It’s Time to Chill TF Out: Signs that You Need a Break

I suspect that many women feel that they must take on the world and never set it down. That we can’t give up, must take care of everyone, be impeccably groomed, and the rock of literally everyone. As a Black woman, I feel this even more, because there is this extra burden that you’re taught, and is reinforced by others forever, that you must work twice as hard for the same thing. That if you complain without perfection, then your complaints are unworthy (and trust me, people will throw this in your face), that you must put on a brave face everyday, and be the epitome of Black Girl Magic. You work extra hard to be “passionate” without an attitude, (even when anger is warranted), code switching and checking yourself along the way and being “strong” like every matriarchal figure in your life has ever told you. You fight relentlessly. And you’re supposed to do this effortlessly and with grace.

And then when you find yourself like me today, going to the wrong airport because you’re exhausted from all of the above, recovering from flipping through your exes happy ass pictures with a beautiful woman not because you want him back, but because you’re wanting your happy, and feeling defeated wondering if your work really challenges the wrongs of the world and uplifts those who need it, feeling defeated from trying to help others see that, missing the empathy and caring from people that makes you whole and feeling weak for needing it, and you doubt your magic and queendom, and you want to curl in a ball crying.

But you can’t. You gotta push on. Or so you tell yourself. But maybe you don’t? Maybe it’s time to chill TF out. Maybe your magic needs to be replenished. And since no one else is going to say, “hey girl, maybe you should take a break, maybe, that’s what you need to do for you.”

And so with that, here are my top telltale signs that you need to chill the fuck out, written from my own experiences:

1) you’re forgetting things, small things but important things. Like your keys, the correct airport, passwords. Your brain is working on overload. It can’t keep up with your work plans, figures, and facts AND your keys when it is exhausted.

2) You are forgetting to eat or in my case, eating the least amount necessary to exist and not have low blood sugars. Because even though you love to cook, the energy to heat up a stove will lose to a pre cut salad kit (the best invention since sliced bread) or a bowl of granola every time.

3) Speaking of things you loved to do. You haven’t done them, cause yeah sleep. You’re too exhausted. Not to be confused with depression where you don’t want to do them, but simply feel overwhelmed by the amount of energy needed to complete the task of doing that thing you like. Plus, you can’t find the things to do it.

4) And you can’t find the things to do because cleaning your house is non existent because you’re out saving the world. And you come home and sleep so as to not deal with it and feel like a failure.

5) You are lacking empathy in your life, perceived or otherwise. You’re not giving it to yourself and it feels like others can’t give it to you either. You’re likely either spending too much time with people who can’t fill your love tank (strangers on buses and planes, associates – nice people like coworkers or staff at a favorite bar – but not your tribe), not engaging enough with your tribe, or trapped in a cycle of perfectionism that doesn’t exist (lacking self compassion). If you’re anything like me, that will empty your emotional bank account quickly.

6) You’re skipping mascara. Or moisturizer, or your brows done or glitter. Whatever  is that thing for you that makes you feel like yourself and is a musthave to feel ready, you’re not doing it. Because you probably slept an extra 5 min.

7) You’re having stress dreams. You are dreaming about work and trying to do the work, and conflicts at work; you’re dreaming about saving Wakanda (no lie I had this dream), you’re running for your life but you’re running in slow motion or keep falling (one of my favorites), you’re dreaming about missing flights… all signs of time to chill the fuck out.

8) You have no patience to hold others ‘ pain. Time to pump the breaks for sure. You are not the sole provider of hope and care to people you know (I’m looking at you, Self!!). It is insane to think you could be. Time to practice “no.” Here are some suggestions “no, nope, not at the time, hell no, fuck no, *chuckle and walk away*, ignore the call or text, not today, satan, I really wish I could, but I can’t, I really wish I could, but I don’t want to, that’s a naw for me, I’ll pass, good bye/good night.” Maybe I should do a post on saying no?

9) You want to cry in the middle of an airport. Or in the middle of any neutral place. You’re tired and deserve a sick day or 5.

10) You are wearing a too big, white wool coat because your coat that fits lost all its buttons because you kept meaning to replace or fix them or something like that, and now here we are, looking crazy as hell. This metaphor is easily transferable to *insert anything here you need to do but didn’t and now you regret it but you’re gonna live your life either way*

11) You haven’t said “yes” to yourself and what you want to do. Wanting to go on a date with that hot guy from OKC, but can’t fathom giving up your only night to sleep, clean, do laundry, wash your hair, call your mom, you bff, respond to personal emails, enjoy a cup of tea, and pretend you will sew your buttons? You’re doing too much if you have to fit 3 weeks of activities in 12 hours. Also, you’re going to hate your life.

12) You want to curse people out for peopling. You know like walking too slow, stopping in the middle of an aisle or walkway (I’m sorry by this is rude AF even when I’m recharged) and taking  in the sunshine, for talking about stupid things behind you, for having on a dumb hat, for breathing… you know peopling.

13) Cake starts sounding like a viable option for all meals. But then you eat it and you throw it away because all food tastes nasty to you. This is a new stress induced response I got after getting…

14) You get gastritis. Now it flairs up at any sign of trouble. Gastritis is a nice little friend that gives you significant pain if you eat, don’t eat, eat too much, too little, anything spicy or coffee. It’s like the little demon friend you never wanted.

15)You feel unhappy and unfulfilled. Yes, you’re busy, but you’re not happy or fulfilled. Your purpose may feel a little muddled. It’s time to chill the fuck out. Why? Because you need some time to reflect, so you can make the next right move. And then you need time to act on it. Because being tired is lot more tolerable when you’re doing what you love and are called to serve the universe.

So my dear beautiful Black women, I want you to know we deserve to chill the fuck out. And it’s soooo hard. I’m struggling right now. I know it can make us feel like we failed, that everyone is going to see how unworthy or what an imposter we are, that we will let down our families and communities, that we will be the wenches that history has written us as, or the nobodies that our traumas want us to believe. None of that is true. I write this on a train with tears welling up and heaviness in my chest. We gotta believe that being human doesn’t diminish our light, our worth, or our black girl magic. Instead we have to know when to say, enough is enough. And extend that magic to ourselves and chill the fuck out.

Just “Regular” Black

Often, the first things people notice about me are my  face full of freckles (that seem to take over my body the older I get) and my greenish eyes. It’s particularly jarring an noticeable to people because I’m just “regular” Black. 100% Black, nothing else and 100% proud.

Growing up, people constantly asked me “what was I?” Or complimented me on how I looked like a “white woman” or at the very least mixed. As I got older, redbone was the compliment of choice by men, who were always fascinated by my “exoticism” and wanted to know if my mother or father was white. Family members also often told me that I looked mixed, if only my hair was a silkier (My hair is the give away. In its natural state, it is a beautiful kinky, jet black, ball of wool – nothing European about it.). And as I got into weaves and wigs, this was even further solidified. I grew up thinking being Black wasn’t good enough, that it was a good thing to be lighter skinned, asked “what are you?” and to be mistaken as only half negro. Although I didn’t necessarily see it as better to me, I realized that it was compliment in the world I grew up in. And so I allowed it to happen, smiling sheepishly as I responded (gross).

After constantly being asked this question though, I began to get annoyed, quickly. I became confused every time someone’s face fell when they learned I was just “regular” Black. As I learned more about paper bag tests, and doll experiments, and well, colorism in general, I grew angry. When I realized my fellow sister friends with beautiful skin were often disregarded, felt inferior, and men trashed them, I was disgusted. And when my own siblings told me about hatred for their  darker skin and wishing they had mine, I felt incredibly sad and heartbroken. And then I realized that in a very complicated world of color and race, in some ways, I have privilege. And in other ways, I’m very much the victim of racism. And that either way, I had to shift my thinking and what I allowed others to say or do around me.

And so began my bitchy remarks to those who questioned my ethnicity. “I’m Black mixed with Black,” I replied before it was a popular t-shirt. “Redbone isn’t a compliment to me, and I’m actually offended that you would insult my fellow sisters like that,”  I replied every single time a man would send me a message complimenting me on my light skin and how he prefers that.  I try my best to affirm others about their beauty and advocating when I can for others when I can. I intentionally use a rainbow of shades in my presentations. I remind people that being multiracial is wonderful, but simply being Black is wonderful too.  Most importantly for my own self, I will not accept any compliment that is about how exotic or “other” someone finds me.

I’ve also learned that my skin color comes with down sides too. Many people think I’m a “safer” type of Black, and are surprised and annoyed that I’m afrocentric and speak about racism often. Men expect me to be a little less opinionated. I’m “pretty for a Black girl” in some white spaces. I’m sometimes stereotyped as stuck up, not down, or self-centered. I work hard to disprove these things, but I try to not get caught up in that, because I know for every time those annoyances happen, a darker skinned woman is denied a job, a relationship (you don’t need him or her though honey, you too good for that), stereotyped,  “pretty for a dark skinned woman” or humiliated. I’m so sorry you go through that. I’m so sorry if I have ever been part of that problem. Please know that I stand by your side and am an ally today.

I cannot change the color of my skin or eyes. I love my freckles.  However, what I can do is claim my Blackness, never back down or allow slick shit  people say to slide, and be an active participant in dismantling colorism in our community.

So to answer your question,  I’m 100% Black queen goddess mixed with Black strength. That’s it. Just you know, “regular” Black.

I think I’m over white men…

I’ve been known to only talk to white guys. Not because I only like white guys, but for some reason my attraction just always flowed that way…. But…

I think it’s happened y’all…

It’s happened. My attraction to the Caucasian race has subsided.

It feels like it happened overnight…


Well, let’s start from the beginning…

So my preference in men has never really been that picky. It’s mostly been just genuinely nice, good looking, (mostly white) guys who are about the culture. And what I mean by that is that they are for black people. They know that black lives matter. They understand their privilege. They aren’t there to satisfy some freaky fetish. They are truly into us.

And some people probably think that I’d never talk to a black man. I mean…before this recent stint, I’ve talked to 0 black men seriously and maybe messed around with not even enough to count on my right hand.

I had a type… obviously. So what changed?

I don’t really know to be honest. On Tinder or Bumble, I’ll come across a profile and think to myself, “hmm, another attractive white guy…who’s probably not attracted to me”. Yes, this has been my actual thoughts, because it’s kind of my actual life. I’ve noticed that most of the white men I’ve swiped right on, do not swipe right on me. And I can’t help but wonder why. It’s not like I only post one picture of myself and don’t include any information about myself in my profile. I make decent money and my Instagram is damn interesting!

Like yo, I’m a catch!

I can’t help but feel that most of the white gay population is not here for me, or anyone like me. Unless I had washboard abs with a chiseled chest and sculpted arms. Oh, THEN AND ONLY THEN will my brown skin get me that right swipe. Funny thing is that the same white man that will swipe right on the muscled body black man, would probably swipe right on the average white guy with the dad bod and nothing going for his life.

Why do I feel like I have to have a higher standard to get your right swipe? Is this a thing? 🙄

I’ve become numb to it. Numb to being ignored and swiped by.

Again, I’ve dated white men who were down and showed nothing but love for black skin and they’ve proved it to me extensively. I appreciate them for it. They are there greatest guys. Those are the type of white men I want to date, yes, but those are so few and far in-between and sometimes you just don’t have a romantic connection. It’s not enough to match with 1 out of thirty white men, especially when you’re surrounded by them constantly.

There is a sea of white people that come across my tinder every day, and I would swipe right on a lot, but when I looked at my matches, I only saw beautiful black faces. There’s nothing wrong with this, but when you think about it, it does hurt a little.

At that moment, I had an epiphany; Why am I wasting my time and emotions and expectations on men who want nothing to do with me? Obviously most want nothing to do with me, so why am I mad? I really don’t know, to be honest. But to the ones who are down for me and my people. I love yall. I love my white guys who love my brown skin. I appreciate you and I understand that not all are like this and the ones that are, are jackasses. It just sucks when you feel like you’ve been written off and not dateable because you’re black. Don’t let the ignorance fool you, it’s a real thing.

And no, I’m not upset anymore because I’m not matching with my white Prince Charming. Despite popular belief, I’m pretty sure Prince Charming could be white, black, latino, asian, whatever. I’ve learned to get over it a long time ago and I couldn’t care less if I found him and now when I find him, I won’t be surprised if he shows up with some ethnicity. It just sucks that you aren’t able to connect with someone you are attracted to and you want to get to know them on a deeper level but can’t, because of your skin color.

I’m Tired of Myself Not Showing Up and Out for Myself

A few days ago I posted a pic of me in a pink jumpsuit and everyone was kind enough to give me compliments about it out the wazoo. I almost didn’t post it, because I thought I looked ugly and fat. Last week, I posted a post about how my spiritual journey is not what most people expect and my beliefs don’t align with majority of the people I know. I almost didn’t post it because I was fearful of rejection. I am making some major life changes and am doubtful at every turn and tell little people about it because I’m afraid I look stupid or flakey. I set boundaries that are healthy for me and then feel immensely guilty because people don’t agree. I don’t want children because it isn’t for me, but feel constant pressure to explain why, and so I never talk about it, missing out on opportunities to inspire others because I’m worried about others opinions or being seen as less desirable as a romantic partner.

I could go on and on with examples like these. But what I really want, is to never have another example like this in my life. I am beyond done with not showing up and showing out for my own damn life and living it on my terms. My whole job as a therapist is centered around telling others to show up for themselves, why the hell do I not do this for me? I am tired of being bound by shit that has no positive or fulfilling purpose in my life.

My body image has held me back for years. I don’t pursue the men I want, I sometimes don’t wear the clothes I want, I avoid pictures, and I have spent too many days crying over fat rolls, doing only certain exercises to decrease fat, apologizing when I eat a donut, ans comparing myself to beautiful women. Today, I declare myself beautiful, with fat rolls, and worthy. Fuck your beauty standards I’ve internalized. I can be active and overweight and healthy and eat donuts.

I’m tired of playing small in every aspect. I will assert my truth, I will not stop talking about Black things, I will not stop talking about equity, I will not stop when you are uncomfortable, call me an angry Black woman, tell me to be sweeter. I will not stop sharing my ideas. It’s not me to be quiet or small. It’s not my soul. It kills me when I do it. I will not commit soul genocide anymore.

I’m tired of settling. I will go for jobs in my career that invigorate me, challenge me, and call me to step into the leadership position that I am called to be. I won’t be anyone’s entry level anything anymore. I will walk in my strengths humbly, but not self deprecatingly.

I will not settle with men. I deserve what I want. My body will not be used for pleasure unless I say so, and I will not settle for a man that does nothing less than challenges me to be better, loves and cares for me, can hold his own, and also is what I want. No more nice guys with potential, and certainly no more fuck boys here to waste my time. No more half committed, empty words, me chasing you, you being too cool. Stand beside me, be ready to commit, or get to walking. Also, this isn’t only your descision; I actively get to choose. I’d certainly rather be alone than to deal with any BS.

Listen. I’m ready to show up and show out for myself. I am tired of playing it safely and diminishing my light. I am soft and fierce and courageous and change maker and I no longer have a choice but to live up to this. And I’m excited AF.

So please know, I am showing up for myself in a big way and I hope you join me. But if it makes you uncomfortable, IDGAF.

Black, Southern, and Increasingly More Agnostic

Much of my self has been transforming and growing, and let me tell you, this shit has not been easy or lovely. It’s been downright hard. In this journey, lately, I’m finding myself in a very strange predicament – a Black, southern woman, who has become increasingly agnostic at exponential rates.

In other words, most people I grew up with, associate with, or are family probably thinks I’m going to burn in eternal flames.


Being Black and Southern is to Christianity, as peanut butter and jelly is to sandwich, it seemed to me growing up. It just is and there was no other way to be. You went to church each Sunday, sometimes Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. You didn’t deny it, you didn’t question it, you didn’t do ANYTHING, really, it just happened to you. And poof, this is who you are.


Religion serves as a grounding place for humans. It is a key component of a civilized society. We need it. It brings meaning, faith, and understanding to many of us. It helps us explain things that have no explanation and keeps us morally accountable. It is deeply spiritual for many of us and we are moved by it in ways that are not easy or meant to comprehend. I don’t look down on those who are deeply religious; I think each person’s faith contributes heavily to the person’s identity, and at its best, religion, is a source of love and connectedness.


But it isn’t something I resonate much with anymore. I am not sure when I first decided that Christianity was not for me, and when that developed into most religions not being for me, but I do remember when I was first exposed to the idea that perhaps my God, wasn’t the only God. I was in 7th grade and we will call him Mr. M, a red headed, tall, man, charged with teaching a bunch of unruly middle schoolers about history. He chose to teach us the history of religions and my world was rocked. I could not understand how millions, billions of people were going to hell because they did not have faith the same way I did, and how a loving God could allow that. Of course my church hushed me, my community reinforcing that these were not the ways of God, and my developing mind did not know what to do with that.

I was again exposed to different religions in my junior year of high school. I was selected to attend a selective summer leadership camp. I still remember one of my favorite activities was called Vespers, and during Vespers, different people from different faiths came to speak to us. This was the first time Muslims, Jewish people, atheists, Quakers, Hindus, etc. were actually humanized for me. I saw people, good people that I liked and admired and thought were smart and most of all, not hell worthy, in front of me. I was again confused that these people could go to hell. I was exposed to people who did not believe people went to hell or in redemption through a savior. I was also first exposed to antisemitism and Islamophobia, by teens, who yelled at the people, asked very insulting questions like “but aren’t you going to hell?” and I was astonished. My mind couldn’t totally wrap its head around what was going on, but I knew it was wrong, very wrong.

In college, I started my journey at a small liberal arts college, Queens University of Charlotte. I loved this university primarily because of the authenticity of my professors. Looking back now, this was very rare, the way they challenged us to think more deeply about social justice issues, build empathy, expose us to life different than ours, and push us to really take charge of our own growth in these areas. Everyone may not have been convinced or reached, but I was primed and ready to receive it, and that education opened my mind even more broadly. I learned about the origins of Christianity and other religions, I went to services from other backgrounds, I learned that gay people, were in fact, not dirty or shameful, and that neither was my black skin, or “ghetto” high school. I also learned that there were plenty of people who did not believe any of that was true, and it was an important to be an advocate for the voiceless. I was growing and at the same time outgrowing many things. And Christianity, particularly the judgmental, often hypocritical, and overly damning, version I’d be exposed to, was not fitting me well at all.

These are my earliest pivotal memories that began to sway my mind, but there were many other small memories. I have always been curious, quirky, and questioning. I would follow my mother around for hours and say “why” and I think that this is one of my gifts. I also don’t think a god I serve would make a mistake and so this must be who I am meant to be.

I also have a penchant for shame. I am easily shamed and my early exposures to religion as a girl were filled with shameful moments. From watching a young woman walk down the aisle while a preacher showed that see, women, can detour men from their purpose with their simple walk, from shaming for not complete forgiveness and embracing of a perpetrator, from hearing the shame from a man who declared he still had feelings for men, but is just doesn’t date at all because he will burn in hell, from shaming about not enough money for the collection plate, from shaming that as a woman, in some way, I was the origin of damnation, from my curious mind being seen as a curse, one that goes against god, Christianity for me was a very shaming world. The promise being that if could figure out how to be “good” I could have eternal life. This never made much sense to me, but I was afraid of god’s wrath and so I never questioned it, until much later, and even now, it is scary to do.

I recently read “On Healing Black Girl Pain,” a story about a woman’s career, family, love, and spiritual journey. She talks a lot about Christianity in the Black church and she hit every one of my thoughts. Our stories were actually very similar in MANY ways, but i’m focusing on the religion part here. She talked about the role of Christianity in the US with slavery, the way it has been both damning and redeeming for us as Black people, the hatred espoused by some in name of Christianity (which I don’t think necessarily is what Christianity is) and her complicated appreciation of it – from afar. I agreed on just about every point she made. She helped me find the voice to write this initial post. She gave me permission to explore spirituality in other ways.

Lately, I’ve been looking at Buddhism, Unitarian practices (which feel really good to me), humanistic approaches to spirituality, and other religions in order to understand and inform who I am. It feels good, overdue, and is an important of my journey. But it is scary and something that I have never known and have no road map to follow. And of course there is always the voice that what if you’re all wrong and are going to burn in flames? And I don’t have an answer for that at all.

One of the scariest parts of exploring agnosticism and broadening my spiritual understanding of myself is other Black people and southern people, and especially the combination. The Black community is deeply rooted in traditions of faith and for good reasons. I am deeply rooted in the Black community, and so this piece of difference makes me feel very afraid of being ostracized, talked about, looked down upon and misunderstood, while you all pray for my damned soul, with mutterings of “Bless her heart.”


But this is my truth.

I’m not really sure how to relate to people in this area. I grew up in the church just as much as any of my Black friends, and I love the community and understanding of this very complex system of the Black church. It feels like going home, but home after you’ve been away for a very long time and you’ve changed a lot, and no one else quite understands the new you. So familiar, but isolating at the same time. And there are not many Black agnostic people I know, none that are very open anyway or that aren’t hardcore anti organized religion, which isn’t quite where I am either. I have a deep respect for all religions and people who practice them, I’m just not sure what or if any of them are for me. If you’re reading this, I ask for patience and empathy, or at least understanding, that this isn’t an easy post to write or divulge about myself. And I haven’t arrived here lightly or without much thought. I’d love to share my spiritual journey with you all ongoing, but am also very afraid of being judged because it will likely not end in a traditional or familiar view of Christianity.

I don’t know where I will land. I just know I believe in a god, the connectedness of the universe, and faith, love, and courage. I believe kindness and empathy reign supreme, and what is encouraging to me, is that when we peel back the layers of any religion or spiritual practice without dogma and egos, that seems to be a common thread. And so, I feel these values puts on the right path. Except in instances of when religion is used to perpetuate hate, discrimination, and oppression


A Love Letter on Valentine’s Day

My Dearest Friends,

Thank you for the love and light you have given me in my life. At my lowest points, when I feel unworthy of love or incapable of being loved, you are there to remind me of my “enoughness” and that I am loved.

Valentine’s is a celebration of love and I’d be remissed to ignore the great deal of love that you put into my life. My oldest friends, those we cannot remember how or when we became friends, thank you. You keep me grounded in my roots, you remind me of the past and how much I’ve overcome, and your love always feels like coming home – familial, warm, and safe. You are my rock. We have withstood time.

To my friends who developed during hard times in my life. Who gave me a love wine and whiskey, fed me when I was too sad or weak to feed myself, and weaved yourselves into the fabric of my being, thank you. I love you for providing me the gift to grieve and reinvent myself with no judgement and lots of space. I’m thankful we are still friends, and I hope I’ve been able to return that.

To my friends who quickly became family. Who encourage me to dig deeper, stay authentic, and fulfill my potential on a level I cannot even see at times, I’m so grateful for your ability to believe and see the good in me when I cannot. I’m grateful that you hold me accountable to be the woman you see, even when I feel like shit. That you remind me of my worth on low days. You give me the gift of self worth.

I’m thankful for the friends who have stepped in as family in my travels. That have been the sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, and cousins when my biological family could not fulfill those roles due to space, time, and place. Thank you for inviting me to the metaphorical “cook outs” and family dinners, and keeping me safe and always making me feel like someone has my back.

Thank you to those who know me better than myself, and remind me when I forget. I’m grateful for my friends who tell me like it is, but with a gentle touch that reminds me, they love as they love themselves.

I love you all and the way you make laugh, cry, and rejoice. The way I could never truly be lonely because you all live in my heart and remind me often that you do.

I most of all you love you because you allow me into your worlds, expose your vulnerabilities with me, and trust me with your being and souls. I can only hope the love you feel from me is half the love I feel from you.

You all allow me to be me without condition or expectation. You are my soulmates and my Valentines forever. No matter what happens romantically in my life, I always know I have love because of you.

I love you. You matter. May your life be filled with the love you crave and desire, and not a penny less. Happy Valentine’s Day from the bottom of my heart.



I Finally Understand the Relationship I Crave

I first encountered this question with one of my favorite therapists. She asked me, “LeAnna, what kind of relationship do you want?” And said, for her, “it would be like my favorite pair of blue jeans, worn in, comfortable, and comforting.”  I thought that was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard and so, I tried that on for fit. It was a delightful notion, but didn’t quite fit what was the relationship that would be best for me. Yet and still, I continued for years to wrestle with that question.

I have been doing a lot of soul searching lately. And today, I came into the realization of what the relationship is that I crave. I am looking for a relationship that allows me to be the wildflower or wild fruit I have always been. Some people call me a free spirit, some an exception, some weird, some zesty or wistful, and others throw their hands up in exasperation as they do not know WHAT I am. I think I am a wild fruit with many branches, stems, and odd fruit, that does not wish to be confined or defined. I am not meant to be a fenced in flower, I am not a dainty rose, I am not flowers that grow in neat rows that bare no fruit but are stunning, and I am not a weed to be plucked. And I need a relationship that is a garden large enough to allow me to grow as I please.

This relationship would not try to confine me, would give me the space to sprawl my long greenery all over the dirt, grow over any fences, destroy fences that stunt my growth, and tends to me with the tender loving kindness that gardeners use to tend to their bounty. Providing nurturing and support when necessary, but never critical or blaming when the bounty does not reach their expectations, and instead thrilled with what it blooms in its own unique space, admiring its unexpected colors or fruits.

A love that is careful when entering the garden to not stomp or destroy the wild flowers of my being, but not too careful as it understands that as a wild fruit, I am capable of a persisting in the worst conditions, but am better when provided the best conditions. A love that respects my ever persisting and fierce life force, but understands that even the wildest among us needs sustenance.  A love that possesses the understanding  that a garden that wilts needs water, love, nurture, and sunshine, rather than criticism, neglect, or coldness. Who understands that a wilted garden does not have to die, but can thrive when shown a little tenderness, and often comes back tenfold in its produce.

I crave a love that understands that my roots run deeper, wider, and across spans of a universe that they cannot see, and yet, takes the time to study and learn how a wild flower like me can produce sweet fruit, and puts each new tidbit of knowledge into practice. A love that understands that wild flowers cannot be tamed or controlled, they can only be nurtured and loved. And that in return for your understanding, I will reward this love with the sweetest fruits, sustenance for his vitamin deprived heart, and a beauty that has little to do with physical appearance, but the very essence of what it means to live. My fruit is versatile, can be used to cure the ailing of broken hearts and to nourish the sickest of men – if only allowed to be wild and free, with a gentle guard of protection and a tender form of care.

My perfect relationship is a garden, and I, the wildflower. The gardener and I take care of nourishing one another, never expecting each other to be any one other than we are. He would love me to grow into the most magnificent part of myself, never worrying about if I outgrow or shine him, as we both will know, the flower is a direct reflection of his care, nurture, and ability to allow me to be a wild flower. While his health, resilience, and stature is a direct reflection of my ability to provide him with the nourishment of my fruit.

This is what I crave.