Tag: life

Slow Down: Why You Don’t Need to Rush the End of the Year

This is the time of year when many of us are inundated with a call to “finish the year strong.”

A time when we will be pressured by businesses, organizations, and entrepreneurial gurus to race to the finish line. Social media posts will bombard us with how many days of the year are left, year-end discounts, constant promotions, and posts about how much we’ve grown before the year is even over.

But rushing into the new year doesn’t guarantee a fresh start. Sometimes, it just carries our burnout into January.

Yes, we know. January is not the start of a New Year. Anyone who has done the tiniest bit of research knows that a real new year starts in the spring, when everything is reborn, not in the dead of winter. Stay with me tho.

We’ve all experienced or witnessed the last-minute scramble of trying to summarize the year without fully processing it: trying to complete a weight loss program, write a book, or achieve financial goals in just 10 days. Office parties, school events, family gatherings, all crammed together to see who can win the most before January first.

It can feel like we’re running from something. Perhaps a feeling of not having done “enough,” maybe comparison, and maybe the belief that value is measured by productivity.

It’s already happening with Black Friday sales. As you may have noticed, I rarely have one. I have nothing against them, and I am sure I’ll have something special in the future. Maybe even next year. But for now, it just all feels so exhausting.

I’M TIRED YA’LL.

If you are also tired, remember there is nothing wrong with slowing down at a time when everyone is speeding up. If you are a nature person like me, you know nothing blooms all year long. We were born from the Earth, yet we move opposite to it.

While humans rush to prove their year was meaningful to other flawed humans, nature is slowing down for the winter months. Animals are hibernating, finding ways to escape the cold, and trees have shed their leaves, with plants stopping growth to conserve energy. Even the soil rests, with nutrients being regenerated under frost and snow.

Meanwhile, my neighbor blows his leaves every morning. Poor thing. I want so badly to tell him they are just going to fall again. Let them leaves alone. They are doing what they are supposed to do and helping the soil in the process.

On this side of the Earth, humans accelerate and accomplish as much as possible before the final countdown. But for other living things?

For them, this is a period of rest and preparation for spring.

Slowing down isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about doing what matters with intention.

When we slow down, we reclaim time.

We notice the beauty in ordinary moments, and we greet the “new year” with clarity rather than exhaustion.

Instead of rushing to create a version of ourselves that looks good on paper, we can walk grounded, nourished, and whole.

The end of the year is not a deadline.

It’s a doorway.

Walk through it gently.

An Artist’s Duty

I was sitting here thinking about how I got to this place of advocating for the restoration of Black history. If it were solely up to me, I would have chosen a less taxing, less unrewarding cause to advocate for.

However, in the words of Nina Simone, “I have no choice in the matter. An artist’s duty, as far as I am concerned, is to reflect the times.”

In school, I was not a student who loved history, and I certainly had no plans to teach it when I grew up.

Unlike other professions where a mistake can be smoothed over, history leaves no room for error. The slightest slip can draw the sting of a thousand voices ready to correct, dismiss, or condemn.

I’ve experienced people debating a point in a video or article they didn’t even finish watching or reading. Yet, here they are, flying Delta to the comment section to respond.

It’s like people talk with their mouths open, the meat still in between their teeth, droplets of spittle sky rocking out of their mouth from food they have not chewed properly, let alone swallowed.

In a time where many of the Civil Rights that Black people fought for are being stripped away, there is no safety net when the facts slip.

Still, I show up.

I press record and publish with hands slick from sweat, skin raw from the invisible cuts of criticism, and keep offering what my people literally bled to learn.

Even when I wonder why I’m doing this, I keep moving forward, not because it’s always fun. It is not. As the saying goes: “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

I move forward because I must, and because, to quote Toni Morrison, “This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”

And so, while it is not always exciting, it is worth it.

I march on, a pen in my hand, a computer in my lap, and a calling in my heart.

I am an artist, and this is my duty.

Breaking From Tradition Can Be a Good Thing

My big brother Ray, nieces Gigi, Jamie, Brook, and Me

Some families keep their history alive around picnic tables, their roots watered each summer by laughter, shared meals, and stories that stretch back generations.

Mine did not.

On my mother’s side, there were no great migrations back home for a weekend, no sea of matching shirts declaring our kinship, no annual roll call of who had been born, married, or passed on.

I didn’t grow up with the smell of charcoal and cousins’ laughter drifting across a summer lawn, the kind of memory stitched into photo albums and passed down like a family recipe. Family reunions simply weren’t our thing. There were no matching T-shirts, no group photos under a banner.

Cousin Laura, Pam, and Me sitting in the back of this truck like some thugs, lol

The closest I came to that sense of gathering was at Chicago block parties. We’d shut down the street, our banquet hall, line the sidewalks with tables and sizzling grills, and open the fire hydrant so the water arched into the air like a silver ribbon. Kids ran barefoot through a cracked-open hydrant, laughing because this time, no one called the police.

Music pulsed from speakers, and for one day, neighbors felt like cousins, and the whole block became family.

But it wasn’t our family.

Six years ago, this ended with our generation.

Jeremiah in the background (Nephew), Big Sissy Pamela, and Lil Cuzzo Angela

What began as a simple backyard barbecue has grown, year after year, into something bigger that we can finally call by its true name: a Family Reunion.

It’s a strange and humbling thing to realize we’re the aunts and unks now—the ones setting the tone, carrying the stories, and shaping the memories for our children.

We’ve rewritten the narrative we inherited.

Many of us are building marriages we’re proud of, raising children under our own roofs, and pursuing careers that light us up. We are not lost to the streets, not numbed by addiction, not absent from the lives we brought into this world.

Aunt Barbara, Lil Reg, and his daughters, Gigi and Brooklyn

Instead, we have passports now. We take our children to see oceans they’ve never touched, mountains they’ve never climbed, cities that speak in languages they’ve never heard. We give them richer experiences, not just with our words but with our lives.

Sometimes, breaking from tradition can be a good thing!

My crazy sisters and me: Yecheilyah, Tracey, Pam, and photo bombed by her daughter, Jamie.

Community Can Be Healing

I spent the weekend before last wrapped in the embrace of family down in Shreveport and Keithville, Louisiana, and it felt like medicine. We rode horses, walked barefoot through the grass, played with dogs, danced like children to country songs (which was hilarious…them country songs a lil freaky, lol) chased chickens, and kissed the soft cheeks of babies.

Cheese!!

In a world that seems to be unraveling, it’s easy to feel unanchored. People are losing their jobs and struggling to pay bills, Medicaid and SNAP Benefits are in danger, and storms, floods, and earthquakes abound. In times like these, it is soothing to turn to community, and I mean real community. To remember what it’s like to be held, to look people in their eyes, to walk barefoot in the grass, and to laugh without looking over your shoulder, waiting for the next unprecedented moment to drop.

We are living in a time when the only time people travel is to work. (And yes, I consider curated events that cost rent and mortgage money to attend is also work.) Time in the country on the farm (which we visit at least once a year) was a reminder of what real rest is, what it feels like, and why it is necessary.

This little baby wasn’t scared at all, lol.

I don’t know what you’re going through in your personal life. I have no idea of the storms you are literally or mentally walking through, but I do know that resting inside the warmth of community, however that looks to you, can be incredibly helpful.

For me, it’s family time since most of us live in different states now. I am excited to spend time with my Chicago people at our annual family BBQ next month. We’re heading to a resort, and it’s going to be a blast, hunny.

We are not supposed to do life alone. Hyper individualism is not the way. This idea that we don’t need anyone is not the song we are supposed to be dancing to. People brag about not having family and friends, and I think that’s sad. No wonder so many people are depressed. 

Whatever embracing community looks like to you, let it be more than a workcation or business venture. Let it be a real coming together. More than that, let it be a balm.

A reminder that community doesn’t just soothe the wounds, but sometimes, it also helps to stop the bleeding.

Rest is Revolutionary

Left to Right: Tarcia, KE, and EC

“Do revolutionaries rest?”

I laughed at Kathy’s question as we boarded the elevator to find something to wrap up my locs before I got in the water.

It was a line from Spike Lee’s film Malcolm X (or something to that effect). I was enjoying some much-needed time away at Kathy’s pool party in Florida. Her birthday is three days before mine, so it was the perfect quick getaway.

Her friend, Tarcia, echoed a similar sentiment about the importance of resting. I laughed because I don’t consider myself a revolutionary—I am just a person—but they were right: Rest is important, productive, and even revolutionary.

In a culture that glorifies the grind, where packed calendars are badges of honor and constant posting is mistaken for purpose, the sacred productivity of rest is often overlooked. We’ve been conditioned to equate stillness with laziness, but rest is not a sign of lack; it’s a source of strength. To be rested is to return to yourself. Rested minds see more clearly.

Rested souls make wiser choices. Rested bodies carry less tension and less fear. Rest is not an interruption of the work but part of it. It is where discernment sharpens, vision deepens, and peace becomes possible.

Our ancestors knew the value of quiet restoration. In resting, we remember what the noise tries to make us forget: we are worthy, even in stillness.

I don’t know where life finds you right now, but I wish you rest, sacred rest, deeper than sleep—the kind that restores what the world has worn thin. I wish you laughter that dances from your belly like praise and moments so light you forget to be guarded.

May you find spaces to let your crown breathe, your shoulders drop, and your soul stretch wide. I wish you peace that wraps around you like a warm blanket, sings to you like a lullaby, patience that doesn’t rush your becoming, and a calm as steady and holy as waves kissing the shore.

PS: Thank you to everyone who wished me a Happy Birthday yesterday, 5/26. I am always grateful because people don’t have to do these things or show up for you, so I appreciate those who do! Cheers to 38 and feeling great! lol 🙂

So, What’s Tea?

I take a slow, measured sip of my coffee, savoring both the drink and the moment before exhaling softly.

“Now that you have your mug and are snug like a bug in a rug, here’s what I’ve been up to lately…”

February has been full, starting with Hubby and I celebrating our fifteenth marriage anniversary on 2/17.

Most recently, we also celebrated the first anniversary of releasing my first nonfiction history book, Black History Facts You Didn’t Learn in School, which came out on February 24, 2024. For those of you who know, I usually write historical fiction, so this was my first time doing nonfiction.

This first year has been a blessing, and the support has been monumental. So far, we’ve been placed in four bookstores and one school and have sold hundreds of copies.

Book Signing and Meet and Greet | 2/8/25 | Medu Bookstore, Greenbriar Mall, Atlanta

For reference, I am a self-published, independent author without a massive crew behind me. I am not affiliated with any huge publishing firms or financed by any organization. Indie authors work hard but receive only a fraction of the visibility that a major publisher would provide. Thus, seeing our hard work pay off is extremely special.

I am drafting a separate post detailing the three things I did that set this book apart, which I will post later.

Before I tell you the other thing, let me refill your cup. There you go.

Another thing you should know is that today, just a few days after our bookversary, Tabitha Brown reposted a Black History video I did some weeks ago on the Safe Bus Company. Instagram and Facebook are going bananas, chile.

As a reserved and introverted person, this is a lot. However, I am humbled and thankful for the opportunity to reach many new people who are passionate about restoring the Black Historical Truth.

Finally, I have packed my bags and jumped on the Substack bandwagon. However, what I am sharing over there is a bit different. I want to lean more into my story and build deeper connections this year.

I have decided to start with what it’s like living with a steel plate in my thigh. Below is a description of my publication series and a link to follow me if you want to learn more.

Thanks so much for spending this time with me! You can leave your cup on the table. I’ll get that. Don’t forget that your shoes are by the door and your coat is hanging up in the closet!

Substack Info:

I Wasn’t Built to Break

“I Wasn’t Built to Break” is an intimate, behind-the-scenes journey into life with a steel plate inside my body. This series takes you through the pivotal moments that shaped me—from my early upbringing to the life-altering accident that nearly took everything when I was hit by a car. With raw honesty, I share the physical and emotional battles of recovery and what it truly means to rebuild a life that was almost lost.

Subscribe to read my articles! The first one is free and available now.

https://yecheilyah.substack.com/

The next meet-up is tomorrow, 2/28! See you soon.

Concrete Rose Episode Two: The White Lady

“I give a holler to my sisters on welfare
Tupac cares, if don’t nobody else care”

You know, it’s funny when it rains it pours
They got money for wars, but can’t feed the poor.”

-Tupac, Keep Ya Head Up

Even though life tried to take me out in a toilet, I got here healthy, drug-free, and a head full of hair.

After two weeks in the hospital, Mama was allowed to take me home, if that’s what you wanna call it. Our building had been built in the 60s, but it wasn’t much of a building by the late 80s and into the early 90s.

Rats and roaches plagued our apartments, and the housing authorities couldn’t care less. Brand-new babies like me were brought home to nothing but drug dealers and addicts, children sprawled about like clothes somebody left on the floor and forgot to wash, so it wasn’t no surprise when The White Lady came.

That’s what people said when the social workers came to inspect the low-income apartments, “The White Lady.” They ain’t never have a name.

The woman stood in the kitchen, talking to Mama, and looking around our place with distaste. She gazed at the Crisco on top of the stove, as well as the dish rack, which was piled high with plates, bowls, cups, and cutlery. It wasn’t cute, but it was clean.

Her gaze moved to my brother and me, who were playing on the thick blanket on the floor we called a pallet. Well, he was playing, and I was doing whatever it was babies do.

My Uncle Rome hid in the closet next to the bathroom cause he wasn’t on the lease. Black women weren’t allowed to have a man in the house in those days if they wanted to get the Welfare. We also had to hide the new toaster, dish rack, and telephone so they wouldn’t take away any money.

“Mrs. House, your son is developing slowly for his age…”

The short, green-eyed blonde balanced a clipboard in her arms and scratched her nose with the tip of her writing pen. The hoop ring in her right nostril and the sunflower tattoo on her exposed arm caught my Uncle Jerome’s eye.

My favorite uncle and unofficial babysitter, we called my mother’s little brother Rome for short. He thought he was Romeo to every woman’s Juliet. His dark chocolate skin tone and thick lips drove them crazy. Mama said if he took the time to read Romeo and Juliet’s story, he might want to be somebody else.

“Ain’t nothing romantic about no Romeo and Juliet,” she’d lecture him when he bragged about his latest escapades.

“Why is that?”

“They both died fool.”

Uncle Rome said he wasn’t into white women like that, but this one was “sho-nuff fine.” Unk was lying. He loved him some white women. He just wanted to know why she was so young and how long she’d been working with social services to where she could take his sister’s kids.

“…and your 2-month-old is malnourished,” said the White Lady.

“It’s Miss House,” said Mama, taking a drag of her cigarette, inhaling smoke, and blowing it out of her nose. “Since you know so damn much.”

Uncle Rome did one of those fake coughs you do to cover up a laugh.

The lady ignored my mother. “Miss House, have you been using the Food Stamps?”

Unk said Mama frowned, “Yes, I use my stamps. Fuck I look like not to use Food Stamps?”

“I just wanna make sure you didn’t sell them, is all,” said the white lady.

“Oh, so you my judge now? I look incompetent to you?”

See, that’s what I loved about Mama. Yeah, she was a heroin addict, but she wasn’t no fool. A wordsmith with a mouth like a two-edged sword, she’ll curse you out every which way but loose and diversify her vocabulary while at it so you can know she’s cursing because she wants to, not because she doesn’t have the words to say what’s on her mind.

Mama used to write poems and stories before she got pregnant with Aaron. She also went to school to do hair. There wasn’t nothing my Mama couldn’t do. I wished she would get back to her art. Maybe that would help keep her away from the drugs.

“Look, are you done? Cause, as you can see, I have kids to look after.”

The woman scanned the apartment once more, frowning at a roach crawling on the wall. “Let’s just hope you are taking care of these children. This is your final warning, Miss House. If I have to come back here again…”

“Yeah, I know,” interrupted Mama, blowing out more smoke. “Are we done?”

The woman nodded, “We are.”

As she walked toward the door, she stopped to look once more at us and then back at my mother. “Probably not a good idea for you to smoke in front of the children.”

Mama rolled her eyes, dropped the cigarette on the floor, stomped it with her foot, and waved the woman off.

According to my uncle’s story, the woman left us alone after that. But, in my fifth month, someone new came to visit, and I was taken away from Mama and placed in foster care, where I would stay for the next five years.

Did you miss episode one? Check it out here!

Again, I am sharing based on interest! If you like this episode and want to move on to episode 3 (“Miss Sophia,”) let me know! 😃