Grandma Said... Yolonda D. Coleman (c) 2024

Grandma’s childhood ended when her womb began forming the life of her first child; she was 14. It would be the sequel in the line of women on the maternal side of the family where motherhood replaced childhood quickly. Eight children later, Grandma learned life lessons that she held close to her bosom. She believed in keeping her movements as private as possible. Her code was, “Keep your business to yourself”. Ironically, she didn’t have a problem sharing community gossip if you pulled your ear near her lips. Luckily, I was the recipient of the “Extra! Extra!” Hear all about it tales. I often seemed surprised when anyone shared what they thought was “news” to me. As an aspiring journalist, I couldn’t lose my source. Her secrets became my motivation to live life so loudly that my grandchildren and their grandchildren would do the same.

The closer I moved toward what would become my evolving womanhood, my conversations with Grandma were bold and beautiful. I took liberties most granddaughters wouldn’t dare. I learned about her greatest regret—not moving to New York City with her sisters. Although, she had a chance to move to Upstate New York with my grandfather—that is another story—it wasn’t the bustling environment she so desired as a country girl who wanted to live a “life”. That one glimpse into her life is the very reason I created my own code, “When the wind blows, see where it takes you.” No regrets! That said, let me get to it!

It was 2004. The teacher’s lounge was wherever teachers lounged. My frat brothers shared fond memories of their guy trips. Laughs and memories were accompanied by oohs and ahs of moments that struck cords deep down in their purple and gold bones. Across the room, I rise from my seat feeling a bit perplexed by this black boy joy.

“I never had a girl trip!” I interjected!

The look of concern on their faces were the grooves of the record scratch. A break in the beat floated through the air.

“You gotta take one!” One brother made a plea.

“Like this year!” The other brother consigned.

The wind blew, and I let my fingers do the walking on the desktop computer in my classroom. I found a cruise for little to nothing. All I had to do was find a cabin mate.

My break was coming to a close, so I tip-toed to the restroom. In route, I saw the Most Wise Queen in the hallway.

“You ever been on a girl’s trip?” It was a simple enough question, and she answered as only a West Chester, New York girl could with a brief, “Nope!”

“Wanna go with me to the Bahamas?”

“When and how much, kid?” Her eyes lit up with shared excitement.

“We leave right at the end of the school year. We fly to Orlando, stay with my parents, and they will drive us to the ship. $300,” I shared.

“Book it!”

“Bet!”

Off we went, a month later…both of us on our first girl trip and first cruise. The time we had is still etched in my core memory bank some 20 years later.

Orlando International Airport is a dear friend of mine. It welcomes me with arms stretched wide every time I step off a Southwest Airlines plane. This time was different.

I was fresh off of broken promises that sent me into the beginning of a dark space. A cruise was JUST what I needed. My parents always taught me to keep my head held high and move on. It was easier said that done as I got older and really started to feel for people. Crush after crush…my heart was as dispensable as a napkin after its use and left on the floor. I learned, over time, that it could be recycled and repurposed for better use…love for self and service.

The stay in Orlando was brief for Queen, so we made the best of it before boarding the cruise ship riding around town and laying by the pool. The hour-long drive to Port Canaveral the next day was quiet and reflective. The palm trees and dry air smelled like a paper mill, but the closer we got to the port, we could smell the ocean calling. Remnants of the island were still on the ship that was anchored but ready to sail.

If you’ve never taken a cruise, just know embarking takes a minute, but once your done, it’s a whole party the rest of the way—unlimited food, tea, juice, and water. Soft drinks and alcohol required an extra payment. Hot dogs and burgers were flipped on the lido deck upon our arrival. The music is pleasantly boisterous encouraging hip thrusts, shoulder bounces, and leg lifts from left to right. It’s just an all out playground for adults!

By nightfall, Queen and I had more than gotten our steps in. We walked the entire ship. We were well into the middle of the ocean when we found a spot in the back of the ship. There was comfort in the wind beating against our faces. The noise from the ship’s engine drowned the music we once danced to, but we met a silence that changed both our lives. We found our Creator in the darkness. Our Creator spoke loudly with the ocean’s spray.

It was in the quiet noise that we both surrendered ourselves to the open where water met the moonlit sky. We freestyled poetry without limitations and just rolled with the tide. I finally understood the line from Whoopi Goldberg’s character in “How Stella Got Her Groove Back, “God’s here”. It was true. Our Father had met us when we left all our worries behind us and we were free to be filled with creativity.

That night, our slumber was beyond peaceful; it was a total reset allowing us to break free so that we could enjoy ourselves. …and a time was truly had.

Once docked in Nassau, we headed to the beach. Natives on the island saw Queen and me lounging without a care. They were each on jet skis.

“Want tuh ride?” One asked.

Unfamiliar with the ways of tourism, we just jumped at the chance to have a good time and hopped on!

Sixty dollars later, we were bobbing up and down on the water as passengers on the back of strangers’ jet skis. The beach got further and further away from us. All I could think about was whether or not Queen could swim in case of an emergency. The drivers made left turns away from the beach, at this point, we had NO choice but to trust the process.

A sign was ahead: “Dolphin Cove”. I relaxed a bit because we were nearing a space with other people, perhaps for a pit stop. Nope. We kept riding. They made right turns out of the cove to trail a booze cruise. More people…at least we could be identified. The travelers were wasted though…so there’s that string of hope we weren’t just blurs in the water. They waved at us and we waved back.

Our ocean tour guides seemingly used us as bait to make more money. They pulled up to the same Sandy getaway as the booze cruise, helped up dismount the jet skis, and gave us smiles.

“Relax,” one said.

Another islander came out of nowhere and offered us fresh coconut water. He hacked it open with a machete and handed both Queen and me our own drink with a straw. Our job was to sit and look pretty while our new homies spun around the ocean for ten minutes at a time per customer for the same $60 we paid. As I sipped, I thought, “We got the better deal…even if we were kinda kidnapped”.

When all the fun and games ended, the riders took us right back to the beach where we gathered our things. When asked where we were headed, we shared that we were taking a cab back to the ship.

“Oh! We can take you there. Come!” we were commanded with a friendly smile.

Let me tell you, if ever two people milked a trip for all its best adventures, it was Queen and me! We packed up our beach towels and hopped right back on those jet skis!

Queen’s ponytail waved in the wind and I could feel the salted breeze between each of my cornrows. This was top tier service—getting escorted BACK to the ship via personal water taxis. Oh, but the fun ended when we were greeted by Bahamas law enforcement.

Queen and I looked at each other like, “Who we gonna call?” This was not a Ghost Busters type of escape.

“You both know…” the officer began speaking to the guys.

That was our cue to get off the jet skis, and use the ladder to escape out of the clear water and back on dry land. The officers never engaged us, so we kept on trucking.

Queen and I giggled like two school girls. As we approached customs, a warm greeting floated toward Queen’s ear. A uniformed serviceman caught her attention. He was handsome. Was Stella Going to Get Her Groove Back? I pulled back and enjoyed watching my New York sister do her thing.

Whatever transpired in the conversation, WE had an appointment to hang out in the streets of Bahamas after dinner on the ship. I wasn’t about to have my girl out there by herself. We had already had enough fun with the uncertain “Big Fun” with the jet ski bruddahs!

The night fell and apparently so did our guards. As scheduled, we met the serviceman after dinner. He pulled up in a burgundy coupe. When I got in the back seat, a companion was waiting for me—a wingman I suppose. He was friendly. He too had on a uniform. We were now escorted by military men in the Bahamas. How could this night go wrong? It didn’t…It was a night to remember.

Grandma said, Island men make the best lovers.

Queen and her sir bonded in the front seat and eventually left us to our own adventure. The keys were handed over to my buddy and there was a comforting wind that let me know I was going to be just fine.

“Have yuh been tuh Atlantis?” He asked.

“I saw it once,” I replied.

“I wantuh show yuh sumting,” he dragged his words with a smile and cool charm.

I wasn’t sure what he wanted to show me, and I hoped it wasn’t what I thought given we were very far away from the ship once we crossed the bridge leading to the resort.

He parked the car and we began taking a tour…once again, I was trespassing. This time, I was with the authorities.

The island breeze seemed to nudge me in directions of safety. My manicured toes followed as he led me through the aquarium caves where tropical fish and gigantic sea turtles swam in unison. I placed my hands against the tank to be one with them. Some moved toward me and welcomed me with slight nudges on their side of the glass.

At the end of the cave was a large pool area. No guests were around because it was closed. No matter, we sat poolside with the starry night above us just chatting. Not so much getting to know each other, but engaged in discourse about life and creating intellectual riddles for each of us to solve…Nerd stuff!

When it got quiet, he turned to me with the most serious of faces and asked, “How do yuh know winna person loves yuh?”

I pondered deeply, but came up short, and gave him the wheel to lead.

“How?”

He let the air drag a bit before responding, “…by the sacrifices they make for yuh!”

The response was so simple yet so profound. In an instant, I thought about parenting and my mom, who was back in the how grandma sacrificed her childhood to be a mom and my mom did the same as a teen parent.

My heart was full from his response. It was the lesson in love I needed to learn, and this is how we ended our night. No kissing. No romantic rendezvous…just a pearl of wisdom on an island that eventually became home to me in my heart several more visits in my life.

He was a gentleman and promptly drove me back to the ship. Before we parted with a hug, he offered me a gift. He lowered his head and pulled his beaded dog tags off. Then he wrapped them around my neck.

“…to remember me…”

He returned me to the ship.

Grandma wasn’t wrong.

I didn't find out how great of a "lover" and island, but I did learn is that island men had a secret about loving a woman. They did not start with what’s inside a woman’s panties. They began with the mind, heart, and then the body would follow. With this pattern of seduction, submission would never be a chore for a woman; it would be a by-product of a connection that leads to trust.

As for Queen, she had a BLAST! I fell asleep and panicked when I found her bed empty when I woke up. The ship was in motion and well on its way back to Port Canaveral, Florida.

The wind pushed me out of the bed to search for her on the ship! I found her, full of glee and all smiles. When I walked in, Usher’s “Yeah” blasted through the speakers of the cruise ship’s night club!

I hugged her and then began to throw my hands in the air!

“Yeah! Yeah!” Enjoy life's party because Grandma said...!

 RED Sausages: Remembering Love

From Chicken and Dumplings: Life is Meant to Be Savored

By Yolonda D. Coleman

Fried bologna sandwiches with crispy edges was one thing, but when I went to Garysburg, North Carolina and got hipped to red sausage I knew there was a God! A plastic bag full of those linked pork delights would be transported in a white styrofoam cooler full of ice in Grandpa Diamond’s blue Buick. We drove those babies north where I spent the remainder of summer break from school. I was born in Chocolate City., but my roots extended the length of I-95. I was shuffled between Upstate New York and Connecticut from the time school closed in D.C. until Labor Day weekend from ages 6 to 13. Going to the family reunion in Garysburg was an intermission that connected me to my southern family members. Many of my summer memories can be associated with food. I try not to live to eat, but food conjures up lessons learned to help me navigate the future.
I grew up during a time where the village truly reared me. There was no hesitation about releasing me in the care of Grandpa Diamond--a bachelor...kind of. Shell loved her dad. Grandpa Diamond loved his daughter, so he loved me as an extension of her. That was it. If ever there was a man responsible for spoiling me, it was Grandpa Diamond. He seemed to have an endless supply of resources. It wasn’t until I was 17 that I had to suffer the sound of his gentle no. He taught me a lot about life, love, and food; we ate a lot of food accompanied with bread that would add pounds to a skinny girl during the school year.

I knew sliced bread as a friend. “Special bread” was reserved for cookouts, birthday parties, and restaurants. If we ate hot dogs, we used sliced bread. If we made hamburgers, we used sliced bread. Prior to adulthood, I couldn’t tell you where to locate buns outside of the Wonder Bread store. I thought that was the only place to get hotdog and hamburger buns. As a result, it was nothing strange about eating red sausages enveloped in a mustard spread slice of bread. It was breakfast; it was lunch; it was dinner. Red sausage sandwiches were a meal that was best served on a slice of bread.
It wasn’t until I was married that buying buns became a thing. I felt it was wasteful, but my husband liked his cookout meat on the appropriate bread. Sliced bread was a great invention. Buns were as extra as a child crying for a hotdog on a bun but only wanting to eat the bun. Sliced bread would have served the same purpose. I later realized that it wasn't just the bun for the sake of bread, but that the bun complimented the protein--if we can call it that.
The world is made up of people who have to keep up with appearances. Between their bun is a lot of ground parts that when packaged looks enticing, but it is really nothing more than parts they hide in a mold. The bun camouflages flaws. I think about those red sausage links that traveled a far distance in packaging set in cold ice. I was never that person who could really be packaged and molded for presentation nor preservation. I had my own ways. Few people interrupted my process and let me become who I am. If I showed up on sliced bread or on a bun, my make up was authentic. I have a really hard time covering up lies, so it was always important for me to be truthful. When I’m silent, it is because I’m withholding truths that people either don’t want to hear or they’ll think I’m being overly dramatic about something. It’s then I just stay in my cooler and chill.
My edges are crispy. I stay in frying pans and get charred just enough to have a story to tell, but still survive. I am enveloped in sliced bread, but that’s just the covering of God to protect me from those who don’t know my value and want to reduce me to something less due to my appearance. Here’s what I remember about those long car rides from North Carolina to Pawling, New York. Grandpa Diamond would let me change the channel on the car as many times as I liked without reprimanding me--he let me discover. He never forced me to engage in conversation; talking was as much of an option as it was necessary. He never made me feel bad for falling asleep; he let me rest. If I was hungry; we stopped and I was not limited in my food selections or criticized for ordering more than I could handle. I could have whatever I wanted. When we reached Pawling, I had choices from going to the Chinese restaurant near the Ski Haus in Brewster, or spending time with Grandpa frying processed red sausages. Even though the world was at my fingertips, those red sausages on sliced bread reminded me to be humble because I’ve come a long way.

Just Breathe An Excerpt from Catching Autumn's Breath By Coffeedreamz Staff Writers

The sealed envelope from the Vitals Statistics Administration slept sideways in my mail organizer for a year. Knowing was one thing. Seeing the notarized stamp on my husband’s death certificate was something altogether different. It arrived the day after my first Thanksgiving as a widow. I was married for 20 years; We had some good memories, lessons learned, and faded dreams, but we weathered the storms. At 27, we were hopeful that our happily ever after could be achieved; we both thought it was possible to live forever. Life had another way of showing us reality. Two headlines told stories of death in our household on January 26, 2020; it was the day Kobe Bryant died and the day the world was entering an unfamiliar space of solitude. 

“The coronavirus is spreading rapidly throughout the globe. The deadly virus has killed nearly dozens and more than 1400 new cases have been reported with two confirmed cases in the U.S. Stay tuned to Tiger One News for more updates.” 

We lived on a farm in picturesque Dutchess County, New York. I refer to it as God’s Country with its strong oak trees, plush lawns, crashing waters with fresh fish, and air as clean as the first day Oxygen hit the scene. Literally, it was the perfect setting to live off the land, so the chance of us being infected with the virus was slim. Our closest neighbors were two miles away. We grew our own food, make as many consumable products as possible. We reduced, reused, and recycled anything possible. We owned  livestock, and utilized the land as often as the earth allowed. Alvin’s former life as an educator afforded us the opportunity to homeschool Asher, our son, until the school system came up with a plan during the quarantine period for virtual learning.

“Shell! I’ll be right back. I’m running to the hardware store; I need a part for the plow now.” he yelled as he closed the red barn door that housed our horses. 

I ran out after him, "Al! Take a mask, babe!” I reminded him after taking one off the five-tiered shelf that housed unopened feed.         Al tipped his brown cowboy hat, pulled me close and kissed me in what would be our last moment of intimacy.         "You're always looking out, girl!"

Alvin was only gone for an hour and seemed fine upon his return. Two days later, I rolled over to a furnace. He had a fever that was hotter than cauldron pot. It was the coughing and congestion that made me worry. He was sure he had the flu and decided to fight through it. Asher and I weren’t convinced and wore masks around the house in case COVID had entered our home. Hydration and rest did not provide Alvin any sign of relief after three days, so we made the trek to the nearest hospital, which was 45-minutes away.
Asher stayed home, and I drove through the picturesque landscape of snow-capped mountains and streams of water from ice that melted from the warmth of the sun. The green foliage had taken a hiatus for winter, but there were still trees standing tall with green leaves that live forever.

“I’m glad we moved here, Shell,” Alvin mustered to stay in between coughs.
“You had a vision for us, so I followed,” I responded.

“Thank you for trusting me, and helping me give Asher the best life possible. I love you.”
“I love you too, Al. Where is all this coming from?” His sentiments concerned me because he was never one to emote at length; he was a man of few words, but showed me through his random acts of kindness.
“I’m just sayin’! Cough! Cough!” I’m just sayin’, babe.”

The rest of the car ride was quiet. I just held his hand. COVID or no COVID, Al was my ride or die. Pardon the pun, because after being on a hospital ventilator for a week, our last moments really were just that; and it broke my heart.

Make Lemonade

by Yolonda D. Coleman (c) 2024

I chose Georgia as a font today, because it reminds me of the day I traveled unknown roads to a place of safety in Powder Springs. I type this to you, my grandchildren, as an expression of love not out of pain. When my mother died, I had not known how much life would be squeezed out of me until months later, but the universe set things in place for me to pick up the pieces yet fallen so that the blow would be soft. 

It was beautiful knowing that our neighborhood Marine organized a motorcade for my mom's farewell ride through Orange County, Florida. I cried seeing just how much she was loved...that others loved her as much as I did. Caring cousins packed their children in cars and headed back to North Carolina. Train tickets were exchanged for seats as uncles and aunts traveled back to D.C. Supportive friends and other family members made their flights back to New York and Connecticut. One person stayed behind to "kick it" just for a moment before the truth set in. With so many expressions of love, I still could not stand the silence of the aftermath of my emotions. Your Auntie Rock was the first person I ran to when the silence consumed me. I sent an instant message with a 24-hour notice. She said, "Come on!" ...and so I did.

My Hyundai and I traveled unknown roads during a time when it was safe for a brown girl to do so without the stress of being pulled over for Driving While Black (DWB). The compact discs (CDs)  in my passenger's seat were my companions. A bottle of Coke and a bottle of water were all I needed to make the trip without stopping; I was on auto pilot. It was like God picked me up from cousin Kevin's condo in Tampa and set me on the doorsteps of the two-level home that would be my resting spot until I could gather the remaining pieces of my existence. My outlet was writing, and Auntie Rock let me do that without judging me for running away. I don't remember eating off anything but my words.

The moment I took a breath, I noticed a field of four o'clock flowers growing on a walk through Auntie Rock's neighborhood. They took my breath away because of all the floral gifts God could show me in that moment, He allowed me to see my mom's favorite flowers. I knew, then, things were going to be alright. This was the first step to understanding how to navigate life without my mother. There has been so much loss that I became numb, but I could not cry. My tear ducts closed after my breakdown in the bank line at Safeway on Good Hope Road. Good...Hope...is all I had left after the last tear dropped.

Life hurls lemons. They are not tossed gently in our direction; they are thrown with fury. How we respond to the gust of wind that comes with the impact reveals who we are and what we are becoming. You might start out zesting your lemons on days that aren't so tough. You may use a paring knife to peel the lemons when you have to exert just a little more strength as you face your giants. Ultimately, you'll learn to halve your lemons with a butcher's knife to slice hard and fast with one hand and catch the juicy fruit with the other. NOW squeeze, my grandchildren. Squeeze them with all the breath you have inside you to make lemonade. You're the sugar that sweetens the bitter. When things calm down, take your power back and grow your own lemon trees to change the narrative. Sit and enjoy the love of our ancestors who will surround you around the clock in four corners of your life through happiness, joy, pain, and grief. Then you are charged to do four things: Dream. Sip. Create. Give thanks.

Love, 

Mama Ife 

The Homecoming Kiss by Yolonda D. Coleman

A Coffeedreamz Experience Presents "The Homecoming Kiss" by Yolonda D. Coleman
AI Art Created by Yolonda D. Coleman

Chapter 1: Breathing in Autumn

An Excerpt from Chicken and Dumplings: Life is Meant to be Savored

           Starting Over and Letting Go: I'm a Rough Draft on My Way to Becoming Excellent

                                                           (c) 2023 Yolonda D. Coleman                                          

As much as I enjoy driving myself around, I love riding shotgun on long-distance trips. Put me to sleep while driving me to a vacation spot so I can awake to a nice stretch. On an autumn ride from Boston, I decided to stay awake and double-strand twist my damp hair. My boyfriend, at the time, made the drive from MA to MD in eight-hours flat. Even if there were potholes, he missed them in his Toyota 4Runner. My hands were steady and the ride was smooth. I had Dale's red detangler comb and a jar of hair gel. I was in the process of "going natural" because I had sworn off relaxers and perms, for the moment. Twisting my hair was self-care at its best. I later learned that letting go is the best self-care for everyone.

In 2002, I started experiencing some scalp discomfort. I ignored the dermatologist's warning that hair loss would progressively get worse over time; I was given at least ten years until my "permanent part" would widen in surface area. I ignored the doctor's orders to wash my hair in cold water and to stop applying heat to my hair. In fact, in 2005, I got a relaxer and a color because I was likely mourning my mother's death and needed a new face; I was going for a black Cuban look. It apparently worked. My bone-straight bronze hair was a great contrast against my coffee skin. I was feeling myself a bit when I walked the strip in Miami. A local resident began speaking to me in Spanish. I was able to speak a bit, but I tapped out beyond regular pleasantries. The hair was doing its thing, but it came with a price. I couldn't keep up with the look, and my skin began to betray me like that of the speaker in Audrey Lorde's Hanging Fire.

Psoriasis, folliculitis, and eczema, were my enemies. It was the constant itching, cracking, and bleeding that sent me to seek medical attention; it was recommended that I get steroid injections, inflammation pills, etc. I neglected the appointments because, hey, I still had hair and was able to get the symptoms under control. I didn't go back to perming my hair, but I did flat iron the hell out of my follicles WITHOUT heat protection (didn't know). Over time, my thick hair became thin like tiny wires.

 After giving birth in 2015, I experienced some postpartum hair loss. It was nothing major, so I thought. From time-to-time, my sorority sister, J9, blesses me with head massages before she plays in my hair. She always sets me up nicely. However, in 2016, she braided it, but I noticed there was a one-inch gap between each cornrow. "This can't be right," I looked at my reflection in the mirror while inspecting my hair. It was indeed a problem happening before my eyes. It was back to the doctor's office. This time, I saw a trichologist and was diagnosed with a condition called CCCA (Central Centrifugal Cicatricial Alopecia). I was going bald. 

Geesh...the one thing that identified me in a crowd was cramping my style. I hid my hair loss behind wigs, wraps, and Kanekalon ponytails in public while feeling ashamed and embarrassed in private. There were silent tears, embarrassing moments, and times I hated looking at myself in the mirror. I can say now that I had some depressing moments, but my miracle child always affirmed me each morning.

"Mommy, you look like a princess. You're the most beautiful mommy in the world," he would say with innocent fawn eyes. His unconditional love pushed me out of my sadness; and when the band stopped playing at my pity party, I started to educate myself on natural ways to stimulate hair growth with essential oils and black soap shampoo. I took vitamin supplements as well as Dr. Melanye Maclin's Bellanurti products to work from the inside out. I shared my journey with my online sister-circle; and they secretly raised money for my new path to a healthier scalp. Once I had all my tools, I called my kitchen "The Lab". It's not just for cooking; it is for all kinds of creations that inspire joy. I began creating my own products for my hair and my skin. When the pandemic hit, I started growing some of my ingredients as well. 

Although I was able to see progress with my hair, the areas that showed no growth were a source of frustration for me. I needed to free myself from negative memories attached to my hair. On what would have been Malcolm X's 94th birthday ('94 was an amazing year btw), my husband at the time, was kind to honor my request to shave all of my hair off. I mean Okoye from Black Panther off--full on baldhead small head off.  It all had to go in order for me to start again. In order for me to truly realize, I am NOT my hair.

The liberation that came along with letting go was magical; it was like an instant relief from life's weight off my head, societal approval, judgment from nonconformity, and the pressure to be perfect. I had to learn to stop fitting into a mold and be the mold. I had to face the harsh reality that letting go of a few more elements were necessary in order for me to be a better version of the woman I was becoming--insecurities, fear of not being good enough, anxieties, and pride. Unfortunately, I even had to let go of my marriage--a mutual, amicable decision that began with a separation two years ago. 

Growing as a result of letting go has been both a struggle and a most exhilarating experience. I learned to be gentle with myself as I prayed, kicked, and screamed in rotation; it is a daily process.  Time is the only thing you can't get back; don't lose it by wasting it. LIVE and let your light shine. Losing my hair was a small inconvenience in comparison to losing my health and my sanity; I had to preserve both. Cutting off my hair allowed me to begin again...to see my full face. I learned to smile with no regrets. I saw me so I can now see me.

I am excited about all the things I've gained even through my losses. Freedom and peace are my currency. My hair did in fact grow back after having Sisterlocks installed. It is not the same mane as it once was, but it is what I am proud to call my own. I'm growing into a new woman with an edge that needs no baby hairs. The new antennas attached to my head make me alert as I pick up wavelengths that add to my life rather than tear away at my spirit. This time, I'm not going to just ride shotgun; I'm going to sit in the driver's seat when I see fit. This next chapter will be a nice ride.

How will you grow in your next season? Please share. I want to know as you grow.

Love you! Mean it!

Yolonda Denise


If you're in the Charlotte, NC area, check out Karmelita Stevens for trichology services. https://bit.ly/hairrehab.

 

The Black Hole: Swim Your Way to the Truth by Yolonda D. Coleman (2023).

How could I be "fine" and drowning all at the same time. Since my biological parents died, I swam through a black hole that choked the life out of me while searching for my truth. As much as I felt elevated, I was breathing through tiny holes of life's shrink wrap. Slowly things I loved were taken from me; I learned that nothing is sealed tight--family, physical beauty, talent; they could vanish like follicles falling from the crown of our heads. I was once fierce and unafraid walking through alleyways in the middle of the night in D.C. to get home. However, the more I lived, the more I began to take on the fears and insecurities of others that I became unrecognizable--even to myself. In my mind, I was the crust of the world, and my shine was being buffed away like muted tones of a brass band. I stopped living out loud. I was burrowed. 

...then 47 hit. Oh, baby! It hit like a Thunder Cat's roar! That light started teasing and taunting me to follow it like a childhood friend. "Come on! Let's go play" it whispered in a dark moment. "God's got us! Just jump in!" ...and into the light I jumped. The black hole is afraid of me now. It's afraid of the purpose I was given since I was hidden in a 14 year-old girl's womb. It is afraid that I'm going to truly affect the lives of little girls and little boys who lack confidence in my classes. It's afraid that my archery game is so sharp that I WILL NOT MISS! I even made it afraid of the son it tried to kill before his conception, during my pregnancy, and 11 months into his life.

It's time to fly as we all remember who, whose, and WHAT we are while refusing to believe someone else's version of us. Let's get it done!