Dear Anger

Dear Anger,

You are the emotion I treat with disdain, like you are unnatural, unwelcome, and a threat to my entire internal family.

I never let you speak.

I cover your mouth and call you sadness, exhaustion, grief, burnout, embarrassment, insecurity, dysregulation, and desire.

I force you to tell polite little and big lies.

I fear I am tainted by you.

And I never let you speak.

Tonight, I see you do not make me dangerous, but my silence makes you desperate. I see that you are the shadow I have refused to integrate. You scare me.

I fear losing control of my tongue and saying hurtful things.

I fear losing control of myself.

I do not punish my child because I am afraid. Because I believe most people do not intend to hurt children. Because I do not want to become the abusers I have experienced and witnessed. And because you, anger, have been blamed for too much that was never yours to carry.

Every day I am fighting against being labeled an angry Black woman. I am fighting against you. And it is probably killing me.

My blood pressure has been out of control since my twenties. I distinctly remember suppressing you during that season.

Forgive me. “Anger is bad” was a child’s understanding. I did not know you are an emotion, a signal, energy, boundary information, and a response to violation, injustice, threat, or loss.

I did not know you are not aggression. You are not violence. And you are not the reason people hurt me or those I love.

I see you. You are safe here. I will be the adult, responsible container you need. I will give you language instead of silence.

So here we go:

I am angry that someone who was dangerous in my childhood still impacts my adult life.

I am angry that I am parenting under-resourced and overwhelmed.

I am angry that my child’s biological parents do not choose consistency.

I am angry that I do not know half of what feels required to parent “well.”

I am angry that this raggedy ass apartment complex is raising the rent.

I am angry that I did not get that job.

I am angry that the person I’m emotionally invested in is emotionally stifled.

I am angry that I constantly have to prove, defend, advocate, and justify.

And I am furious that it is not my fault, but it is still my responsibility.

I am angry. And that is okay. Feeling angry does not equal being out of control. “Be angry, and sin not” does not mean anger is a sin.

On Clarity

I’ve been thinking about what emotional safety truly requires, and for me, it always comes back to clarity…

There's something precious about removing ambiguity in connection. Even when it's hard. Especially when it may hurt one or both people. At its most loving capacity, Clarity says, "I care about you too much to let you sit in the dark about who I am, where I am, and what I desire, so here is the information you need to be in the light." Other times, Clarity asserts "I respect you and myself too much to allow confusion." Understanding is thoughtful gift to give to another; it is a return of dignity. Ambiguity is where anxiety thrives. Clarity is where the muscles unclench.

...

In all of our getting, may we get understanding. Selah. Let it be so.

clar​i​ty

noun

clar·​i·​ty | \ ˈkler-ə-tē , ˈkla-rə- \

plural clar​i​ties

Definition

: the quality of being clear: such as

a: the quality of being easily understood

b: the state of having a full, detailed, and orderly mental grasp of something

c: the quality of being easily seen or heard

d: the quality of being easily seen through

e: a lack of marks, spots, or blemishes

Reminder

"Satan attacks in infancy what he fears in maturity."

Reflections: 11.09.2025

Grief is wild.

Or maybe I'm exhausted.

Is this exhaustion, or a wave of sadness and regret?

It’s after 1 A.M. I’m watching my two-year-old eat green beans and crackers.

I look at him tenderly, and the tears and thoughts come from nowhere:

“Grandma will never see me be a mom. If I had become a mom as a teenager, she would have been right here by my side.”

The thought is as random as MJ’s midnight snack.

Why am I suddenly grieving the fact I can’t call Mae Alice and talk to her? I can’t have her pray over me. I will not hear her quote scripture. I will never taste her fried fish or wake up on her couch at 5 A.M. to the sound of clean dishes being rewashed as she talks to Jesus.

My Grandma, who was present for every significant milestone of my life, cannot be here for this—and I am sad. I miss her in the way one misses comfort in the midst of the scary, scary unknown.

And as I write, I know this is neither random nor strange.

This evening, my sweet nine-year-old cousin called my aunt, her grandma. They talked. They joked. There was love in every word. I smiled. I know a well-loved granddaughter when I see one.

It wasn’t in my awareness—how much I miss picking up the phone and talking to Mae Alice. Maybe I don’t visit often because I am unsure how to hold gratitude and grief all at once. Alzheimer’s has taken the parts of her that I miss. But thank God she’s still here.

I can play Green Onions, watch her light up in real time, and jam with her in a way we never did when I was a child—when she wasn’t as free to enjoy music or shake her shimmy.

How can there be gifts intertwined with madness? Joy in grief? Peace in chaos? How can the little girl in me grieve what was while the woman appreciates what is? What strange, beautiful, merciful magic is this?

It’s nearly 3 A.M. MJ is back in bed, a felt flower in each hand, watching me watch him. Soon, we’ll both drift back to sleep.

Life is wild.

Or maybe I’m blessed.

Reflections: 11.04.2025

Today I witnessed a beautiful young woman enraged over a beautiful young man. She banged on doors, cried, threatened, attacked, yelled, cursed, and put on one hell of a show.

I watched. I will not be self-righteous or hypocritical. Part of me was entertained. The largest part—the mom, the aunt, the older sister, the big cousin—debated going outside to talk to her. I did not.

I heard enough to know she was there to fight the other girl who was still present. I saw enough to know that relationship is young, intense, and likely lined with aggression, disrespect, and dishonor.

I have lived long enough to remember the times I was a young enraged girl over a young wandering boy. I remember the depth of my fury. I remember the times I cried, threatened, yelled, cursed, and put on one hell of a show. I remember wanting to attack.

Young love is intense. Its fury is fervent. It is not puppy love—unworthy of proper support. It is deeply serious.

As a not-so-young woman, I see the ways trauma makes an activated attachment system feel like passion, intensity, depth, and something desirable. And I know that path is lined with self-abandonment, disrespect, and dishonor.

It is far too easy to forget that love and connection should feel safe, calm, and regulating. With all the inner chatter and outward noise, it is easy to miss the gentle nudge of your own knowing, the voice saying, "Not this. Not them. Not now."

The challenge of managing desire, loneliness, connection, and safety is getting still and grounded long enough to evaluate from a place of peace instead of confusion.

There are so many metrics we use to gauge readiness for partnership. I think we forget that "blessed are the peacemakers." Am I at peace within, so I do not invite or tolerate chaos from without? That is my standard.

Appearances

You can die from appearances.

While keeping up appearances.

Pretending to hide pain.

Going along to save face.

I wonder how many people die from embarrassment every day.

Appearances can kill —

making pretense seem real,

drawing us inward and inward still,

until we're alone with our demons, shadows, and fears.

Maybe Jesus called Himself The Truth

because truth frees and it heals.

Let the Light in.

Let it all be revealed.

There's no condemnation here.

Let's meet at His feet down in the sand.

Let's be each other's stone catchers

when shame wants to win.

Let's stand in the gap with love and wisdom,

beckoning each other into an authentic kingdom.

There's so much life 

beyond what's perceived.

I know we can touch the light;

Faith is more than what we see.

With love,

LeKechia Lyshell

April 3, 2023

I met my baby boy for the first time at a CPS office. There were several people behind the glass, watching. I played Look Up Child to calm my anxieties. To calm you. And I whispered, "I don't know what I'm doing."

Most mothers don't meet their baby for the first time in a one-hour visit filled with more questions than answers. I'm not most mothers. Most babies don't start their journey without their safe base. You're not most babies.

These days, when the tantrums are big—when the TV is broken, when there's fecal smearing, screaming, and daily battles over everything from naps to snacks—I think: What the hell? How does anyone do this? How am I supposed to parent day after day knowing everything is on me? It's too hard.

But how is that any different from April 3, 2023? I lived in Amarillo. I wasn't financially, mentally, or otherwise prepared for parenthood. Nevertheless, I showed up.

Before you and I were approved to become a we, I prayed:

Dear God,

Please only allow what is in Messiah's highest good to happen.

Give everyone in this process wisdom.

Keep him safe.

In this season of motherhood, I feel hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; hunted down, but never abandoned by God; knocked down, but not destroyed. But it's just a season.

Sometimes I forget, as I mother my son, that I am loved by the Father and the Son. That He prays for me. That He absolutely cares about my highest good too.

Maybe, just maybe, in the same way I'm stretched to look at the toddler and remember the baby—to remember my promise—I'm being stretched to look at the woman and remember the little girl. To remember the promises.

She Got Kids

I'm not here to put you at ease about dating a single mother.

Baby, if that's your boundary, to thy own self be true. Honor you.

I'm not here to hold my head down as I audition—

to convince you that I'm different.

I will not assuage your discomfort with my reality

or pretend it's easy to be part of this family.

Like you, I was singing Lyfe Jennings in my bedroom at fourteen, thinking,

"He right. That will never be me."

I understand. I truly do.

But you're wrestling with you—

and I don’t break up fights amongst men.

So I’ll let this end where it began:

I’m not here to put you at ease about choosing a single mother.

King, if that’s your boundary, to thy own self be true.

Go in peace. Honor you.

Showing Up Unabridged

I am single, but I am dating.

I am practicing radical honesty with myself and others.

I am unmasking.

I am naming what I want with an unsexy level of clarity and detail.

I am showing up unabbreviated and unabridged.

Because one of my values is being a safe person.

Because I am genuinely curious about people and their stories.

Because I know it actually wasn't rejection that was trying to kill me.

It was fear.

The fear of rejection.

The fear of loneliness.

The fear of danger.

I survived my shadows and continue to make peace with myself.

I made decisions that required bravery, grief, and moxie.

And I know now: I can trust myself.

The hardest part about connecting on a meaningful level is recognizing when fear is in the driver seat.

Perfect love casts out fear.

What if the key to connection, to stopping the fight and flight and cycling through humans, is to show up as loving as possible?

Casting our fears to the background. Moment by moment by moment.

They say, "LeKechia, you make yourself vulnerable."

True.

And I will probably encounter fresh disappointment.

And I will learn.

I will expand.

I will thrive anyway.

See? This isn't just about showing up for them.

It's about showing up as me.

Authenticity leads to alignment.

And alignment is divine.

So I can double or triple text.

I can say, "That hurt my feelings."

I can say, "I like you a lot."

"I desire more of your time and energy."

And the kind of person who believes affection, communication, desire, and vulnerability are tools for power over is exactly the kind of person my self-respect will rule out.

I remember what Hafiz wrote:

"Admit something: Everyone you see, you say to them, 'Love me.'

...Still though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect.

Why not become the one who lives with a full moon in each eye,

that is always saying, with that sweet moon language,

what every other eye in this world is dying to hear."

The beauty in loving freely, with a full moon in each eye, is knowing love has never broken any of us.

Fear has.

Motherhood Is Not My Purpose

purpose

noun

1a: something set up as an object or end to be attained : intention

b: resolution, determination

2: a subject under discussion or an action in course of execution

on purpose: by intent : intentionally

object

noun

3a: the goal or end of an effort or activity : purpose, objective

Motherhood is not my purpose. It was not the goal of my life. It will not be the end result of my life’s efforts or activities.

I can remember being eleven and twelve years old, filling notebook pages with plans that had nothing to do with cribs or bottles or bedtime routines. At that age, I was already naming books I wanted to write, the kind of woman I wanted to become, and the ways I wanted to leave the world better than I found it. That was purpose taking root, before anyone had the chance to tell me motherhood was supposed to be the end point.

Motherhood is continuity.

Continuity not just of bloodline, but of story. Of legacy. Of struggle and resilience. It is a thread that connects me backward to those who mothered me—flawed, fumbling, or fierce—and forward to a child whose life will stretch far beyond my own.

It is work. Meaningful work. Yes. Good work. Yes. Hard work. Yes. Rewarding work. Yes—all of that.

But work, nonetheless. The kind of work that demands both devotion and depletion. The kind that requires clocking in when your body wants to quit, and clocking out only when sleep claims you by force. The kind of work that reshapes a person while never quite paying them what they’re worth.

While motherhood shifted my identity in ways that are beautiful, brutal, expansive, and territorial, it did not shift my purpose. It did not change that intrinsic thing woven in me when I was knitted together in my mother's womb. Wow. My purpose holds all my roles without collapsing into any of them.

That is miraculous.

Because society loves collapse. Woman into wife. Mother into martyr. Blackness into burden. We are asked to become one thing when we were born as many. Refusing collapse is itself an act of resistance.

Motherhood is equal parts refinement and detriment to my purpose. Because motherhood is an unquenchable fire. From MJ’s first breath and beyond my last, I work in service of him and the purpose that is a seed within him.

The fire refines: it burns away self-deception; it forces clarity;  it teaches endurance. But the fire also scorches: it leaves ashes where dreams once lived; it exhaust; it threatens to consume the very person who feeds it. Both are true at once.

If I can pass through the fire and still water the seed and his seeds, I know without a doubt that I am capable of accessing my own unique purpose.

No, I wasn’t born to be a mother. I choose it. Every day. Multiple times a day.

And I water myself in the process. Motherhood is connected to a renewable well, and I water the seeds within all of us. But make no mistake, being a nurturer isn’t my purpose any more than being a woman, Black, American, etcetera. 

It is one facet of my identity and womanhood. Not a requirement. Not a destination. 

The Giver's Rule

Treating others how I wanted to be treated has broken my heart more times than I can count.

I remembered birthdays, comforted, affirmed, listened. I literally loved people back to life. I let my home be a place the men I chose could come for peace of mind and a piece of pleasure.

My dad was right: “You take men to the moon. For nothing.”

Only, what I wanted was never transactional. I was never after a pocket. I wanted a heart.

So I treated you how I wanted you to treat me. I gave to you how I wanted you to give to me. I made your pleasure my pleasure in hopes that some of that would come back my way. And you never had to think twice. I was clear. I told you what you needed to know to understand me.

In the quiet—when it was just you and me—was I not free of guards and bravado? You accessed my walls. You got your favorite high. I know I am a divine dopamine hit. And yet, you did not reciprocate.

And here’s the thing: it wasn’t your fault that I didn’t require you to show up for me equal to or greater than. That was on me.

But I can see it now. Your presence on my block lets me know your cup is empty. And here you are again, wanting my love, attention, and empathy. Because I don’t just make you hard, I give you softness. I massage you out of your head and into your body. I affirm the truths God speaks about you.

My guard is up not because I’m a bitch, but because I am a giver by nature. And I am tired of fucking and giving to takers.

So this time, I have nothing but well-wishes and boundaries. A few quips and side-eyes. Self-respect and so much damn pride.

If you want to come, come differently. But I am not your comfort. Not your safe space. Not the woman alchemizing your energy for your benefit.

I want to come, so I am coming differently. I am treating me how I want to be treated.

How the hell do all the rest of you cope?

He’s never been able to explain that all his paintings are an attempt to show how beautiful he wishes he actually was. He’s dreamed of being able to say: “Being human is to grieve, constantly.” 

Because what he really wants to know is: “How the hell do all the rest of you cope?”

- My Friends | Fredrik Backman

Letter to Benji

Joar has Benji's spirit. It's beautiful. I'm learning his story. Beginning to love Joar. Still grieving for Benji.

...

Dear Benji,

I don’t know how to talk about you without crying.

You were all edges and ache. All beauty and bruises. I loved you the moment you stepped on the page—too loyal for your own good, too hurt to say it out loud, too alive to be safe. And still, you loved. Fiercely. Protectively. With your whole damn heart.

You were the kind of boy who laughed to keep from screaming, who kissed boys in secret and carried pain like it was penance. The kind of boy who walked your sisters home, took punches for your friends, and asked for nothing in return but a little space to breathe.

You didn’t get enough air, Benji.

You didn’t get enough peace.

You didn’t get to stay.

And I don’t think I’ll ever forgive the world for that.

Still—some part of me is glad you stepped in front of that gun. Not because I wanted you to die. God, no. But because that’s who you were. You would’ve done it a hundred times over for someone you loved. That’s why we mourn you like we knew you. Because we did. At least, the versions of you that live in us.

You remind me of the boys I loved when I was young—the soft ones with hard exteriors, the ones who made you laugh but never told you what kept them up at night. You remind me of every time I wanted to scream but smiled instead. Of every moment I felt too much and didn’t know where to put it.

You deserved to be held. To be asked how your heart was. To be chosen.

You were the protector.

But God, you needed protecting too.

I’ll never forget you. Not your jokes. Not your love. Not your loneliness.

Not the way your story made mine feel seen.

Love,

A girl who still grieves you

Safety

Like a child, I imagined the trees were waving—one leaned in and said, “Hi, old friend.” I smiled, grateful. Trees stand as sentinels, reminding us that we, too, can survive—and even thrive—through the elements of this world

To know you is to love you. Are you unknown to self?

The "I'm unlovable" story is just that. A story. Fiction. Made up by several unkind contributors, it is comprised of half truths and untruths. Have you seen the way your eyes sparkle when you're excited? Have you experienced your energy when it's electric radiating joy and confidence? Have you been on the receiving end of your love, support, and advocacy? Do you remember, not for the sake of ego, rumination, or validation, how you made them feel they could explore galaxies, conquer worlds, and slay dragons? How you make them laugh? The safety and nurturing you bring? How you listen? How you see others with interest and curiosity? Do you know what it's like to sit with you in silence as you hold space? Have you seen you at rest? My dear, you have a treasure trove of loving experiences. See even the smallest moments. Interrupt the story. You are well-loved, and baby, you are lovable.

The Glory is Within You

Some of the angst we feel - alone, with others, in our heads and bodies - so much of it is unnecessary suffering. So much unnecessary suffering comes from uninterrupted stories and patterns.

Lately, The Universe has given me clear signs. (One day, I'll write about them, sharing them as clearly as they came. For now, I just accept the responsibility to interrupt my stories, patterns, and suffering.)

The signs are so obvious that I feel particularly known. It is as though the Loving Higher Power was like, "There can be no ambiguity with that one in this season," and provided the clarity my mind and heart desires.

I feel a lot of feelings about this insistent clarity. I think a lot of thoughts about seeing that familiar classroom door; about walking by it - even though I'm comfortable with that particular teaching style and environment. I want to peer in the window because maybe, just maybe, there's something new being divulged. 

I also know which of my wants originate from survival and which originate from me.

Mostly, I know I can have my truest, most beautiful life. Worthiness isn't about what I've done or didn't do. It isn't about how I look or do not look. It's not about my earnings, education, credit score, net worth, network, possessions, or anything outside of me.

They tried to convince me that the best predictor of the future is the past. I call bullshit. 11 year old Kechia didn't know. 18 year old Kechia didn't know. 21 year old Kechia didn't know. 26 year old Kechia didn't know. Even, 30 year old Kechia did not know what I know now. 

I am rescuing them. I am rescuing me. I will show us that the best predictor of the future is awareness, desire, and commitment. I will disrupt our unnecessary suffering and create the life history said we were unworthy to live. I see and believe what they could not.