The Anatomy of Finality

My energy will not hold you.

My body will not please you.

My mind will not sharpen you.

My time will not pass for you.

My empathy will not understand you.

My intelligence will not challenge you.

My humility will not chase you.

My comfort will not soothe you.

My grace will not soften for you.

My forgiveness will not repair this with you.

My wisdom will not elevate you.

My conversation will not stimulate you.

My prayers will not cover you.

My awareness will not extend to you.

My presence will not entertain you.

My love will not see the best in you.

Never.

Ever.

Again.

You exceeded my capacity and my generosity.

Finally.

Access is denied.

Finally.

In perpetuity,

This is finally done.

With self-respect,

LeKechia Lyshell 

Dear Elijah John

I'm not mad. 

Of course, I'm not. I can't linger in anger at you too long. As difficult as that makes resolve, I don't resent it. I like how I soften concerning you. I appreciate that I have to work hard to harden when it comes to you.

It says so much about my growth and the condition of my heart.

I am disappointed. 

I know we're so much more creative than this cliche shit.

I am sad.

I believed you to be my person. That's wild. I know. Presumptuous? I know. Humorously optimistic? I know. I know.

I'm sitting here thinking about what I want to say. What I want to hear. And Liz Gilbert’s words come to mind:

"I want, I want, I want—there it is again: the ferocious drumbeat of the ego, pounding away within the blistering furnace of the self. While meanwhile the truth remains standing in the center of the room—patient and timeless—gazing at me with maddening indifference, waiting for me to address it at last. So. Let us surrender now and address that truth."

There are so many truths fighting for acknowledgement. Which should take center stage? Yours? Mine? Hmmmm.

In this moment, the most generous interpretation I can give to the both of us is this:

We are two people who like and enjoy each other. Between us there's care, joy, and some budding iteration of love. And as much as we want to be in each other's lives, right now, that's too painful. Too complicated. So, we are releasing this connection. We wish each other all the best. This is more bitter than sweet, but that's okay. We'll be okay.

Love you, "Elijah John."

Like you too.

Dear Old Wiring,

My introduction to cooking was as a little mama. As my mother’s only daughter, I was a domestic lieutenant, frying the bacon she brought home. And while being a parentified child is not a badge of honor, being in the kitchen was. 

Or, at least, it felt that way.

A CNA at a hospital, my mom worked 7 A to 7 P. Often, I had dinner ready when she got home. I was a teenage girl preparing meals for a family of seven. I even cooked my first Thanksgiving meal in high school. Mom had to work, and I had her back.

I married at 21. And once again, culinary prowess was something I took pride in. Trying and perfecting new recipes. "Cooking for my husband." It felt good.

I knew how to cook for a family.

I never learned to cook for myself.

So, in my late twenties, living alone with no family, no partner, no roommate, cooking always made me feel lonely. "Why prepare a meal if there is no one to share it with?" And I could never get the portions sized appropriately for my solo dining.

Eating out eased that solitary awareness.

In 2022, after a challenging breakup, I was back in that place, equating meal preparation with connection, a reminder of absences. My therapist gave me an assignment: bake some cookies from scratch. I did. 

I baked a beautiful batch of chocolate chip cookies and felt sad that there was no one to share them with. My family lived a few hours away, and I was single. Again.

The other day, I had a thought that lingers: "I cook because I must eat."

How radical is that?

Not because MJ must eat (and he does).

Not to feed others (which I still deeply enjoy).

I. Me. LeKechia Lyshell must eat.

I am worthy of food prepared by my hands in my kitchen. I am worthy of dirtied dishes and the cleanup. I am worthy of meals prepared with love and served with the hope of pleasing the recipient.

Baking is teaching me to share from my abundance. Cooking is teaching me self care, how to be loving even if and when I am the only person at the table. Meal preparation is not just communal. Eating alone, in public or private, is not shameful. Cooking for myself is not a waste of time. Baby, it's a necessity.

I cook because I must eat.

Dear Control

I hear you. I know you’re speaking when I say things like, “I’m one and done.” “No more kids for me.” “I’ll never get married again.” “This is JUST _______.” “I won’t be a single mother to more than one child.”

I see you. You were in the room when I considered a tubal ligation. When I chose a “partner.” When I stayed. When I left. When I fought and when I fled.

You were there, repeating the mantra:

On my terms.

I loved and sexed on my terms.

I broke my heart on my terms.

I expanded and contracted on my terms.

Always knowing what to expect.

Baby, I know you only want to protect me, and I’m so thankful for the ways you have. I’ve been an unruly charge, so it couldn’t have been an easy job. But now—now—I need you to trust me.

I am not the eleven-year-old girl on Taylor Street.

Or the twenty-one-year-old seeking validation in marriage.

Or the twenty-five-year-old who definitely needed protecting.

Today, I am a thirty-five-year-old woman who can survive disappointment and uncertainty. Baby, I am a woman who employs wisdom, counsel, and self-control. Trust this version of me.

My masochistic tendencies have faded. I am no longer willing to put us through the worst because I’m afraid of hoping for the best. I understand now. I see it. Hope deferred made our heart sick, so you did what you had to do.

I’m holding your hand as I say this. I know it’s hard to hear and harder to comprehend. Dear misunderstood Control, my fiercest advocate, we cannot force any outcome. We must surrender now. We must accept that we know in part. We must be willing to hope.

You’ve done so much for me. You were brilliant in your role. You protected me so well. Thank you for your service to this internal family.

This next part of our journey will be uncomfortable—especially for you—but I’ll be here, soothing you through it.

P.S. Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life. Or, said plainly: not getting what you want can break your heart, but a wish that comes true is life-giving.

Dear Irony,

Having a brilliant, high-energy, sensory-seeking child is sort of like living close to the sun. There is warmth, radiance, awe. You know you are in the presence of something extraordinary. And also… you are getting burned up.🥵 Consumed by the energy.

I was not “made to be a mother.” There is no way. I enjoy peace and quiet far too much for this to be my default setting. 🫣

Me and Jesus are still having come-to-Him meetings about single parenthood. I would really like to review the plans He has for me, because what is happening? 🥴

I distinctly remember praying for daughters. Instead, I was given a son. And in a divine reverse Uno, God showed His sense of humor: his name is Messiah Jordan. 

An agnostic was given Messiah. 

Messiah from Greenville convinces me daily that I need Messiah from Nazareth.

This is the most humbling part of my journey. 

I can totally Kechia in my own strength. I cannot mother in it. I will fall short every time. The job is too big. The stakes are too high.

It took a son to show me The Son who led me back to The Father.

It's complicated.

It is holy.

It is exhausting.

It is sacred.

It's exactly on par for the course.

P.S.:

When I said "I can do hard things," it was an affirmation not an invitation. You know what? Scratch it. Hear me and hear me good:

I CAN DO EASY THINGS!

Sign me up. 🫡

Dear God,

Thank you, God. Thank you for the safety. This leg of the journey isn't easy, but I am emotionally, mentally, physically, and spiritually safe. Oh my God, I thank you. Thank you for the dream that reminded me where my nervous system was at 25. That you for the peace and safety I have at 35. Thank you for allowing the 25-year-old me to be a warrior. Thank you for allowing the 35-year-old me to be a sanctuary. Thank you for the therapy and therapists. Thank you for the regulation and self-soothing. Thank you for music, walks, fresh air, trees, grass, and baking. Thank you that every being in my care - all Yours - is safe, fed, and can borrow from my regulated nervous system. Thank you God. I see that peace is not a detour. It is the destination. I see that sanctuary is the higher evolution. 

And I am so grateful.

Selah.

Amen.

war​rior

noun, often attributive

war·​rior | \ ˈwȯr-yər, ˈwȯr-ē-ər , ˈwär-ē-, also ˈwär-yər \

Definition

: a person engaged or experienced in warfare

broadly : a person engaged in some struggle or conflict

sanc​tu​ary

noun

sanc·​tu·​ary | \ ˈsaŋ(k)-chə-ˌwer-ē \

plural sanc​tu​ar​ies

Definition (Entry 1 of 2)

1: a consecrated place: such as

a: the ancient Hebrew temple at Jerusalem or its holy of holies

b(1): the most sacred part of a religious building (such as the part of a Christian church in which the altar is placed)

(2): the room in which general worship services are held

(3): a place (such as a church or a temple) for worship

2a(1): a place of refuge and protection

(2): a refuge for wildlife where predators are controlled and hunting is illegal

b: the immunity from law attached to a sanctuary

Dear Parents,

Today, my son and I had a really good visit with his early intervention occupational therapist.

It’s not easy having someone in your home—watching, observing, offering guidance on your parenting. Even when it’s gentle and well-intentioned, it can stir up hard thoughts: I should already know this. Maybe I’ve been doing it wrong. Am I being criticized?

But the truth is, I’m not being corrected. I’m being coached—in real time—to better support my child, considering his unique sensory and attachment needs.

Parenting is not easy.

Single parenting is not easy.

And still, I’m learning—about my capacity for love, commitment, balance, patience, and presence. I’m learning how much I can stretch without breaking. How much care lives in me.

If today felt tender for you too, you’re not alone.

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

Dear Joy

Dear Joy,

I know you're here. Somewhere.

I caught a glimpse of you a moment ago.

MJ and I were playing with his plush soccer ball. He stopped, looked down, and said "Pentagon." I laughed. 

Marveled really. 

"He's brilliant," I thought. I said it aloud too.

We continued to play. 

The plush soccer ball got stuck in the mini basketball goal knocking it down.

I watched as MJ, with a small basketball in hand, struggled to pick it up. Over and over he said, "Oh my goodness!"

I smiled.

Before we headed to his room to play, we had dinner. The Cajun sausage and rice skillet. Again. 

Without finishing his food, MJ said, "All done, Mama. All done."

I felt a spark of pride. From his communication and the title. "Mama."

The truth is that I have been in grief over the life I imagined. At each difficult turn, I interrogate every decision. "If I had..." has ravaged me leaving regret and discontentment in its path.

And you? Dear Precious Joy, you've felt unavailable. Transient. Like a lover who has forgotten - or maybe never known - how my life and body craves your presence. 

Why have you been so quiet lately?

Something deep within me - maybe it's you - whispers, "Be still and know."

I bristle. Quiet and Certainty, surely your kith and kin, feel just as elusive to me. 

You ask me to see you in everything. To feel your hand in mine at every step. You tell me you are as natural as every negative emotion and much, much softer.

I hear you saying, "I'm not gone. You just forgot how to see." 

I pause. Stunned. Is this too a humility thing?

MJ just loudly announced, "I feel so mad! It's okay." 

And I see it. 

He feels every emotion and lives in none. He moves through them moment by moment, and that's why you, Dearest Joy, radiate from him.

Wow.

Unless I turn around and become like little children, I will never truly live in your presence.

Trust The Process

Maybe I’m being reminded that I’ve never seen the righteous forsaken,

nor their seed begging bread.

Maybe I’m being reminded that with exactly what I already have at home,

I can make something that feeds myself and others.

Maybe I’m learning how to give from my overflow instead of my lack.

Maybe I’m just self-soothing in the ways of my foremothers — with my hands, with heat, with repetition, with the quiet creation of something nourishing.

Whatever the reason for this urge to bake and share, to create and nurture,

I’m grateful for the calm it brings me. 

I’m grateful for the unexpected sense of pride it restores.

A simple belief, gently returned:

I can trust the process.

Dear Question That Makes Me Panic

You struck again.

I was sitting in the dentist chair.

The assist-the-hygienist light glowered like a security guard. With my mouth opened wide, I ignored the nudging concern that two of my biggest physical insecurities were taking center stage and engaged with the kind person cleaning my teeth.

We shared details about motherhood. She’s the mom of two boys; one of them is two. I’m the mom of a nearly three-year-old. The “toddler boys are a different breed” stories flowed—as much as stories can flow with instruments in one’s mouth and hands.

Then she asked,

“…your husband…?”

I cannot remember the beginning or the end of the question. I was momentarily panicked. I always am at this question.

It was a natural one. We were talking about motherhood and toddlers. She even shared a “husbands are parental dorks and/or comedians” story.

I could not relate.

Of course, MJ has a dad. I last heard from him when he responded to a message I sent in June 2023. I introduced myself. I told him MJ was coming to live with me. I gave him my phone number. He told me he would call me when he got off work.

I never heard from him again.

I have not contacted him since.

I do not have respect or patience for a man who cannot be bothered with a child he co-created. A man who lacks the courage to take a paternity test—to confirm or challenge his denial—is not a man I have interest in persuading to meet the very best of himself.

And my dad has told me that because I did not "lay down with" MJ’s alleged father, it is not my place to curse him out so viciously that he questions his manhood, existence, choices, and future desire for sex.

I digress.

“I am single.”

That is the easiest answer. 

But I cannot do it.

It’s true. I am single. But those three words are weighted. They speak of choices. They carry assumptions. They imply recklessness.

I am a single Black mother. Why does that truth feel like an indictment instead of a fact?

“Oh, I’m not married,” I said instead. “My child is biologically my cousin, but we’ve been together since he was three months old. He’s my baby. I doubt a husband is going to join the circus that is our family.”

Outward laughter. Inner discomfort.

I did it again.

I did not let them think whatever they might think. I filled in the gaps -offering our sacred story like fodder.

I do not have admiration or patience for a woman who cannot stand in judgment. A woman who lacks the courage to neither confirm nor challenge perceptions is not the woman I have interest in being. It is not my job to persuade anyone that MJ is the very best of me.

Next time—and I know there will be a next time—I hope I say: “No partner. Just me and my son.”

A passage from Black Girls Must Be Magic comes to mind:

“No, no partner. I’m a single mother by choice.”

Andouele stiffened at my words.

“Sister, all that are blessed to be mothers are mothers by some choice,” she said firmly. “There is no separation between you and my married sister or my single sister who became pregnant by surprise. The journey is an equal blessing for each of you. The mantle of motherhood alone is a high honor.”

She spoke sternly, with intention in her eyes. I understood my error.

“I should have said that I’m a single mother by my own choice entirely,” I corrected myself. “There was… There is no partner involved.”

“Single motherhood is a path of courage, Tabby. In so many ways, the road will rise to meet your feet and you will find your magic. Congratulations on your journey.”

Little Fires Everywhere - Revisited

Last night, I dreamt that MJ and I lived in a hotel, and I was overwhelmed. I decided to leave him in our room and go to a nearby coffee shop. I stayed longer than I should have. The whole time, I kept thinking:

I didn’t leave the TV on, and he’s going to be screaming.

When I got back to the hotel, our room had been cleared and emptied. MJ was gone.

I panicked.

Eventually, I went to a hotel employee, who told me that MJ had been screaming and a housekeeper entered the room to help him. They said CPS would be involved.

I grabbed MJ from them and yelled:

I am his mother. He’s been with me since he was three months old. He’s happy because of me. He’s thriving because of me. He’s my baby.

I told her I had stepped out because MJ had smeared poop on the walls, along with some other made-up excuses.

She gave us a new room and said we would sort it out with her manager the next day.

…

I woke up realizing that, at times, I am every mother in Little Fires Everywhere.

I’m Elena when other mothers don’t sacrifice and follow the rules of motherhood martyrdom.

I’m Mia, bucking the system and doing things my way.

I’m Bebe, overwhelmed to a breaking point, desperate for relief, and failed by an under-resourced system of parenting.

I’m Linda McCullough, fighting to get a world that prizes biology above all else to understand that my path to motherhood is not illegitimate. That my love for my child — and who I am to him — shouldn’t require defense. That I am his mother.

And I am hoping, like hell, that my child will find a way to forgive my mistakes the way Pearl forgives Mia’s, instead of being wounded forever by them, the way Izzy is by Elena’s.