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At the fresh age of 46, I waved a white flag and shut down all of my dating profiles. Facebook Dating, Bumble, Hinge: I was using them all simultaneously for months. Not because I’m a player, but because I wanted to widen my reach to meet The One. 

After months of trying, I lost all interest in swiping, texting, chatting, and dating men with whom I felt no connection or desire to be with. And so, on April 16, 2024, I surrendered myself to the possibility of meeting my husband the good old-fashioned way. 

Maybe I would meet him at the mall. Or the grocery store. Or at ‘da club like I met one of my exes back in the day. My experiment was somewhat successful. A guy approached me at the Smith Haven Mall and asked for my number. Only he was 22 years old. Another swerved his car around when leaving the Lidl parking lot, almost running into me while I packed my groceries in my trunk. He rolled down his window.

“I saw you walking out of the grocery store and had to turn around. You are beautiful. Can I have your number?” he said hopefully. 

“Let me take yours.” 

I never called him. Although his valiant Fast and the Furious efforts were extremely flattering, I wasn’t physically attracted to him. 

Then there was the recent guy who I was attracted to, did have chemistry with, and the feelings were mutual. I met him at a bar when out with a girlfriend. I was intrigued, excited even, until he pulled his hands from out of his pockets and revealed his black metal wedding band. Married Guy still kept pushing up on me, but I’m not in the business of being la otra. 

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Now here I am 5 months since bidding farewell to online dating and willing to give it another shot. Cause I’m still single. I still want to be in a committed relationship. I am still hopeful for The One. Maybe I will meet him on The League, a new dating app I’m venturing into any day now. And by any day now that means I am still psyching myself up to set up my profile and reenter the world of online dating. 

I know that I can be successful if I have the right mindset. I met my ex fiance and Evan’s dad, Dave, on POF when I moved back to NYC from Los Angeles. I met a very special someone that I call “Eric” (you can read a poem I wrote about us here) on Bumble at the heels of turning 44. Two different men and relationships that ended, yes, but that still hold a special place in my heart. Dave is the father of my son. Eric is…well, just read the poem. 

What I know about meeting Dave and “Eric” online is that I was ready at the time that I met them. I was excited to meet someone new. To have an adventure. To fall in love. This is not where I’ve been this past year since things ended between “Eric” and me. Instead of trying to meet someone, I focused on loving myself and cultivating a healthier mindset regarding love, men, commitment, and self-worth. I now feel like a more evolved version of myself. 

And so, I am ready to swipe, chat, text, and date. Find me on The League where I’ll be open to meeting The One all while keeping my eyes peeled at the grocery store. 

Thank you for rocking with me. Thank you for reading. Thank you for rooting for me and my hopeful, resilient heart.

P.S. Please heart this post and/or comment. It helps me gain more visibility on Substack.

Till next time…

xoxo,

Sujeiry

It is dedicated to someone very special. He knows who he is.

Lastly, heart this post to show me love! Subscribe for free to stay in the loop.

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HEAT

I feel heat between us.
It sticks in the air between us.
Steamy.
Heavy.
Skin glistening.
Pussy moistening,
pooling inside lacy, black underwear, 
anticipating the explosion between us.

My wetness covers your tip before you penetrate.
Gazing into each other's eyes is our foreplay.

I feel heat between us.
A mugginess so stifling it’s hard to breathe.
Kismet.
Connected.
Pussy throbbing.
Heart palpitating.
You pull me into your sweet relief.
Sucking on lower lips, 
fleshy skin,
writhing hips.
A heat so intense we can’t help but lean in.

Tracing hearts on your bronze back with colorful nails,
you enter me.
Screaming so loud when I come,
the neighbors can feel my ecstasy. 

And even when there is space between us,
I am transfixed by memories of bliss
while driving down Sunrise in my ride,
recalling the crinkles in your sexy brown eyes,
how our legs intertwine
as we lay naked in bed,
bearing goals, dreams, and fears 
while sometimes close to tears.

I know.

The heat between us sounds like a fantasy.
Something most chuck up to lust and chemistry. 
When in fact, it's a rhapsody of music and poetry.
Inexplicable familiarity. 
Connectivity. 
Like we’ve met before.
Soul mates in a past life,
loving each other under Incan and Taino skies.

So I hold onto the heat between us,
because it’s not ordinary between us. 
As we move through life,
I still feel it between us. 
I breath it in,
respecting the space between us. 
Seeking comfort in past words spoken when there is silence between us.
Ears perk up when melodies we’ve made love to fill the silence between us. 

I continue to move to your rhythm.
To flow within your prism. 
Unafraid to be burned by the heat between us. 
And when it hurts, I blow away the pain with open lips.
Wear the scars proudly on golden skin.
Because what matters is what we feel between us.
That you’ve set my heart ablaze
in so many new and exciting ways.

And so I’ll wear the scars proudly on my skin.
I come back for more, another taste. 
Another tender moment and warm embrace between us. 
To hear more loving words between us. 
To feel the heat between us,
over and over again.

I can roll my tongue like a tube. I can wind my waist and drop it like it’s hot even at 44. I can talk a mile a minute while simultaneously storing detailed information inside The Vault (my brain). But, there are a lot more things that I cannot do.

Like wrapping my legs around my neck. Or doing the split. Or swimming in deep waters because I feel unsafe when I do not feel the ground underneath me.

Like having sex without connection. Or slowing down emotionally when I’m bursting with feelings of like and love. Or ceasing to fantasize about Eric, creating fanciful scenarios straight out of a romcom.

Like feigning interest in a person or a job. Or pretending that I’m not a hopeless romantic. Or being fake about what I feel because I wear my heart on both sleeves and express all of my feelings through my eyes. Or opening myself to other romantic connections when I already feel so fucking connected.

Yet, here I am doing all the things I never thought I could do:

Like loving effortlessly. And pushing past my fear of getting my heart broken. And believing in the impossible because I make everything possible. And setting boundaries all while sending light. And pouring into Eric and having more than enough to pour into me.

Like flowing. And letting go of romantic attachments. And detaching from an outcome while manifesting said outcome effortlessly. And believing that all things are temporary. And not believing that space somehow equates to my being unworthy.

Like not taking things personally. And knowing my value and worth, yet, not hardening myself when others aren’t valuing me as they should. And loving without conditions, expectations, or timelines.

I can do these things now because my heart is pure love. Because I no longer feel jaded or store past hurts and betrayal within. Because I have ascended spiritually. Because I am light and desire to pour my light onto others. So I do.

I do not hold back out of fear. I do not stop myself from engulfing Eric in my light despite his shadow. I do not shut the door. I do not make his pain about me.

I see past the now. Past the chaos of life. Past the things I could not do because I know now that I can do fucking anything.

I want to send a shoutout to my new paid subscribers! I truly appreciate your support. If you have not done so already and wish to sign up for a monthly and/or annual subscription on Substack to access ALL of my stories, you can do so below. Now let’s get to this week’s story!

Uh oh. I look at my reflection in the mirror and watch my chest rise. Heave. Tighten. I hear my heart in my ears, beating like a stampede of horses desperately racing toward the finish line.

“Breathe,” I whisper, redirecting my attention to the waves that fall from my scalp. To my blonde highlights and naturally bronzed skin. To anything other than the nervous excitement that reverberates through my body when thinking about Eric while curling my hair or driving down Sunrise Highway and later missing my exit.

Eric. He typed his way into my life on Bumble on a spring day in May, and I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before. We mirror each other in ways that I’ve only read in romance novels and on blogs that describe a “soul mate connection.”

“This feels different,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. My chest loosens as I mentally acknowledge that I am not the person that I was 3 years ago: a woman that didn’t feel worthy of a reciprocal relationship. A woman ill equipped to handle an authentic and vulnerable connection.

“Breathe,” I repeat, as it dawns on me that that woman only wanted to be chosen. So much so that she engaged in relationships with men that didn’t deem her worthy of choice. They cheated, choosing other woman, or they were emotionally unavailable.

I also take accountability. Because in love and life we always have a choice. I chose to partake in mediocre connections that were built on shaky foundations, surface level compatibility, and basic communication due to my feelings of unworthiness.

“That was then,” I say to myself, exhaling deeply. My shoulders drop. My beating heart slows down a little and a flutter pulsates within. Goosebumps. That’s my intuition rising, speaking to me through my body. Feeling hopeful, joyful and triumphant. Because this is the new me: a woman that knows her value and shows up authentically in all ways.

This is the Sujeiry that met Eric one spring day in May on Bumble. Not the woman that hides herself and suppresses her feelings. Not the woman that fears she feels too much and that those feelings will scare men away. Not the woman that only writes about pain because it’s where she feels safest.

I breathe. Inhale and exhale. Ready to dive into the depths of Eric’s eyes, our sensual kisses, and meaningful exchanges because I finally feel that I deserve it.

It’s been a while since I’ve written a poem despite poetry being my first foray into writing. I can still remember penning a poem about my first high school crush, pouring all of my feelings onto the page. So much angst, so little awareness of love and relationships. And hating every second of not knowing what would occur next with the elusive “us.”

I’ve always struggled with the unknown. Whether that was waiting for another to reveal his feelings for me or to solidify our romantic relationship, I felt a loss of control as a relationship developed. Losing control felt like leaving my heart in someone else’s hands, and I feared being crushed more than I fear flying cockroaches and bees. Often, that very fear propelled me to make an impulsive decision: to fight or to fly.

To “fight” often looked like this: speak up (maybe a little too aggressively) and exert my power (ok, very aggressively) and not take no answer for an answer (I cringe just typing this).

To “fly” often looked like this: block his number as tears and snot merged into one while I swore off men forever. (I was a hot ass mess.)

Today, I take a different approach, resisting the defense mechanism that so desperately desires to shield me from any more pain. Today, as a 44-year-old well-rounded, dynamic, emotionally intelligent, and confident and faithful woman, I choose to meditate instead of spiral, to journal and write instead of react and reject. To dance and sing and laugh and play because there is so much good in life. I take in the lessons of the connections that have come into my life and that sometimes exist as unexpectedly as they showed up. I remain open to what God provides, whether that is someone new entirely or the same person at a different moment in time. And through it all, I focus on loving myself more, developing my intuition and continuing to grow confidently in my womanhood, in using my discernment, and in being my most authentic self always and in all ways.

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Through it all, my heart remains open. Open to love, to heartache, to confusion and pain. To not knowing a damn thing about anything except what I desire and what I truly deserve.

My Heart Remains Open

My heart

remains open

as a way of saying,

“Fuck you,”

to loss and pain,

to breaks and betrayal,

to deep-seated abandonment trauma

that spirals

out of my control

in real time

whenever my mind

creates narratives of rejection

from the misinterpretation

of words,

energy,

and body language.

Any shift in behavior

under a microscope,

my intuition dissecting

every conversation and caress,

as a form of protection.

Only it’s not my third eye that

jumps to conclusions,

making assumptions

about intentions.

It’s fear and anxiety,

my inner child crying,

afraid to feel more

loss and pain,

breaks and betrayal.

Trying to release

the deep-seated abandonment trauma

that is triggered

when anyone leaves,

asks for space,

even when it’s not about me.

A fear that I heal

with every connection,

every kiss and ecstatic penetration,

every vagina-clenching,

pulsating orgasm

as you thrust inside of me

with your sexual prowess

and a hard erection.

I lay naked,

my heart remaining open

as she whispers,

“I want more…”

Love.

Intimacy.

Connection,

You.

Me.

Us.

Even if it hurts.

Even when I’m scared.

Even if it’s temporary.

I’ve sat inside a love bubble. I’ve swam in it. Floated in it. Drowned out the outside noise and locked eyes and energies with one man, as if we are the only two humans on Earth. You probably have too. The Love Bubble, also known as unexplainable chemistry and physical attraction, pulls us all in. You sit in it. You swim in it. Float in it. And feel pure, vibrating bliss.

But bliss can be fleeting, particularly when your love bubble is made up of soapy water that only forms a thin film. Soapy Love Bubbles are easy to pop from the inside out. Impossible to recreate once destroyed. They’re what romance novels are made of.

My ex-fiancé and I drowned ourselves in this type of love bubble at the start of our relationship. And, oh, did our love bubble feel like a Harlequin book, ripe with angst, confusion, “choose me” vibes, instant physical attraction, and void of any real emotional and spiritual depth. We had little in common. Our communication styles and our needs and values clashed. We had opposing views on gender roles, finances, work, family, and chasing our passions. I still think back and wonder, how did we ever fall love, get engaged, and make a conscious decision to get pregnant and have Evan?

I can now see the flimsiness and unsustainability of our love bubble. Mostly because hindsight is 20/20, but also because I’m in a new bubble with Eric. Like previous connections, it began soapy. In a matter of 5 weeks, it’s transformed into a “gelatinous” (his word, not mine) bubble - and there isn’t a ripped bodice or damsel in distress in sight.

Gelatinous love bubbles are what love poems are made of. When Anais Nin writes, “I felt the tear and the pain, but the warmth melted everything, the warmth of his voice in my ear saying, ‘Do you want me as I want you?’”, she writes of the gelatinous love bubble.

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When Rumi writes, ““I want to see you. Know your voice. Recognize you when you
first come ’round the corner. Sense your scent when I come into a room you’ve just left. Know the lift of your heel, the glide of your foot. Become familiar with the way you purse your lips then let them part, just the slightest bit, when I lean in to your space and kiss you. I want to know the joy of how you whisper ‘more,’” he writes of the gelatinous love bubble.

It’s a space void of confusion, angst and “choose me” vibes. Filled with a genuine connection, deep and open conversations, an intimate familiarity and ease, and oh, so much chemistry. We sit in our Gelatinous Love Bubble. We swim in it and float in it with an inner knowing that the only thing that can crush it is fear.

“So he stood in front of me…like inches away from my lips. He cocked his head to the right a little before closing his eyes…”

“Go on,” my best friend, Christina, nodded eagerly.

“He said,” I cleared my throat and took a dramatic pause, “I can’t imagine you not being in my life.”

Christina’s eyes grew as big as saucers. A smile spread across her face and her freckles seemed that much more prominent. The retelling of my encounter with Kurt serving as the sun that illuminates her skin on a hot summer day.

“That means something, right? Like…he wants to be with me?” I studied Christina’s face, hoping that her logical mind could help me decipher Kurt’s words. He was as difficult to unravel as Saturday’s New York Times crossword puzzle. He was an enigma wrapped in a riddle and stuffed in the analogies that stumped me on the SAT’s back in 1995.

I felt terrified to ask him a direct question about our non-relationship. I knew he’d run away, ignoring me on campus. Or he’d cover the chair beside him, where I often sat during our shared Communications course, with his bookbag and hoodie.

“Well, it seems like he wants to be with you,” Christina crossed her arms, still thinking, “he just can’t say it.”

I nodded, agreeing with Christina’s hypothesis because that’s what I wanted to believe. That Kurt desired me despite rotating women every semester.

Those words he uttered that day stayed with me for two years, they kept me trapped after every dismissal and each rejection. I remained steadfast, believing that he would eventually choose me. Until then, I would continue to analyze everything. The way he lowered his head and narrowed his eyes when he hit on another girl on campus. I didn’t have to hear him utter sweet nothings, I could just see it in his body language. How he stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground slightly, still managing to hold my gaze, when he said he cared about me and didn’t want to lose me.

Examining Kurt’s behavior became my second part-time, work study job. Like a sleuth, I calculated where I would stumble upon him on campus. I studied his routine and waited with baited breath outside of Barlett Hall to ensure another brief encounter. I perked up when I saw his black jeep parked in a handicap spot, thanks to him copping a pass illegally, hoping he’d offer me a ride back to Southwest. And when we finally engaged in conversation, I’d replay our dialogue in my head so I didn’t forget a nuance or expression before bringing it back to Christina for deconstruction.

This is how I dated all throughout college, even after Kurt graduated, and in my 20s. Trapped in a cycle of scrutinizing a potential romantic partner and lover despite my best efforts. Stuck in my head and overthinking every word choice and action, despite how anxious it all made me feel. Needing to feel that I had control over something because I couldn’t control a person’s behavior or feelings, but at least I could try to decipher what could potentially happen next. Believing that figuring it all out would lead me closer to the healthy, open, communicate, loving, and reciprocal relationship that I craved when, in reality, analyzing everything kept me in my head, hindering me from opening up emotionally.

Because letting go is scary as fuck. It’s also the only way to connect. Letting go is scary as fuck, but I still choose to stop playing games and unleash control.

At 44 years old, I no longer swallow my feelings. In fact, I am more in tune with my authentic self and more vulnerable than ever before. Gone are the days of analysis paralysis. I actively choose to feel and fantasize without expectation. And I talk myself down when Fear creeps in and urges me to shut down.

I let go. I flow. I live in the moment. And I analyze nothing.

CRASH! I dart down the long corridor and jump inside my bedroom. Slamming the door behind me, I survey the room in a panic before shimming my tiny body under my twin-sized bed. I inhale deeply, taking in the dust mites and cobwebs inside my windpipe, down my throat, past my voice box, and into my lungs. I hold it all inside: the fear that my father will hurt my mother, that a mouse will find me in the dark and devour me limb from limb, and that my life will always be outside of my control.

My father’s footsteps grow closer. I flinch as he stomps down the long corridor and past my bedroom. CRASH! He slams the door behind him and I release, exhaling slowly to calm my anxiety. Relief washes over me. The fear dissipates and I am freed from its darkness if only for a moment. Because Fear always finds me. Specifically, the fear of getting my heart broken and being eaten alive by consuming feelings of love that I have little control over. It is always lurking beneath the surface, like a dark shadow following my every move.

It finds me, but I no longer feed it cobwebs and dust mites. Because on May 21st, 2022, Mami’s 73rd birthday, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and told Fear to fuck off. I looked at her dead in the eyes and demanded that she release me from her hold so that I can connect emotionally without holding my breath or waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"If I get hurt, I get hurt,” I said to my reflection, “you will be fine. So let go.”

And just like that, I felt lighter, no longer feeling a need to run away as a form of protection. No longer wearing impenetrable and emotionally debilitating armor. No longer afraid to crash.

CRASH! I slammed the door behind me, abandoning Fear, and floated into the strong, warm arms of a man named Eric.

CRASH! I leaned in as he caressed my back and softly nibbled my lips while “Señorita” played in the background under a sign that read “Changing Times.”

CRASH! Our eyes danced to the rhythm of the music as our energetic pull intensified.

CRASH! All eyes on us and our bubble, filled with the warmth, safety, and tenderness that we all long for.

Some Thoughts

The tragedy that occurred in Uvalde, TX has left me heartbroken, as I’m sure all of you are. Please consider donating to these legitimate organizations that are aiding the families.

• Verified donation hub for all families on GoFundMe

• A fundraiser organized by VictimsFirst, a network of survivors and relatives affected by previous mass shootings.

• Uvalde school district opened an official account with First State Bank of Uvalde to support Robb Elementary families affected by the tragedy. Send checks through the mail to the "Robb School Memorial Fund" or donate money through Zelle to robbschoolmemorialfund@gmail.com.

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I’m a jealous person if you give me a reason to be. I may not jump into a yellow cab to stalk your every step as you walk down the block with your boys, but I’ll crawl out of my skin and claw at a woman who threatens my relationship.

Grecia was a threat. And I was the black panther that sensed it the night D and I’s friends and family first comingled. So I pounced when she said “pussy.”

D had invited her to our Sunday Night Football bar outing in Queens. Only he didn’t tell me on the drive over from The Dungeon. We walked into the bar, passing the crowds of patrons as they rooted for their favorite team. We turned the corner and I saw her sitting there from a distance, cozying up to D’s college friends.

“She’s everywhere, she’s always fucking everywhere,” I whispered under my breath.

“What?” asked D.

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“Nothing,” I responded. It was of no use to share my disdain for her; D would chuck it up to jealousy. He would never admit to it, but he loved the idea of a jealous girlfriend. One night we stopped at a pizza shop for a delicious NY slice. He parked the car and, while I waited in the passenger seat, I noticed D speaking to a young Asian woman inside. I peered over the hood of the car, my neck stretching to get a closer look from the street.

When D returned to the car, he handed me the pizza box and smirked. “I saw you looking over there, you were jealous,” he teased, his face lit up with glee.

“If I were jealous I would have stormed in there,” I said lightly, laughing it off, “but I don’t have any reason to do that. I trust you.”

I did trust him. D never gave me a reason not to. Until he continued to invite Grecia to every BBQ, every bar hop, every party…every damn thing.

So I saw red when I walked in. With a clenched jaw, I greeted everyone hello, including Grecia. I wanted to sneer at her, growl. But I knew what D would say: you’re just jealous. I didn’t want to look like the crazy girlfriend, the insecure partner that forbids her man from having female friends. Even though I knew better. Even though I knew her intention behind “pussy.”

“Has anyone dated a black man?” one of D’s friends asked. We were engaged in a heated debate regarding interracial dating and why BIPOC women are dating outside their race in record numbers.

“I’ve never dated a black man, but a black man ate my pussy,” Grecia blurted.

She cocked her head back and laughed, showing off a flash of her overbite. And there was D, sitting right beside her, while she painted a picture of being eaten out. I fought the urge to punch her horse teeth back into her mouth.

“You need to stop,” I growled, “that’s so fucking inappropriate.”

“What?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“You’re talking about getting oral sex amongst a group of couples. No one was talking about sex. It’s disrespectful,” I sneered.

“It’s not that serious.” She waved her hand and turned her face away from me.

“I am tired of your shit! I am not the one to fuck with!” I yelled across the table.

“Calm down, Sujeiry,” D said, “why are you getting so angry? It’s not a big deal.”

“It is. She needs to know her place. And you need to stop defending her.”

My face felt hot. I seethed. I lay my hands and pressed my palms on the wooden table in front of me to keep me from leaping across the table and biting her face off.

I didn’t care what it looked like to D’s friends or even to D anymore. They could call me crazy, insecure, and jealous. I knew what she was doing. But it didn’t matter. Because D would always take her side. Because I probably should have been jealous. Because he painted a picture where I was the huntress and she was my prey. Because maybe they were already fucking.

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I’m sneaking in with one last plea (ok, never last) to subscribe. I’m trying to buy a house and the mortgage is too damn high!

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We walked in hand in hand. I turned to D and beamed. This was a monumental moment for us as a couple. We knew what it meant to merge our friends and family together under a Midtown, rooftop bar in NYC. D and I were a serious couple. We were the real fucking deal. 

I floated up the stairs. Nothing could kill my vibe. I surveyed the room as I entered and didn’t see any familiar faces. D held me by the waist with his right hand and waved at a girl at the bar with his left. “That’s my friend, Grecia,” he said. And he led me to her. 

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Grecia hugged D first. She smiled from ear to ear and took a swig from her drink. She looked at me, her smile slightly fading, and pulled me in for a kiss on the cheek, like a good Dominican girl. That was my last interaction with Grecia that night. Despite this being our moment, she chose to mingle with D’s friends as they trickled in. 

I felt her distance. Her detachment. Her lack of interest in getting to know me or my loved ones. His friends felt her warmth as she laughed alongside them, chugging drinks while sitting across from me at the other end of the long table. D stood by my side most of the night. His eyes on me. His lips kissing me. His arms holding me. We had sex in the girls bathroom. We were the real fucking deal. 

And at the end of the night, drunk with liquid courage (I had enough to drink to have sex in a public restroom), I leaned into D and asked, “What’s up with your friend, Grecia?” I couldn’t shake her energy. I couldn’t ignore my woman’s intuition. 

“Nothing, why?” he answered. 

“She hasn’t been very friendly. She hasn’t talked to me at all, actually, and isn’t that the point of us getting our friends together?” I replied. 

“I don’t know, maybe she had a bad day. Don’t read into it, boo.” 

I didn’t read into her behavior. I carried on that night and solely focused on my friends and my bae. I carried on at D’s birthday party months later, ignoring her phony attempts at friendliness, and focused on celebrating my bae. I carried on a year later after I cursed her out for saying “pussy” and blurting out various sexual innuendos in front of my bae, and suppressed my demands of “no contact” between her and my bae. I carried on after finding their text exchange on his phone three years later, and forgave him for his indiscretion because of my love for my son and my bae.

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I should have seen it coming. The signs were all there the first day we met and a woman’s intuition never fails. Her coldness. Her disinterest. They all pointed to her desire for D and her disdain for me. Because we were the real fucking deal.  We were the real fucking deal until she became a real fucking problem. Until he chose her over me again and again and again.

Next week’s story, “Pussy,” delves into the night where I fought with Grecia. Become a paid subscriber to read that story next Thursday.

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He grips the bottom of my t-shirt, pulling it so it stretches and snaps back as he walks inside. The older gentleman coaxes him in. I bend over, hold back tears, and say, “It’s ok, bub,” and stop myself from singing the lullaby that I sang to him when I decided to leave his father. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok, my little boy…”

I stand straight, readjust my mustard, leopard print tee, and muster the strength of a million moms who have done this before. Only this isn’t like I imagined it would be. It’s the first day of Kindergarten and, for his protection, Evan must wear a mask for 6 consecutive hours. He will meet his teachers and classmates, but will not see their faces.

My drop-off experience is also tainted. On day one, I am limited to the school building foyer. On day two, I hand over my son, Evan, and watch as a female staff member walks him from the front of the school building to the school cafeteria in the back. I watch as he melts down because their 2-minute interaction isn’t enough for Evan to have the familiarity he needs to feel safe. And I need that also. I hate that I haven’t met his teachers. I hate that I haven’t seen the inside of his classroom. And when Evan walked away from me that first day of school with a stranger (I don’t even know his name), sobbing through his white Elmo mask, I thought, how fucking traumatizing.

For me, transition has always been that way. From Evan being left alone in a cafeteria with a group of unfamiliar faces to accepting that I had to restart my life as a single mom at 40 years old, we have been forced to accept change despite our pleas for sameness. Evan didn’t want to go to a new school. I didn’t want my relationship with his father to crumble. Yet here we are.

And just like Evan has to suck up his boogers and wipe away tears without my comforting song, I have to swallow my anger and heartache when I hear my son mention her name.

For his protection, I pretend that it doesn’t affect me because he’s innocent and doesn’t understand that the woman he mentions was his dad’s mistress and now partner. I have to close my eyes and push away visions of the silk pillow, because that memory leads me to imagine them in bed together, fucking their brains out. 

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I snap out of it. Watching Evan turn back at me, big drops of tears soaking his mask breaks me apart because I can’t do anything about it, just like I can’t do anything about him being with her. And as I walk away from Evan and from the anger that is often at the brink of boiling over, I stop and breathe. I tuck in my mustard, leopard print tee, walk away, and muster the strength not to break again. I stand in the September sun and sing in a whisper, “It’s ok, it’s ok, my little boy. We’re going to be ok.”

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I’m sneaking in with one last plea (ok, never last) to subscribe. I’m trying to buy a house and the mortgage is too damn high!

Two years ago today I made a decision that changed the trajectory of my life. As I drove to work on a cool November morning, I listened to a preaching by T.D. Jakes about embracing the unknown and trusting God and said, “God, please show me the way.”

I arrived at work and I was immediately summonsed by my boss. Once again she pummeled me with work that was completely out of my job title. I walked out of her office and stomped down the long corridor to my office, knowing that I had to leave the position. I had had enough of being taking advantage of and being undervalued.

Irritated, I swung my office door open and plopped myself on my deck chair.

“Buzz!” my phone said. I slid my thumb up the screen and revealed a text from my fiancé.

“We have to talk about how you’re going to contribute more financially.”

Frustrated, my eyes watered. Sick of being told I didn’t do enough, which triggered by feelings of not being enough, I didn’t hold back my feelings for the first time in our 4.5 year relationship.

“I just began working. I need to pay my bills before I can contribute since you never helped me pay anything when I had our son,” I texted angrily. I turned my phone on silent, putting his messages on Do Not Disturb, and shoved my cell phone in my pocket.

Closing my eyes, I knew this was the sign that I asked from God. I knew I had to abandon this relationship. I knew I had to leave a job that underpaid me and that wasn’t aligned with who I was and the talents that God blessed me with since birth.

It was time to be my own woman again, to stop relying on a man and a relationship to define my worth, and to embrace my gifts and my deep-seated desire to be a writer and an entrepreneur again, despite how much my then partner tried stifling my creativity. He hated how unconventional I was, how much I wanted to create for a living, and how - no matter how hard he tried to put me in a box - my passion was too big contain.

It was time. And as I drove back home feeling ready to demolish a relationship that lacked empathy, compassion and love head one, I received another message from God in the form of a whisper: Wait. Get ready.

“Ok,” I replied while driving down Commonwealth Street, “I will wait till I’m stable and can tackle this head one without regrets.”

Two years ago today, I decided. A month later I pulled the plug from my relationship and connected with my true self again. I’ve been lit ever since.

Interested in more of my Love Trips? Buy Love Trips: A Collection of Relationship Stumbles on Amazon!

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“Mami, mami!” Evan cooed as he ran into my arms. I planted a dozen or more kisses all over his face and he giggled loudly as my smooches grew closer to his ticklish neck. 

“Come on, Mami!” he exclaimed while pulling my hand. I hesitated like I always do when entering my ex-fiancé/Evan’s father’s grandiose home. A home he purchased for himself only a year after our relationship ended. To think he refused to move us from that shitty 1-bedroom basement apartment even after having Evan.

We didn’t have an actual lease in The Dungeon. We lived in The Dungeon for 4 years. We were in The Dungeon till the bitter end.  

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I forged ahead and ran after Evan, who teased me by hiding in various rooms. He bolted into D’s bedroom. I hesitated. This is his space. A bedroom is sacred. A bedroom is private. It’s where the dirt is hidden and where the truth is revealed. I didn’t want to intrude, but another part of me wanted to say “fuck it.” Ransack his drawers like I’m the Popo looking for evidence of wrongdoing. Or planting it. #BlackLivesMatter

I stepped in and scanned his bedroom. Evan ran into the bathroom where D washed his hands at the moment. The same, black Ikea furniture served as décor - if you can call the Lack table furniture. A flat screen TV hung on the wall. His bed sat in the corner, covered in black and white sheets. No headboard. No footboard. Same old D. 

Then I saw it. The silk pillow. White and shiny. Nestled next to the wall. Next to the two pillows he sleeps on when he can actually sleep. 

Her silk pillow. To maintain her curly hair. To keep it shiny. To remain au naturel.

It lies there because she lies there. It lies there in its permanency because she is not going anywhere. 

She sleeps on The Silk Pillow often. He lies with her and fucks her often while her curls dance on The Silk Pillow. She is with my son often. And I wonder if Evan climbs in bed with them in the early morning. Does she play with her curly locks like he does mine? Does he say “buenos dias” and snuggle with her just like when he’s with me? 

My chest tightens and I can feel myself crumbling all over again. I walk away from The Silk Pillow. I try to leave it behind me in his bedroom, in their bedroom. I have the urge to storm back in, grab it, and spit on it. Tear it up. Pee on it like a dog marking its territory even though I don’t want him anymore. Smear gum on it like kids rub their gum on seats to play a prank. Scream my hate for her into it. But I don’t. I am a woman of dignity that was raised to have pride just her mother. And just like Mami, I am another woman scorned. 

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I walk away. I call on Evan and he rushes into my arms. I play Pancake Manor’s “Gingerbread Man” in the car and he sings along. I turn around at a red light and smile at him.

“I love you, bub.”

“I love you too, Mami.”

I keep my eyes on the road and try not to cry.

The Silk Pillow is a cruel reminder that he chose her. That she has a place in his home. A home that he never wanted to provide me with, even after we were engaged and I had his son. 

What he gave me was The Dungeon - a dark space where unconditional love couldn’t grow because it was just too cold.

We also made a beautiful son together. A happy boy that giggles when I smooch his ticklish neck.

He left me with a shattered heart, and as much as I try to forget, he doesn’t let me. The Silk Pillow won’t let me.