The Week I Chose Me — Again.

This past week was a spiritual smackdown in the most sacred way. A mirror was held up—by the world, by my spirit, by my ancestors—and it asked me some questions that weren’t for the faint of heart. The kind of questions that strip the paint off the walls of your soul.

It was a week of remembering who I am outside of the systems designed to shrink me. Outside of patriarchy. Outside of colonial frameworks. Outside of religious gaslighting. Outside of the performance of being palatable, agreeable, or “worthy” by anybody else’s standards but my own.

What I Had to Sit With This Week:

Sexual Sovereignty Isn’t a Brand. It’s a Birthright.

I had to get real about whether a woman can do adult work, post sensual content, or own her sexuality, and still spiritually decenter men. (Spoiler: Yes. Because the real flex is that men do not own access to the temple of the womb unless invited into sacred alignment. Period.) I dug into the metaphysical reality of how men feed on womb energy. And I got clear on the fact that not every man is spiritually prepared—or even entitled—to touch that temple.

Marriage? For Who, For What?

I cracked open the lie that marriage is the highest form of love or legacy for women. When you really peel back the layers, marriage in this system is a contract designed by patriarchy, for patriarchy.

I sat with the truth: I am the covenant.
I am the institution.
I am the temple, the scroll, and the contract.

The Unseen War on Women Is Real.

I asked myself, “Am I paranoid? Or is there really an invisible war on women?”
Nah. Not paranoid.
It’s real. It’s legal. It’s spiritual. It’s economic. It’s generational. 

From the laws written against our bodies to the way capitalism siphons our labor, to the spiritual theft of Black and Indigenous women’s wisdom—the war is real. And yet…we’re still here. Still rising.

Soft Life Isn’t Just Brunch. It’s Black Cinema & Sacred Standards.

I pivoted into some joy this week, too. I reclaimed Black cinema as a form of self-care. I watched Rye Lane (2023)—a reminder that Black joy is an act of resistance.

I also sharpened my dating standards through a matriarchal lens. Because choosing partnership isn’t about being chosen—it’s about sacred alignment.

The Shadow Work Y’all Swear Is Protection, But Is Actually Collusion.

I didn’t ask those questions out of curiosity. I asked because the silence is louder than the crimes. Louder than the victims. Louder than the graves. Louder than the generational pain hidden under “family business.”

Let’s be clear: “What happens in the family stays in the family” isn’t protection. It’s a burial ground. For daughters. For nieces. For little cousins. For women taught to swallow screams and dress it up as strength.

These laws exist because violation isn’t an accident—it’s institutional. Woven into citizenship, property lines, and wedding vows.

When I asked, “Who commits these crimes the most?”—it wasn’t curiosity. It was confrontation. A “Look me in the face and deny it” moment.

Because everybody knows. The state knows. The archives know. The court records know. And the family photo albums? Oh, they know too.

Silence isn’t survival. Silence is inheritance.
An inheritance of broken bones in perfect bodies. Of laughter that tastes like rot. So to the women still preaching “We don’t air family business”—what exactly are you protecting? And at what cost? Keeping the secret doesn’t make the wound smaller. It just makes it generational.

Every single conversation this week boiled down to one truth:

“I am not a product. I am not a contract. I am not a colony. I am a sovereign, spiritual, breathing ecosystem. And I no longer participate in systems that profit off my disconnection from myself.”