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.