I Hate My Life

3:00 a.m., Sunday, June 29th, 2025

Long time no see.

I told myself I wouldn’t post another blog until I released my book. I was worried that I’d take away attention from the book. I also wanted to “save” some stuff for it. But tonight—or today, rather—I’m reminded that my blog’s purpose was never to serve me as a marketer, but to be my safe space.

You see, with me preparing for my book release, I’ve done everything but finish writing the book. I’ve been so focused on the marketing aspect of it that I’ve refused to do the real work: the writing. The thing that once came so easily. It still does, but now it comes with weight, and expectation, and pressure. Internal, external, eternal… it’s all there.

And my process with this book is a direct reflection of how I’ve been walking through life the past few months—patching up instead of repairing. Jimmy-rigging my heart and body to keep going, keep pushing. Saving face. That gets tiring though, and I’m not interested in presenting perfection any longer. It’s not real.

Yesterday, I treated my family horribly.

The day started off great—I felt perfectly fine. As the day went on, I went down to take a nap, and when I woke up, I felt different. Very irritable. I started ignoring my family’s messages, isolating myself, and being as nasty as possible through my body language as a means to push them away—without just saying something was wrong with me. Childish, I know.

I didn’t even realize this was what I was doing at first. I just knew I felt off and didn’t want to be bothered. I went to do my sister’s hair, and instead of chatting with her like I usually do, I put in my headphones and turned on some gospel music. For the first time in my life, the music just wasn’t hitting.

I’m someone who genuinely enjoys gospel music. I don’t even listen to it just to feel closer to God or more righteous—I actually prefer it over all the other genres. But today, the music felt like mush in my ears. Repetitive. Boring. And most importantly, not registering within me at all. Another sign that something was off. But my brain was so fogged at this point, I just kept moving.

I changed the playlist to something more upbeat and immediately started feeling good. I almost wanted to dance along, but I had to stick with the nonchalant, stuck-in-my-ways attitude I started with.

Then When I Was Your Man by Bruno Mars came on.

If you know me, you know Bruno Mars is my favorite artist. Before I knew it, my brain went back to a few months ago—when I told someone I was beginning to trust that Bruno was my favorite artist. He laughed. Now, my feelings were hurt all over again.

But I kept the song on. Because again, Bruno Mars is my favorite. And I was doing hair—didn’t have time to keep going back and forth between her head and my phone. The song kept playing, and I started tuning into the lyrics. I couldn’t help but apply them to my life. The song took me back to a space where I wished he felt that kind of regret about me. A space where I hoped every day that he would see what he was missing and step up. A space that didn’t serve me. A space I thought I had graduated from.

A lump formed in my throat. Tears welled up.

And then I got angry.

Because why would I even miss someone who laughed at my favorite artist?

Why would I miss someone who couldn’t honor me?

Why does this situation still have such an effect on me that I can’t even enjoy music I loved before him?

The tears started flowing. Before I knew it, I was sobbing over my sister’s head.

Now obviously, she’s concerned. Because just a minute ago, I was mean-mugging her like I’d get paid for it—and now I’m crying. She already thinks I’m crazy on a regular basis (lol), but this time, she knew it was something serious.

Now I’m irritated—because I didn’t even want to acknowledge the feelings I was having, let alone cry over them. And now I have to explain to my sister that a situation I feel like I should’ve been over still affects me. A situation she told me to let go of from the start.

So now, I’m embarrassed.

If you can’t tell, I run through emotions very quickly—and I feel every single one very deeply. I’d consider it a blessing and a curse. Definitely seems somewhat manic to the naked eye (lol).

Anyway, I told my sister all I was feeling. Mainly: pathetic. Exhausted too.

See, I was prepared to navigate feelings of missing him. That’s easy. I’m the type of person who can miss you all the time and never speak to you again. What I wasn’t prepared for was missing who I was before I knew him. The girl who was confident and trusted herself. Who led with purpose and took no mess from nobody.

I’m mourning the woman I feel like I missed out on because I got stuck in la-la land. Grieving the things I didn’t accomplish because of a very much welcomed distraction.

I’m not someone who lives in regret. I’ve always felt like everything happens the way it’s supposed to. But for the first time, I felt genuine regret.

Not because it was a bad experience—it was great. I went back often. I enjoyed myself. I experienced a love that younger me wanted.

But I regretted it because I feel like I would’ve been so much further if I had never done it. At least not the way I did.

I used to view God as someone who only allowed things that were in His will to happen. But this experience taught me: His will only operates in our life when we give our free will to Him. God uses everything to work together for His good—but that doesn’t mean every experience was necessary.

The Israelites wandered 40 years for what was supposed to be an 11-day trip.

This is the first time I’ve had to really live out the internal consequences of blatant disobedience.

My senior year of college was probably my worst year of life to date.

As soon as I stepped foot on that campus—ready to leave my mark—I was met with trial after trial. From barely getting my bill paid in the fall, to failing my last required elective, to struggling again in the spring just to register to retake it (an elective I had no business failing). Break-ups and make-ups. Mice. Leaks. Leadership roles I didn’t even want.

Exhausted was an understatement.

I just wanted to be done.

Fast forward: God literally saw me through.

I’m talking about “turning in assignments at 3 p.m. when grades were due at 5 p.m. on the last day” type of saw me through. For once, I felt like my head was above water. I finally started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I felt like God heard me.

The only problem was, I was around a bunch of people who kind of felt the opposite in their own way.

If you know me, you know I’m very selective about the company I keep (which is partly why betrayal hits so hard). There were really only 3 people I considered “my girls.” I had other friends, sure—but only those three really knew me. Because it takes a lot for me to trust people with my whole self.

Graduation day came. I woke up. The apartment was eerily quiet.

Two of my girls had lived with me all four years. Usually, I’d hear them moving around. Not that day. Silence.

I got ready by myself.

No one to fix my cap.

No one to straighten my stoles.

No one to look at and say, “We did it.”

Not one of my girls was there.

I knew that in a perfect world, they would’ve been.

I knew life happens. That it wasn’t malicious.

But I also knew that I was hurt.

I knew if the roles were reversed, I’d have been there.

And I knew that, in that moment, my milestone wasn’t a priority—because it wasn’t theirs.

That moment altered my brain chemistry.

I learned why it’s easier to have no expectations.

Because expectations hurt.

I still love them. They’re still my girls. I won’t negate the four years of memories we shared—those are priceless to me. I still wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to walk through that journey with.

But it’s worth mentioning—because it was one of the first things I had to navigate post-grad: the shift in relationships. That moment was a painful yet necessary reminder that part of my story is closed, and will never look the same again.

I had to get honest about what types of relationships I’d take with me into this next, pivotal season. I had to be okay with never allowing myself to feel like that again. And I had to come to terms with what it means to set boundaries in adulthood to protect myself—and how that may feel and look.

I’m only a month in, but adulting sucks so far.

It’s weird knowing the life I want, I have to create. And that every choice contributes to living in that reality.

It’s odd because I have so much control—yet this season has been all about releasing control.

Surrender. Daily.

I have to die to myself daily.

More now than ever before.

Nothing is as it was. And I’m grateful—but I’m also scared.

I know God hears me.

I know this vulnerability isn’t in vain.

I know these are necessary lessons for my future.

I have a lot more to say, but I feel like God is telling me to shut up (lol), so I’ll stop here. Maybe I’ll do a part two some other time. No promises—we know how that goes.

Thanks to my sister for unknowingly reminding me of my “why,” and getting me out of my writing funk. She told me I should write about all this. I said I didn’t want to even talk about it.

She said, “That’s exactly why you should.”

She was right.

Love y’all. Love God even more. Thanks for reading—seriously.

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4:55 a.m., Sunday, June 29th, 2025