At 18 years old, I was on fire.
I had vision, drive, and an urgency to become someone the world would admire. I was raised to lead—to shine on the outside, no matter what was crumbling on the inside. Perfection wasn’t encouraged, it was expected. Pain was not to be shown. Vulnerability was not safe.
In high school, I did all the things.
Captain of the tennis team.
National Honor Society.
Drum major in marching band.
SAT scores through the roof.
Leader of the church youth group.
First job at Mandee clothing store—remember them?
Even when I was sick, I wasn’t allowed to stop. My father insisted I never miss school. I had perfect attendance for four years straight, but there was a cost for that. If I was ill, he’d have me board the school bus just to be marked present before being sent home. He even followed the bus in his car to make sure he was there when I was sent home. That level of control shaped me. I internalized the message: show up, no matter how much it hurts.
I remember being 17 with a fever and a burning sore throat, standing dizzy and disoriented on the sales floor at Mandee. It was my first job, and I didn’t want to fail my manager. I was of no use to anyone. My manager took one look at me and said, “Honey, why didn’t you just stay home?” I couldn’t say it then, but the answer was simple: because I wasn’t allowed to.
The Blueprint I Was Given
When I left home for college, I wasn’t just seeking education—I was running. I was trying to escape a father who didn’t really see me, while stepping into a world that had only taught me how to survive, not how to live.
I didn’t have a healthy blueprint for adulthood.
So I built with what I had:
- Be good.
- Be strong.
- Be righteous.
- Don’t show pain.
- Lead through it.
At the time, the church was the only real structure I knew. I absorbed its teachings deeply—especially around submission, sacrifice, and endurance. The pastor became a kind of father figure. I was so hungry to be fathered in a way that felt safe. I still am, in some ways.
But what I didn’t understand then was that I had confused control with safety.
I mistook rigidity for wisdom.
I thought sacrifice equaled love.
And beneath it all was grief.
A quiet, aching grief I didn’t yet have the language to name.
I Called It Love, But It Was Survival
In college, I stayed with my high school sweetheart. Our bond was intense—what I now know to be enmeshment. I gave so much, poured so much, created spaces where others felt seen and celebrated. But I didn’t have that same energy coming back toward me. At the time, it didn’t bother me. I felt needed. I felt useful.
But now I see it for what it was:
I wasn’t building a life.
I was building a shelter.
And I mistook it for home.
The Cracks Were Always There
There was so much emotional and mental abuse in my upbringing that I never confronted. I never had the space to just be. Especially as a Black girl. We are so often denied the grace of becoming. No soft place to land. No room for the messy middle. Just pressure to get everything right the first time, even without the tools.
But here’s what I know now:
You cannot build a legacy on unprocessed pain.
You cannot create a sovereign life while operating on autopilot.
At 18, I laid a foundation full of cracks. And eventually, it had to break.
Not because I failed—but because I was being invited to build something real.
Something sacred. Something sovereign. Something that flows.
💭 A Final Reflection
If your life feels like it’s falling apart, I want you to ask yourself gently:
Was I building a life—or was I building a shelter?
You deserve more than a place to hide. You deserve a life that holds you.
Looking for fellow Black women in a similar space? Join Booked and Bougie and curate the social circle that will support you on your journey.
Black Girls Living Lavishly 
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