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.