Becoming Without A Deadline
I am breaking the narrative of growth being on a timeline.
Everything is so rushed.
Instant gratification.
Wealth & luxury by your early twenties.
Marriage and kids before thirty.
And so on. And so on.
I used to be in a rush. I rushed to get to college after graduating high school. I was scared to go beyond 4 years to get my degree. I was in a rush to get a job right after graduating. It was always “what’s next?” instead of pausing to be intentional and acknowledge my progress.
Recognizing and celebrating growth over time is essential to maintaining it. And most importantly, intentionally acknowledging progress without the need to broadcast it for likes and views. That takes away from the genuine feel of growth. Sometimes celebrating is meant to be intimate. Sometimes recognition is only done within yourself. From my experience, this keeps me humble and allows me to focus on the true intention of my work. It has nothing to do with notoriety or fame—it is solely rooted in healing and community.
I have accomplished so much and I am grateful for this growth.
But I am still growing.
I am still becoming.
In my own time, without a deadline.
Checking In: Reflecting on 2025
Happy New Year! It’s officially 2026!
It might sound cliche but every year I swear I feel more and more sure of myself. Who I am. Where I come from. Where I am going.
Sometime in 2024 I woke up on a random Saturday morning and felt a wave of peace fall over me. Like a loved one giving me a hug and reassuring me of myself. It’s possible I was visited by my ancestors that day and since that visit I have been at peace within myself. Of course I still have bad days. My mind still ventures down dark roads occasionally, but I now have a level of peace that anchors me at my core. That’s the best way I can explain it.
I guess God knew I was going to need that peace for 2025 because 2025 was a challenging year. I left my social work job to step into a caregiver role for my grandma. I published my first sensual poetry book and first ever audiobook! I celebrated 11 years of #survivorhood —thank you, 17-year-old Bre! I submerged myself in griefwork and mentoring Black and Brown kids. I taught an entire elementary school healthy habits by myself. I gained forever friendships that have changed my life. Poetz Portal has become my home base for all things poetry and community. I attended the funeral of my childhood best friend and it changed my life forever—rest in peace, Mela. In May, I watched my oldest nephew walk across the stage to get his diploma, and later watched him start his freshman year of college. I was in a car accident that turned my world upside down for months. I threw myself into creative opportunities. I challenged myself to be a better human and get more involved in the fight for human rights. I trusted myself in all things.
I experienced a lot last year. I grew—mentally, spiritually, and poetically.
In terms of poetry, I completely freed myself of any restraints on my writing. No more trying to make things rhyme or fit a certain structure. I just wrote from my heart and guess what? Everything fell into place. The rhymes came naturally and the structure became sound on its own. I have never felt more empowered as a poet. And my poetry certainly reflects that. I’m working on book #4. More on that later ;)
2025 was a trying year for my relationship. My boyfriend and I experienced stress that almost took us both to a breaking point. Looking back at all the drama of that makes me laugh now, but in the moment it was painful. The physical labor of love was intense. My relationship demanded more of me than ever before. I truly believe that if my boyfriend and I did not have such a solid foundation, our relationship would have crumbled. Again. But this past year of newfound appreciation, patience, understanding, and unconditional love really set us up for success. We really got put to the test in the Summer. Thankfully we passed and were able to settle comfortably into the end of 2025. I’m looking forward to growing together in 2026.
I’m also looking forward to more consistent blogging and expanding my brand. I’m claiming 2026 as my year of sustained growth. Cheers to a New Year!
Let’s grow together :)
Deeply Rooted by Stephanie C. Burton
A few weeks ago I came across a post on Facebook from a former classmate and friend of mine, Stephanie. She was announcing the publishing of her journal “Deeply Rooted: For Black Women Caregivers Growing in Grace, Grounded in Truth,” a digital reflection journal for people like me. As a caregiver for my elderly grandma this journal was calling to me. I purchased a copy, downloaded it easily. But —of course— life started lifin’ and I wasn’t able to dive into it the way I had planned.
The previous blog post I made is about Black women, myself specifically, being labeled “Superwoman.” At the time I wrote the blog post I was completely overwhelmed with responsibilities, commitments, EVERYTHING. The same day I made the post, I opened “Deeply Rooted” from my Google Drive. As I was reading Part 1, everything resonated with me deeply. I realized this journal is just what I needed to navigate the complexities of caregiving, emotional burden, guilt, exhaustion, etc. “Deeply Rooted” is very intentionally and thoughtfully crafted and I know it can help many Black women caregivers. I encourage you to purchase a copy for yourself, a friend, an auntie, or anyone who could benefit from this reflection journal. It will change a life.
To learn more about Stephanie C. Burton and SoulFull by Design, click the link below!
“Superwoman”
I bleed. I break. I cry. And someday I’ll die, just like everyone else.
I was born a Black woman for a reason —for many reasons, really. I think God knew that only a Black woman could love the way I do. Only a Black woman could “handle it all” the way I do. Only a Black woman could nurture community the way I do. So, I was always destined to be a Black woman.
But I also think God made me a Black woman to better understand the world I live in. I’m so independent because I I learned that the world will not soften for me. I’m so hardworking because I learned I have to do 10x as much work for a half-assed thank you. I’m so “put together” because this world does not allow me to fall apart. Instead, I am labeled “Superwoman.”
An unsolicited badge of honor that really comes with no honor at all. Because I am often unappreciated and undervalued. Simply expected to live up to such high expectations because the world demands it. I am commended for powering through grief instead of breaking down. I am praised for crossing my boundaries to make someone else comfortable. I am celebrated for putting my life on the line despite having a family that needs me.
People will say they are so in awe of how I “do it all” and demand something from me in the same breath. There are no days off for Superwoman. There is no rest for Black women. No wonder I am always tired.
My grandma is a Black woman. My grandma is “Superwoman.” At 78, I see what the expectations have done to her. How they have stiffened her aching hands and permanently damaged her shoulders. That is what carrying the weight of the world will do to a Black woman’s body.
At 29, I’m already experiencing the side-effects myself. Sleep deprivation, coffee addiction, anxiety, depression, a conscious desire to disappear just to get a break. My back aches some days, my chest tightens when I’m overwhelmed. But as a Black woman, I’ve accepted the symptoms of society and decided to live anyway. Some would call that rebellion, I call it survival. What other choice do I have?
Liberation
My emotions have been stirring in me for weeks. Everything came to a head last night as I tossed and turned trying desperately to drift off to sleep. I spoke to God, knowing He was working me. But I didn’t know why, just yet. Despite being in emotional discomfort, my body finally gave and sank into the mattress. Waking up was a bit disorienting. It felt as though I had been on a journey but no idea where or how I trekked. No recollection of what I experienced along the way. So, I brewed some coffee as discomfort brewed, again, inside of me. I sat down on my couch. Glanced at the calendar, fully aware of today’s “holiday”. Freedom for some. Not for most. I opened my laptop while my apartment filled with the aroma of caramel truffle coffee and opened a file filled with poetry. I scanned through the documents and landed on the one I’ve been putting off. Poetry for an upcoming performance. The discomfort brewed, again. My coffee maker groaned and rumbled in the background. I took a deep breath and opened the document. I read the first few lines. My chest tightened. I pushed my laptop away and retreated into the safety of a coffee mug. Sipping in silence.
I took a few more deep breaths and returned to the couch. Sank back into the cushion and read my poem with intent. What was I trying to say? What pushed me to write this? Questions I pondered after I read and re-read the poem a few times. I sipped my coffee again. And again. I set my coffee mug down and picked apart each stanza with surgical precision. My eyes locked in on three words: childhood love story. A mild headache pressed into my forehead. My eyes welled up with tears. My shoulders dropped and emotion poured out. This. This is why I wrote the poem. I was trapped in nostalgia, remembering the teenage boyfriend I had over a decade ago. The boyfriend who called me several times a week. The boyfriend who visited me at my childhood home. The boyfriend who spent hours and hours with me doing mostly nothing. The boyfriend who was present. The boyfriend who dedicated so much of his time and energy into me, and us.
This was the boyfriend I had been missing for years. But wow, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. My boyfriend cannot be that anymore. It’s so unrealistic. When we were teens, our lives were still mostly handled by others. Parents, school, etc. We didn’t have to worry about bills, or finances, or where our next meal was coming from. So, of course we could both be more attentive. Of course we could spend hours of our days together without a care in the world. Life was different then. And life is much different now.
Guilt and grief surged to the surface. I recalled the times I lashed out at my boyfriend. The times I was a tornado of emotion, wrecking everything in my path. Including him. I loathed the memories of times I flirted with the idea of someone else being something my boyfriend could not. And the moments I contemplated trying something new with someone else. Leaving my boyfriend behind. Everything made sense. Now. I was so focused on the stability and security I was providing, that I lost sight of the stability and security my boyfriend provided. Every milestone. He was there. Every hard day. He was there. Every good day. He was there. He always showed up. My vision was tainted with expectation so I couldn’t see how he showed up.
It’s true that he has not always given full effort and there were times when I did feel alone as a result. And that was a big part of why our engagement ended. But I also know, now, that I wanted him to show up a certain way. With flowers and romantic bravado. Instead of appreciating how he did show up. With late night conversation and tenderness. With unwavering support and unconditional love. And the many other ways he still shows up for me. It’s time I appreciate the man I have today instead of yearning for a past version of him. It’s time I took full accountability for my role in my own unhappiness and apologize to my boyfriend for my lack of understanding. It’s time I focus on the present and leave our childhood love story in the past, where it belongs.
God knew what He was doing on this day, July 4, 2025. And I thank Him for providing a long-awaited liberation.