In my happiness.

In my contentment.

In myself.

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

Ignore the calls.

Ignore the requests for my presence.

Ignore the deadlines I’ve given.

Ignore the school emails.

Ignore the volunteer opportunities for the week.

Ignore the schedule.

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

Ignore the messages.

Ignore it all.

Ignore them all.

Everything.

Everyone.

Quiet the noise so you can hear yourself.

Your thoughts.

Your desires.

Your heart.

Your urges.

You.

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

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

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

My nervous system.

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

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

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

And—

My selfishness is the only way to say sorry.

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

In my selfishness, I’ve promised to:

• listen to my music loudly

• laugh without reservation

• take long, exaggerated bubble baths

• shower with sex in the city on replay

• explore new fragrances

• buy the bag i’ve been eyeing

• add another day to my pilates schedule

• drink more water

• get massages

• soak at the spa

• lay in bed after my alarm has sounded

• explore the loungewear section of every website i visit

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

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

• have champagne

• visit my favorite restaurants

• dance alone in my room with the door locked

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

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

• use a face mask before bed 3 nights this week

• avoid my office

• lock the door of my study

• write leisurely

• keep my phone on DND

• close my computer at least 22 hours of each day

• avoid screentime

• take a seat at my vanity every day

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

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

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

I am looking forward to the solitude it demands.

The softness it offers.

The stillness it promotes.

The slowness it manages.

And the selfishness it entails.

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

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Lord, please.

Amen.

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

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

And again.

And again.

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

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

Perfection is ruining our legacy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How?

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

And that is why I am writing this Substack.

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

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

Most people want the perfect home.

The perfect life.

The perfect partner.

The perfect kitchen.

The perfect child.

The perfect closet.

The perfect body.

The perfect job.

No work.

No sweat.

No hardships.

No hassles.

No mess.

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

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

Truth is…

Yes, I want my novels written well.

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

What reality is that for a writer?

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

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

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

I want the time capsule.

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

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

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

I don’t want perfection to ruin my legacy.

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

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

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

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

That feels too much like a house.

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

xo,

grey

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Observing everything.

Thinking every thought.

Trying to make sense of things.

Finding solace in silent resolutions.

Just thinking…

And something said to me…

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

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

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

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

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

Most comforted by their sorrows.

Most comforted by their errors.

Most comforted by chaos.

Most comforted by sadness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It won’t!

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

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

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

Put away your tools…

That’ll be my constant reminder.

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

Afraid of winning.

Afraid of failing.

Afraid of flying.

Afraid of falling.

Afraid of it working out.

Afraid it’ll never work out.

Just afraid.

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

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

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

The thoughts began rolling in…

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

Their thoughtfulness.

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

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

“Can you take me to buy you a gift?”

“I want to make Dad something.”

“I made this for —.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cards.

Cakes.

Cookies.

The most beautiful set of wine glasses.

Jewelry.

Time.

Energy.

Effort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thoughtful person is never forgotten.

Your heart won’t allow it.

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

How fast they made it beat.

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

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

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

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

How much of a blessing they are.

How gentle their core is.

How genuine they are.

How they helped you heal a little more.

How they made space for you.

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

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

The nature of thoughtfulness and softness is linear.

The nature of thoughtfulness and desire beautifully co-exists.

The nature of thoughtfulness and consideration is interwined.

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

birthdays…

holidays…

special occasions…

milestones…

things mentioned in conversation…

triggers…

inventory…

colors…

preferences…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The night before…

The night before…

The night before…

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

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

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

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

My naked body was suddenly clothed with my naked truth.

The.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

Shattering.

Debilitating.

Harsh.

Unrefined.

Yet, grounding truth.

I seek refuge in my bathroom.

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

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

Because—it recenters me.

In the bathroom…

I’ve cried my thickest tears.

I’ve screamed my deepest desires.

I’ve affirmed.

I’ve fallen.

I’ve won.

I’ve been my ‘hurtest’.

I’ve been my happiest.

I’ve been my weakest.

I’ve been my strongest.

I’ve unraveled.

I’ve collected myself.

I’ve longed.

I’ve lusted.

I’ve touched myself.

I’ve exposed myself.

I’ve hidden.

I’ve shrunk.

I’ve expanded.

I’ve grown.

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

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

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

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

No exceptions.

No interruptions.

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

Because not only do they recenter me.

They restore me.

They rewire me.

They reset me.

They are my stability on shaky grounds.

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

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

I need them.

I need them badly.

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

xo, grey

Happy New Year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m kidding.

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

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

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

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

honored.

considered.

planned.

manifested.

completed.

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

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

Because, as I’ve said before—

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

Soul-stirring.

Quieting.

Slow.

Savory.

Still.

Memorable.

Peaceful.

Followed not forced.

Rituals are the bread and butter for the feminine woman.

“Sunday nights are for resetting.”

“Mondays are for pilates.”

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

“I don’t cook on Fridays. I rest.”

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

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

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

“I change my handbag every three days.”

“I have a latte by seven every morning.”

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

“I only make hair appointments for Saturdays.”

“I rotate my closet every season.”

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

“I visit nature at noon every day.”

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

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

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

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

Femininity requires the peace rituals supply.

So, that forgotten ritual that silently saves our sanity?

Getting dressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. That one. Here’s what I learned.

Your visibility increases exponentially.

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

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

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

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

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

You do not shy away from opportunities.

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

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

Other discoveries worth mentioning:

• Your energy improves as the day continues.

• Your light shines brighter.

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

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

• It’s tiring but worth the effort.

• You begin to build an incredible wardrobe.

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

• You smile more.

• Compliments are plentiful.

• You make more connections.

• Your sense of pride is undeniable.

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

Get dressed.

Get DRESSED.

Get up and get dressed.

xo,

grey

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

Time had just punched me in the chest.

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

Seriously, where’d it go?

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

My God.

Where’d it go?

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

Years feel like months.

Months feel like weeks.

Weeks feel like days.

Days feel like hours.

Hours feel like minutes.

Minutes feel like seconds.

And, seconds don’t seem to exist.

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

Work consumes us to the point of exhaustion.

Social media steals hours of our precious time.

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

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

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

Every moment must be captured on camera.

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

So, how do you catch your breath?

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

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

Create a new playlist.

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

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

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

Pull the digitals from your phone + print them.

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

Pick up a magazine.

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

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

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

Number 1: One page.

Number 2: At least two pages.

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Bake something sweet.

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

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

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

Hand sew.

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

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

• Dinner napkins

• Pillow cases

• Pillows

• Hand towels

• Aprons

• Table cloths

• Hot pads

• Decorative towels

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

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Other ways to catch your breath not mentioned above:

• Have a picnic in the park

• Choose a day to do NOTHING

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

• Have a cup of tea

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

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

• Volunteer at an elderly home

• Take a walk

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

september is the city of loss.

october is the realm of discomfort.

november is the foundation for newfound and buried feelings.

december is the birthday and the funeral.

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

it’s transformative.

it’s awakening.

it’s humbling.

it’s calm.

it’s quiet.

it’s a revelation in itself.

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

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

my God, is it taxing.

and…

november…

november is when you will feel it all.

every bit of everything.

here’s how we’re handling it.

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listening to wordless music.

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

meditating.

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

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

limiting our time on social media

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

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

candle-lit baths.

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

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

reading.

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

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

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

ending calls sooner.

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

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

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

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

hey, i’ll call you tomorrow.

i’m not taking calls at the moment.

i’ll return your call later this week.

now is not a good time.

or simply silencing your phone.

stepping outside to catch some fresh air.

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

watching movies that feel nostalgic.

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

no additional commitments.

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

journaling.

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

dancing.

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

try it.

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

exercising for at least 15 minutes a day.

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

making small goals.

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

so, let’s do this instead of that.

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

cooking dinner four times this week instead of seven.

clearing twenty emails instead of one hundred.

returning one call this week instead of all three.

sending four important emails instead of ten.

losing two pounds this week instead of four.

the list goes on.

encouraging ourselves daily.

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

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

• the car.

• the bathroom.

• the closet.

• the vanity mirror.

• the kitchen fridge.

• the pantry.

• the bedside table.

• the doors.

• the hallway

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

cry.

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

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

giving ourselves grace.

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

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

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

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

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

it’s okay.

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

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

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.

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.

Should I make my bed now or save it for later?

Flashes of entering my room later quickly answered the question for me while simultaneously reminding me how my bed isn’t much different from life.

So many times, we’ve put off the small things (or things we’ve deemed simple) that felt like an inconvenience at the moment but can very much be our saving grace down the line.

I couldn’t imagine having a difficult day and returning to an unmade bed.

I couldn’t imagine retreating to my room after an anxiety-filled day only to face my unmade bed.

The same goes for:

• Emails we need to send.

• Calls we need to make.

• Appointments we need to confirm.

• Groceries we need to pick up.

• Laundry we need to do or fold.

• Clothes we need to return.

• Bills we need to handle.

• Meetings we need to schedule.

• Projects we need to finish.

• Tasks we need to complete.

• Texts we need to send.

• Statements we need to go through.

• Services we need to cancel.

• Research we need to do.

All the small things that will take a few minutes but feel impossible to do.

I’ve learned that my comfort and convenience require a sense of urgency for tasks that I know will simplify my life.

To be honest, I deserve a worry-free, stress-free day knowing I’ve handled what needed to be handled. I’ve taken care of the small things.

Life itself is so unpredictable. The least I can do is prepare a soft place for me to land when the day is done, and it’s me against my thoughts.

So, as I tucked my sheets and smoothed my comforter with my palm, I was reminded that I am continuously doing the necessary work (the small things) that have big impacts on my mental, emotional, physical, financial, and spiritual health.

I’ve always known that I am not and never will be interested in people or things that don’t serve me at some capacity (as in if it doesn’t make me feel better or good doing it… if it’s not progressive in some way… if it does not align with my moral compass… I have no interest in it).

But this morning, I learned that I am also not interested in avoiding things that are progressive for me, whether simple or difficult.

I want to send the emails.

I want to order the groceries.

I want to schedule the appointment.

I want to call the laundry company.

I want to take care of the past due bill.

I want to plan dinner for the week.

I want to reserve the spot in pilates.

I want to do the research.

I want to finish the outline.

I want to make my bed before I leave, because if I don’t, the mess will still be there when I return.

Nothing is the same.

I am gutted and gratified simultaneously.

Disturbed and inspired at once.

So many parts of Huffington are moving right now (figuratively and literally) that I’ve suffered motion sickness for a month straight.

I’ve worn a new black dress every week, because something has died (necessarily).

I’ve been grieving the parts of business that shaped my idea of normalcy.

I’ve chosen PTA, sports, dinner nights around the table, silent evenings, random school lunch dates, afternoon naps, movie nights inside, and impromptu dance parties in front of the television over the stress of manual labor.

I feel the pain of losing people I didn’t know I ever needed in parts of my heart I didn’t know existed. The aches remind me that I am real… they are real… and what they’ve offered my piece of paradise will be missed.

I’ve decided not to sacrifice my softness for my salary. I’ve also acknowledged the fact that it is a privilege to be able to do so.

I’ve watched my housekeeper purge, removing things in my office that no longer serve me—mentally, physically, or emotionally.

I’ve packed away things and ended projects that are near to my heart because they require too much of me right now.

Somehow, I miss the walls of the space we grew from. Through the windows of the place we worked from daily over the last nearly two years, it looks so deserted. So abandoned. So empty. There was something so familiar about the floors and the shelves and the closeness and the tables and all the reasons it became our first headquarters.

Transitioning from a platform built for beauty and design was a gut punch. However, the ease of access, structure, and community for the new platform made moving my girls (book) club worth the black dress it required.

Lastly, I am still trying to find a moment to truly say goodbye to an event that I’ve hosted three years in a row. Its death is as simple as it is complex.

Write more. Do less.

It’s the theme moving forward and the reason September has been a month of grief and growth. Anxiety and inspiration. Goodbyes and hellos. Losses and gains. Deaths and births.

Letting go of things feels easier in September, but the pain still touches me.

Still awakens me before I’m due to be awake.

Still lingers in October.

Still creeps into my thoughts.

Still watches and waits.

Still hovers.

Still calls my name in the silence.

Still summons my vulnerability.

Still beckons for my tears.

Still promises me things.

Still kisses me in the morning.

Still reminds me that every day I must lose something to lighten my load and get to the place I feel most comfortable… most content… most confident… until it’s time to move again. Lose again.

Next September.

Now, September is almost over. So is the grief. May October reward us with the serenity of my sacrifices. I’m ready to hang my black dresses up and put on my fall uniform.

With a dish sponge in my hand and a sink free of dishes, my eyes roamed the kitchen for signs of the full meal I’d prepared for my family. There weren’t any.

Besides the lingering scent of The M’s all-purpose seasoning and the beeping of the oven’s timer… There weren’t any.

I cleaned as I went. I thought as my lips curled upward and my head lifted before falling.

It was at that very second that I was struck with a revelation. Life morphed into the kitchen, and dinner became the pieces of me I’d been working hard to reach/create over the years.

The plate I was ready to serve with each dish piled in small portions became my presence. The dishes I’d cleaned and the ingredients I’d stored away became the mess I’d made while striving to get to the place I am today.

Instinctively, I developed the urge to protect my plate and everything on it, making sure no one had the power to touch or destroy what I’d spent hours making… breaking the glass into tiny pieces I would spend years mending.

And those dishes— the mess I’d made and cleaned along the way— became the greatest analogy life has ever given me.

They reminded me that the journey will get messy, but if you clean along the journey, the results won’t require you to revisit those parts of you too often.

But, if you allow the mess to pile up and it’s still there when you think you’ve become the person you’ve been striving for, you will quickly be reminded of the person you are trying to leave behind… leaving you with baggage you don’t deserve.

And you’ll be:

easily triggered.

easily overwhelmed.

easily swayed.

easily upset.

easily broken.

easily hurt.

and not so easily healed.

Protect your plate. Don’t let anyone break parts of you you’ve spent precious time building. But, don’t break it yourself either.

Clean as you go.

Scrub those dishes.

Put away those ingredients.

Sweep the floor.

Clean the counters.

And, when ready, enjoy the space you’ve created.

The peace.

The growth.

The softness.

The stillness.

The slowness.

xo,

grey