Though hard to explain, I didn’t care to explain what was happening inside of me since meeting Kit.

I awaited those orbs I was growing to love seeing as much as I did the rising of the sun each day. She was in no hurry. She never was. On her time and only when she was ready did she turn around. Her shoulders, which had rounded upon hearing her name roll off my tongue, squared as she stood tall.

“Yes, Mr. McClarren.”

Slightly offended by her distinction of our personal and professional relationship, I sniggered.

The things I want to do to you, Ms. Delucca, are far from professional. Everything about that shit is personal.

I allowed my invasive thoughts to linger a few seconds before ignoring Kit’s angle altogether. Instead, I redirected the conversation to the place it was meant to be from the start.

“Your beauty is staggering,” I claimed, “You look– stunning this evening.”

The words settled in as she stared back at me. There was magic in those eyes. A glimpse of pain, but not very much. Everything about Kit told me she was loved well, raised well, taught well, fed well, and courted well at some point or another.

Her sureness told me so. Her confidence told me so. Everything down to her moisturized skin told me so. Kit was to be held to a higher regard than most women. I didn’t make the rule. She did. Her presence did. I was simply meant to abide by it.

“Thank you.”

Her back was visible far too soon. Although I had nothing more to say, I wasn’t quite ready to watch her walk away.

“And, Kit,” I belted, unable to control my impulses.

She stopped again, turning slowly. “Yes?”

“Let that be the last time you call me by my father’s name. It’s Fohr, sweet baby.”

This time, I took off in the opposite direction. I couldn’t bear the thought of watching her leave, again, so I did so myself.

My teeth crashed into each other as I ground them against one another in an attempt to control my limbs. Kit’s magnetism was far too powerful. I had no desire to fight it, but for her sake, it was best.

(scene break)

Every step I made was announced by the polyester used to construct the shorts I’d selected. I descended the staircase with the clear glass in my hand. It was my second time down them in the last few minutes and I was hoping it was my last for a while. The two-story closet seemed like a perfect idea until you couldn’t recall where your things were stored because you didn’t visit your home enough to remember.

The fight I began the second I left Kit in the hallway with her pretty brown skin on full display was useless. So was the list of tasks that served as a temporary distraction. Getting her out of my head proved to be the more difficult task.

I exited my bedroom, conquered the required square footage to reach the sliding doors that extended from one end of the house to the other, and stepped out into the massive backyard of my home. Even with all the land surrounding me, shrinking me in size, there was an incredibly large presence just feet away from me.

The heated jacuzzi hardened her nipples through the top of her swimsuit. A wine glass rested at the tip of her fingers. Her eyes were trained on me. Centrally.

Down boy. I chastised my growing erection. I’d managed to settle Kit’s soul while in close proximity. The last thing I wanted to do was give her a new reason to run in the opposite direction every time I entered a room she didn’t have to be in for the moment.

I was appreciative of the water’s temperature as I lowered my body into the circular structure. Kit observed with curiosity and concern dancing in those irises of hers. Once inside, I didn’t settle.

The journey to her end of the water began. Her chest swelled with air.

“Am I interrupting your free time?” I asked, closing the gap between us without haste.

I was in no hurry to lose control of my limbs, lips, and listening ears. Because, that’s what would happen if I moved any swifter. Instead, I took my time. Held her gaze. And silently assured her that she had little reason to worry.

“I asked you a question,” I reminded her.

Her head swung from one side to the other. There was nothing between us, now, except two inches of bubbling water that fizzled against our skin. She smelled like honey today.

Different.

It was a pleasant, subtle scent that paired well with her pH. Her chest rose higher. Her eyelashes batted, displaying the perfect natural curl at the center of them. They framed her eyes so well.

I’d reached her and she had still forgotten to breathe. Before I lost her permanently, I tipped her chin upward. Finally in contact with her frame again, I was hit with an electric current that made the hair on my back stand.

She’s exhilarating.

Her boredom was tantalizing. It was exciting. It was so damn cute. And, fitting. And, interesting.

“Breathe, Kit.”

For a woman with a sharp memory, her actions were questionable. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember the most important action known to humankind.

She nodded. “Ye– yes.”

Softly, the words fell from her lips.

“Right.”

Her chest deflated as her tongue exited her mouth to wet her lips.

I could’ve done you that favor.

The way I wanted to care for Kit, on levels I didn’t understand myself, was driving me up the fucking wall. The fact that I was forced to take my time and lean into the idea of having her in my world when this was all over should’ve been doing the same, but it wasn’t.

Strangely, it was giving me the opportunity to carefully craft the demise of her burdens, barriers, and boundaries the actions of another nigga had caused her to adopt. Whether she understood it or not, I’d claimed her as my own and would do anything to have her. Even if not now, someday, and that day would have to be sooner than later.

“Are you comfortable?”

Soundlessly, she nodded. I accepted her response for what it was. The truth.

I stepped closer, not stopping until our bodies touched.

“Still comfortable?”

She nodded.

“Good.”

I placed my glass on the concrete behind her. When I hoisted her up and into my arms, a gasp seeped through her lips. Naturally, her legs wrapped around me, encasing me in her frame.

Right here. I was exactly where I wanted to be. Not for a brief second but for many moons.

“And, now.”

A lustful haze clouded her orbs.

“Yesss,” she mumbled.

“Go on a date with me, Kit.”

“We’re stuck inside,” she stated, leaning into me to hide her flushed cheeks and dewy skin.

I shrugged. “Which will only fuel my creativity. I don’t need excuses, sweet baby. I need answers.”

“I love my job, Fohr–”

My name falling off her lips was icing on the cake. I wanted to push her swimsuit aside and drive my hammer up her walls. But, I remained still. I had a lifetime to fuck her body. For now, I wanted nothing more than to fuck her mind something awful. If done right, I’d have unrestricted access to her well.

“And, admittedly, I love the idea of allowing you to have your way with me, but my head and my heart are both advising me to keep things strictly professional.”

“One of them is lying to you, Kit. You’re in my arms, your legs are around my waist, and your pussy is pressed against my dick– I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but you are not keeping still. You’ve run the length of it twice since you opened your mouth. We’re past professional.”

“I am your maid.” She sighed, closing her eyes.

I placed my lips near her left ear.

“Who was made for love,” I expressed.

When I pulled back, her eyes were on mine, again.

“It seeps through your pores. Your spirit has been beckoning for me since I saw her. You’re a woman that doesn’t deserve lonesomeness, even as a form of protection. You deserve to be pampered, cared for, and loved like there’s no tomorrow. Kit, I have a feeling I can be the guy that gives that to you. And, without a doubt, I understand what it is you can give me.”

Read the rest

Share

I am Grey Huffington, Black Romance writer, emphasizing the slowness, softness, and stillness Black women desire and deserve. If you love the story you’re reading, I have a full catalog of books just like it. You can find them on Amazon or at greyhuffington.com. Sometimes my store is closed so that I can practice self-control when it comes to my artistry. If you bump into that issue, don’t worry. It’ll reopen when my impulsiveness is not so overwhelming.

Suggested Books to Start:

• Long + consuming: Luca

• Serial reading: Luca

• A feel-good novel: Jagged Edges

• An ode to women: Sensitivity

• Short + sweet: Temple

• Straight to the point: As we Learn (followed by As we Love)

• City-Romance: Syx + the City

For a full list of recommendations, visit greyhuffington.com. For the full catalog (in order), visit my Instagram feed.

Strippers are magic. They’re the fairies of womanhood.

They’re silent odes to our bodies. Examples of unrighteously heightened confidence. Spirit animals. Fantasies. Magnetic beings that nearly all the world wants to see/experience at least once in their lifetime. And, they can fly, too (kind of).

I’ve never been fond of convincing, and this article is everything but an attempt to. However, I wanted to share the evidence behind my claim.

So, here’s to the magic of the night.

note: this piece is not for comparison. it’s simply one to help you understand just how magical strippers are. while all women possess magic in my opinion, this is a different kind a magic. a rare magic. and, i want to talk about it, because, though i have my own bit of magic—it’s not that source of magic. that’s what makes them so special.

their confidence

most women can’t stand the idea of passing a mirror. they avoid their reflection at all costs because at some point they stopped being the person they believed themselves to be. while that saddens me, it reminds me of the resilience of dancers. even when the feelings are heavy and the world is too much, their confidence consumes them the second they enter the room full of patrons, prepared to spend their savings on a wild, inexplicable night with people you don’t see often in the real world. with the fairies.

their heads are high.

their shoulders are squared.

their noses are in the air.

their breasts pierce every space they enter.

their hair is laid.

their mind is made up.

their mission is clear.

their core + arm strength

when we speak of athletism, please be sure to involve the midnight ballerinas in the conversation. the ones who can climb to the top of the pole, effortlessly, as if it were running to their mailbox on an early fall evening.

i’ve taken the pole classes. i commend every woman who has decided to make a career of climbing it, because it’s not a simple task. the strength it requires isn’t mentioned enough.

in addition to climbing, they’re focused on moving their bodies, staying on beat, not falling, and putting on an unforgettable performance.

it’s as if it comes natural to them. as if they were meant to be there. as if that’s where they belong. as if that was written in their plan all along—the magic. the strength. the bravery.

their ability to move parts of their bodies that are questionable

i honestly didn’t know all of those parts could move. and so effortlessly. and so beautifully. and so strategically.

their flexibility and ability to move certain muscle groups leave me stunned track after track.

right cheek.

left cheek.

both cheeks.

clap.

thighs and legs.

heels clicking together.

on the knees, both cheeks moving.

the combinations are endless. and so are the possibilities. as i watch them in total control of those big beautiful cheeks behind them, i’m reminded of the wings of fairies. how breathtaking they are. how in control of them fairies manage to be.

their ability to perform all night

the stamina is unmatched. walking around in their fairy booties for 3-8 hours with barely any breaks and a demanding audience… they deserve a reward of some kind. maybe a record in the books.

i’ve heard so many women joke about their troubled area in the bedroom—specifically when riding the horse.

“i’ve got a good twenty seconds in me.”

“ten ups and downs and i’m getting off.”

“don’t even ask me to get on top, because i’m not.”

“i need to get in the gym on leg day.”

“i got up there and embarrassed myself.”

the narratives are endless and hilarious. quite honestly, i imagine a stripper could ride a man into the sunlight and still be on top at sundown. their legs are endless stakes that are not opposed to endless movement for the overall plot.

it’s almost as if they are the impossibles.

did i mention they fly?

if they climb high enough and the drinks are good enough, you wouldn’t be imagining it. it would be happening right before your eyes. i will not be explaining any further.

they are most active and alive at night

when the world is sleeping and unable to experience their powers.

like vampires.

and wolves.

and witches.

and ghosts.

and the rest of the world’s special creatures.

while the world is up, alert, and working… the fairies are sleeping. when night falls, they find their way to their respective posts and make magic.

their contagious spirits

i’d like to call it their fairy dust. they sprinkle it along the club floor, sure to lock everyone in their trance. all of them have it. i imagine it’s in those little pouches they carry around on their wrists.

i’ve never saw a mad man in the strip club. their too focused. too enthralled. too enamored. too consumed to speak much. do much. move much.

nobody’s worried about anything or anyone in the strip club… no one but the dancers they came to see and the money they came to spend.

the strip club nurtures a carefree, judgment-free atmosphere that many more spaces should adopt. the objective is clear. either you’re a fairy or a fan. either you’re paying or picking up the money on the floor. it’s simple and understood.

the sexual nature they exude and encourage

i’ve never left a strip club not ready to tear my man down. women leave the strip clubs with throbbing centers. men leave the strip clubs with rock-hard shafts.

i’m certain women have gotten the best sex of their lives from men who have left the strip club prior to entering their sacred walls.

i’m just as certain men have experienced fellatio in a ridiculous fashion after a night with the strippers from the pretty girl on her knees.

there’s a true, relentless yearning that follows a night in the presence of midnight ballerinas. there’s nothing like it.

the second-hand liberation.

the sex appeal.

the confidence.

the music.

the atmosphere.

the feminine energy.

it’s all so invigorating. so fulfilling. so addictive.

the way they smell & feel (good all night)

i’ve never met a midnight ballerina that didn’t smell like she bathed in silk and rinsed with chamomile. should a dancer ever have a class on feminine hygiene, i will be the first to sign up. not because i need to but because i want to know what they know.

i want to know:

how their pores aren’t overflowing with sweat after hours of performing.

what deodorants are best for their line of work.

if they use dusting powder on their bodies.

their body wash.

their preferred method of cleansing.

how they manage while on their periods.

the lotion

the body oil

all the things, because at the end of the day—we’re all just girls.

their silent yearning that makes you empty your pockets and find an ATM for more bills

there’s no need to explain, but... i want to make it rain like april showers in the presence of dancers. i never feel like i have enough ones (although i have plenty). i never feel like i’m paying enough. throwing enough. yet, they’re still grateful. still grinding. still gyrating. still pretty. still pursuing. still paid. still sprinkling their fairy dust all over me. just happy i visited their part of the world and allowed myself to experience their magic.

I sat on my bed with my computer underneath my palms, pushing out word after word after word as my bedroom door opened and closed hour after hour. It was the people of my home checking in on me, asking for assistance, or fulfilling their need to lay eyes on me.

While everyone wanted or needed something different at different points of the day, there was one thing they all had in common.

They stopped at my vintage vanity.

After my day drew to a close and long after the computer was put away, I noted something that has stuck with me since.

Vanities are NECESSARY staples in a household driven by feminine energy (or even blessed with the slightest bit of feminine presence), and goddamnit, we need them back.

Why?

Well, because—

They give silent permission to pause.

There isn’t a person who walks past my vanity that doesn’t stop and take a good look at themselves, often discovering something new about themselves.

• a new beauty mark

• a new pimple

• a new strand of gray hair

• a pending breakout

• a bit more weight

• a bit less weight

• the need for a manicure

• a new fragrance

• dry skin

• healthier skin

• something in their teeth

• how pretty an outfit is

• something—

It’s an information pool that changes every day. Because curiosity is part of human nature, we can’t help it when our body halts to see if something new is waiting in the mirror.

There’s something poetic about discovering a new version of yourself daily. It assures us that we can never be too sure about who we are because we’re always changing—inwardly and outwardly.

The world is moving too fast.

Yet, everything slows to a creep at the vanity. The rat race ends. The slowness takes precedence. And, not much else matters in the world at that moment. Everything disappears. Everything blurs. Everything goes silent.

And, it’s only you, facing that mirror and doing things to your body that makes you feel better about the day, yourself, your life, and your body.

There hasn’t been a time I’ve stood up the same person I sat down as. I’m always better in some way.

Women need a seat.

Because the world wants us on our feet a little too frequently. I wholeheartedly feel like women carry the world ON THEIR BACKS.

• We head homes.

• We populate the world.

• We raise the children.

• We care for the men.

• We build corporations.

• We support those around us.

• We take care of ourselves.

• We fight for change.

• We invent.

• We invest.

• We create.

• We keep shit together.

Our legs are as tired as our heads and our hearts. Sometimes, we need a seat. And, we need to tune it all out so we can focus on what matters most. Us.

A vanity will whisper to a woman, every chance it gets, “Come here. Sit down. Do something for yourself right now. Focus on you… even if only for a second.”

They’re small hubs that impact our personality.

Vanities remind you that you are indeed THAT girl. The best version of the woman you think you are, it tells us we’re exactly her. They’re our silent cheerleaders. Our biggest supporters. And, will ultimately become our best friends.

I love my vanity as if it were human, because it’s done much more for me than others.

It’s a constant reminder that I am a work in progress, and the boost of confidence that lies between those progress checks in the mirror is enough for me to keep going long after I meet my next marker.

They help us learn more about who we are.

The vanity is a discovery pool. It keeps us knowledgeable about who we are, what we love, and what makes our hearts smile. At the vanity is where I’ve learned a great deal of the things I know about myself as a woman.

• I prefer woodsy vanillas over fruity scents. In fact, I hate fruity scents.

• Contouring is my favorite step of makeup.

• I’m not a fan of false eyelashes. I’m a mascara girl.

• My natural hair is a huge part of my personality.

• My jewelry and perfume collections are my ultimate flex.

• I’m not myself if I don’t complete all five steps of my skincare routine.

• I like silk gowns more than t-shirts and panties at night.

• My beauty marks are darkening with time.

• I need a facial every quarter.

• My skin is driest from September until March.

• My lashes clump after the third layer of mascara.

• My ring stacks are perfect when the thumb is involved.

• I can be ready in thirty-eight minutes.

• Body powder is superior.

How’d I learn these things? By accepting the daily invitation to sit at my vanity and find out what’s happening with me.

They are little love letters to ourselves.

Telling us that we can be better. Feel better. Look better. Love (ourselves) better. I feel as though I’m writing to myself, to the future me, each time I sit at my vanity. Often, I just want her to know that:

• I see her.

• I’m striving to be her.

• She’s beautiful.

• Our time together is coming.

• I’m putting forth the effort and energy each day to become her.

• I’m a step closer to her.

That person stares at me through the mirror with pride beaming through her orbs, letting me know:

• She sees me, too.

• She’s rooting for me.

• I don’t have much longer before I am her.

• She is witnessing my progress.

• She loves the work I’m doing with myself.

They make the children inside of us happy.

Seriously, who didn’t dream of their own vanity as a little girl?

• A place where all your things could call home.

• A place where you could do the most horrible makeup and not feel anything but pride.

• A place where you could talk to yourself.

• A place where you could sing to yourself.

• A place where only your standards mattered.

• A place where you didn’t have to please anyone but yourself.

• A place where you could mimic the women you see each day.

• A place where you discovered your personal style.

• A place where all of the things your mother didn’t want anymore came to make themselves at home (brushes, makeup, lipsticks, etc).

That doesn’t change when you get older. Only you aren’t dreaming anymore. It becomes your reality, and you get to choose the details carefully and thoughtfully.

They’re odes to femininity.

This one. This is the one. With the world beating us down and life trying to keep us in fight or flight mode, femininity is being pushed to the back of our brains.

Having a safe place where all things girl go does something for your mental and emotional health.

Perfume —it’s all there.

Makeup —it’s all there.

Skincare —it’s all there.

Jewelry —it’s all there.

Hygiene —most of it is there.

Hair things —it’s all there.

Trinkets —they’re all there.

The beauty of giving your things a shared space is rewarding in inexplicable ways. It keeps you in your seat so that you’re not running around, stressing, and trying to make sense of things. Women do that enough already.

If ever asked to pick a place where I think all women would feel safer, softer, and better… I’ll always choose the vanity.

So, bring them back.

I know some women have them, but not enough of us do. When I say bring back vanities, I don’t mean for a handful of us. I mean for all of us, starting with the youth. Five, six, and seven-year-olds need their prerequisite, too.