Alright. I really wanted to write this hella inspirational blog about how I left the states and am venturing into this beautiful healing journey and how it is so wonderful and blah blah blah. But—this ain’t that. The healing process in my experience hasn’t ever been wonderful or comfortable, and more times than not—men be the band aid and temporary wound. This ain’t all about menfolk. But in this present moment, it is.
Y’all wanna hear a story about how I carried my Black ass all the way to Morocco and couldn’t even enjoy being put up in a cute ass hotel during an all-day layover because I was trippin’ over somebody’s dusty ass (actually very well moisturized) son?
Aight, so boom.
Back in March, after a few-hour conversation with my homegirl—that included a very serious verbal threat to live my best life—or else, I decided to pack up, sell and get rid of all my shit to spend some time abroad. Within two weeks, my apartment was bare, my car was sold, and I was in California spending a few weeks with my big brother before chucking the deuces to America.

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