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Chapter 61: The Lessons I Didn’t Know I Needed

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Today, I turn 61.

And if you know me, you know that I have always looked at my birthday a little differently. September 5 isn’t simply the day I add another year to my age. It is my New Year’s Day.

It is the day I pause. The day I reflect. The day I think about where I have been, what I have survived, what I have celebrated, what I have released, what I have learned, and where I believe God is taking me next.

And whew…60 had some lessons for me.

Some beautiful. Some painful. Some freeing. Some that made me laugh. Some that made me cry. And quite a few that were absolutely NOT on my bingo card.

But here I am.

61.

Grateful. Growing. Loved. Unbothered. Expectant.

And perhaps more certain about myself, my God, my people, and my life than I have ever been. So, as I close the chapter on 60 and begin this new year of life, here are a few things I know now (in no particular order).

1. I Don’t Control Anything. God Is in Control.

This may be the biggest lesson of all.

I can plan. I can prepare. I can organize. I can anticipate. I can make lists, develop strategies, and think ten steps ahead. And then life will remind me that I am not in control. There is something incredibly freeing about finally accepting that.

God is God. I am not.

My responsibility is to be faithful with what He has given me, make the best decisions I can, pray, listen, move when He says move—and trust Him with everything else. I don’t have to know how everything is going to work out. I just have to know Who is working it out.

2. You Have to Choose You—even When Others Don’t.

There comes a point when you realize that waiting for other people to validate you, prioritize you, understand you, or choose you can become its own kind of prison. Sometimes you have to choose yourself.

Choose your peace.

Choose your boundaries.

Choose your dreams.

Choose your healing.

Choose what you know God has called you to do.

Choosing yourself doesn’t mean you don’t love other people. It means you finally understand that loving others should not require abandoning yourself.

3. Therapy Is Essential.

Yes, I am a therapist. And yes, I believe therapists need therapy too.

There is something powerful about having a space where you don’t have to be the strong one, the counselor, the professor, the leader, the wife, the mother, the friend, the problem-solver, or the person everybody expects to have the answer. You can simply be.

Therapy gives us space to tell the truth—to ourselves first. Healing requires honesty, and sometimes we need someone to help us hear what our own hearts have been trying to tell us.

4. I Love Me.

Not the résumé. Not the titles. Not the accomplishments. Not what I can do for other people.

Me.

I love the woman I have become. I love the woman who is still becoming. I love my strengths and can extend grace to my imperfections. I can celebrate the parts of myself that have taken years to embrace.

At 61, I don’t need to shrink myself to make other people comfortable. I don’t need to apologize for taking up space. I don’t need permission to love the woman God created me to be.

I love me.

And that took some years to be able to say without qualification.

5. My Real Friends Matter. Cultivate Those Relationships.

Everybody you know isn’t your friend. Everybody who celebrates publicly isn’t necessarily invested privately. And everybody who has been around for a long time isn’t automatically entitled to remain close.

But those real ones? The people who check on you. The people who pray for you. The people who can sit with your joy without competing with it and sit with your pain without trying to fix it. The ones who tell you the truth. The ones who show up. The ones who know the whole story and still say, “I’m here.” Those relationships deserve cultivation.

Call them. Visit them. Celebrate them. Check on them. Travel with them. Laugh until your stomach hurts with them. Tell them you love them.

Don’t become so busy doing life that you forget to nurture the people who make life sweeter.

6. Hard Things Are Hard.

That’s it.

That’s the lesson.

Sometimes we spend so much energy trying to make difficult experiences sound inspirational that we don’t give ourselves permission to simply acknowledge:

This is hard.

Everything doesn’t need an immediate silver lining.

Sometimes faith looks like trusting God while simultaneously admitting that something hurts. Sometimes strength looks like crying. Sometimes courage looks like getting out of bed. Sometimes healing looks like saying, “I don’t like this. I don’t understand this. But I am going to keep going.”

Hard things are hard.

And we can survive hard things without pretending they weren’t hard.

7. Life Is Short. Be Intentional and Enjoy Every Single Day.

I understand this differently at 61 than I did at 31, 41, or even 51.

Time is a gift.

I don’t want to spend mine constantly waiting for the next thing. The next vacation. The next accomplishment. The next milestone. The next opportunity. The next “someday.”

Today is part of my life too.

I want to laugh today. Love today. Rest today. Travel when I can. Eat the good food. Wear the outfit. Take the picture. Buy the flowers. Sit on the porch. Call my people. Dance when the music comes on. Say “I love you.” Do the things that make my soul smile.

I don’t want to merely accumulate years.

I want to live them.

8. People Aren’t Thinking About You Like You Think They Are.

This one is liberating.

Wear it. Post it. Try it. Start it. Change your mind. Go by yourself. Say no. Say yes. Launch the thing. Take the trip.

People are far more occupied with their own lives than we imagine.

And even when they do have an opinion? They get to have one. You don’t have to organize your life around it.

9. Some Relationships Are Performative. Find People You Don’t Have to Perform For.

This lesson has been significant.

There are relationships where you slowly realize everyone is playing a role.

You show up the right way. Say the right thing. Smile at the right time. Maintain the image.

But real relationship should give you somewhere to exhale.

I want people in my life who don’t require the performance. People I can call when I’m not okay. People who can see me without the titles, accomplishments, responsibilities, or public version of myself. People who don’t need me to impress them. People who simply love Denise.

Those are my people.

And at 61, I am leaning deeply into them.

10. I Am Exactly Where I Am Supposed to Be.

Maybe my life doesn’t look exactly like I once imagined it would at 61.

That’s okay.

Because I’ve stopped measuring my life against an old blueprint. I am where I am supposed to be. Not because everything is perfect. Not because every question has been answered. Not because I have accomplished everything I want to accomplish. But because I trust that God has been present in every chapter.

Even the detours. Even the disappointments. Even the endings. Even the unexpected beginnings. Nothing has been wasted.

So, What Will 61 Look Like?

I don’t know.

And maybe that’s the point.

I spent enough years believing I needed to know exactly what came next. This year, I want something different.

I don’t want to simply wake up every morning and exist. I want to wake up expecting.

Expecting God’s goodness.

Expecting His blessings.

Expecting laughter.

Expecting love.

Expecting new opportunities.

Expecting meaningful work.

Expecting beautiful surprises.

Expecting God to continue writing a story that is bigger than anything I could have planned for myself.

I am going to keep loving my people.

I am going to keep choosing myself.

I am going to keep doing my own work.

I am going to keep going to therapy.

I am going to keep laughing loudly.

I am going to keep loving deeply.

I am going to keep protecting my peace.

I am going to keep living unbothered by things that don’t deserve my energy.

And I am going to keep trusting God.

Because if 60 taught me anything, it is that I don’t have to control the journey to trust the One who does.

So here’s to 61.

To living instead of existing.

To authenticity instead of performance.

To intention instead of obligation.

To real friendships.

To choosing me.

To loving me.

To doing hard things.

To enjoying ordinary Tuesdays just as much as extraordinary Saturdays.

To expecting goodness.

To trusting God.

And to whatever lessons this next trip around the sun has waiting for me.

I’m walking into 61 with my hands open, my heart full, my people close, and my faith intact.

I don’t know exactly what’s coming.

But I expect it to be good.

Happy New Year to me.

Hello, 61. I’m ready.

Legacy Isn’t Built in a Museum

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Recently, I had the opportunity to visit the Obama Presidential Center. As I walked through the exhibits, I found myself slowing down—not because I wanted to read every plaque and listen to every video and speech, but because I wanted to absorb what I was feeling.

There was excellence everywhere.

Not perfection. Excellence.

Every detail reflected intentionality, purpose, sacrifice, and care. The stories were thoughtfully told. The accomplishments were impressive, but what moved me most wasn’t simply what President and Mrs. Obama accomplished—it was the evidence of a life lived with impact. Their values, their vision, their challenges, and their victories were woven together into a story that will continue to educate and inspire generations.

At one point, I found myself wondering what it must feel like for them to walk through those halls. What must it be like to see your life’s work displayed before you? To see moments of courage, sacrifice, setbacks, and triumph preserved for others to learn from?

It made me pause.

Not because I aspire to have a presidential center. But because it forced me to ask a much more personal question:

What legacy am I building every day?

The truth is, most of us will never have museums built in our honor. We won’t have exhibits chronicling our accomplishments or visitors traveling across the country to learn our stories.

But perhaps that’s never been the point. Legacy isn’t reserved for presidents, celebrities, or history-makers. Legacy is built in ordinary moments.

It’s in the conversations we have with our children after difficult days. It’s in how we love our spouses when life becomes complicated. It’s in the encouragement we offer a person who is struggling, the compassion we extend to a others, the wisdom we share with a colleague, or the kindness we show a stranger who may never know how much they needed it.

Legacy is found in consistency far more often than in grand gestures.

As a counselor, educator, and mentor, I’ve learned that people rarely remember every word you say. They remember how you made them feel. They remember whether they felt seen, heard, valued, and believed in. That’s legacy.

As parents, we pass on more than our names. We pass on our habits, our values, our resilience, and our responses to life’s challenges. That’s legacy.

As leaders, we create cultures that either encourage people to flourish or cause them to shrink. That’s legacy.

As people of faith, we have the opportunity to reflect God’s love in ways that often go unnoticed in the moment but echo for generations. That’s legacy.

The Bible reminds us in Proverbs 13:22, “A good person leaves an inheritance to their children’s children.” While we often think of inheritance in financial terms, perhaps our greatest inheritance is the character, faith, wisdom, and love we leave behind.

Every day, we are writing chapters that someone else will remember.

Our children are watching.

Our colleagues are learning.

Our people are growing.

Our friends are listening.

Even strangers are experiencing the ripple effects of our choices.

The question isn’t whether we’ll leave a legacy. We all will. The real question is:

What story are we telling with our lives?

Will people remember us for titles or for kindness? For accomplishments or for compassion? For what we accumulated or for what we gave away? For being impressive or for making others feel important?

Visiting the Obama Presidential Center reminded me that legacy is not ultimately about recognition. Recognition may preserve a legacy, but it doesn’t create one.

Legacy is created one decision at a time.

One act of integrity.

One difficult conversation handled with grace.

One opportunity to forgive.

One choice to serve instead of seeking applause.

One life intentionally lived.

Long after the awards have gathered dust, careers have ended, and social media posts have been forgotten, what remains is the imprint we’ve left on the hearts of others. Maybe that’s the most beautiful kind of legacy. Not one displayed behind glass – but one carried forward in people.

So today, I leave you with this question—the same one I asked myself as I walked through those halls:

If someone were to tell your story years from now, what would they say your life stood for?

Because legacy isn’t something we leave when we’re gone.

It’s something we’re building today.

Halftime Adjustments: It’s Time to Finish the Year Strong

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Can you believe we’re already halfway through the year?

As the calendar turns to the second half, many of us are tempted to focus on everything we didn’t accomplish. We think about the goals we abandoned, the opportunities we missed, the habits we never quite established, or the unexpected challenges that changed our plans.

But what if we looked at this moment differently?

As the parent of two sons who played sports, I’ve spent countless hours in gyms, on football fields, and understanding locker room conversations. One thing I learned is that halftime is never about dwelling on the mistakes of the first half. It’s about making adjustments for the second half.

The best coaches don’t spend the entire halftime reminding players of every missed shot or blown assignment. Instead, they ask important questions:

  • What’s working that we need to keep doing?
  • What’s not working that needs to change?
  • What adjustments will put us in the best position to win?

Then the team takes the field with a renewed sense of purpose.

Life isn’t much different.

Evaluate Without Beating Yourself Up

The first half of the year may not have gone according to plan. Maybe you experienced unexpected loss, financial stress, health challenges, relationship difficulties, or simply found yourself overwhelmed by life’s responsibilities.

Perhaps you started the year with ambitious goals that now seem distant.

That’s okay.

An honest evaluation doesn’t require self-condemnation. It requires self-awareness.

Ask yourself:

  • What am I proud of from the first half of this year?
  • What has drained my energy?
  • What habits have helped me grow?
  • What patterns have held me back?
  • What have I learned about myself?

Growth begins with honesty, not shame.

Adjust Your Strategy, Not Your Dream

One of the greatest lessons in sports is that the game plan can change without changing the goal. The objective remains the same: win the game. Maybe your original strategy wasn’t effective. Maybe your circumstances changed. Maybe you’ve grown and your priorities have shifted.

That’s not failure—that’s wisdom.

Sometimes the adjustment means saying “no” more often. Sometimes it means asking for help. Sometimes it means resting instead of constantly striving. Sometimes it means letting go of something good so you can embrace something better.

Adjustments aren’t signs of weakness. They’re signs of maturity.

Stop Letting the Score Define the Outcome

I’ve seen teams walk into halftime behind on the scoreboard and leave with a victory because they refused to believe the first half determined the final outcome.

The same is true for your life.

One difficult season doesn’t define your story. One setback doesn’t erase your purpose. One mistake doesn’t eliminate your potential. The score at halftime is simply information—not destiny.

Finish Strong

The beautiful thing about the second half is that it still belongs to you.

There are still conversations to have.
There are still dreams to pursue.
There are still relationships to strengthen.
There are still healthy habits to build.
There are still opportunities waiting for you.

You don’t need a new year to make a new decision. You don’t need permission to begin again. You simply need the courage to make the adjustment.

A Challenge for This Week

As we step into the second half of the year, take some time for your own halftime meeting.

Grab a journal, sit somewhere quiet, and honestly reflect on the first six months.

Celebrate your wins. Learn from your losses. Release what no longer serves you. Then commit to one or two intentional adjustments that will help you become the person you want to be by year’s end.

Remember, championships aren’t won because a team played a perfect first half. They’re won because they were willing to make the right adjustments when it mattered most.

The game isn’t over.

The second half is just beginning.

So take a deep breath, make the adjustment, and finish strong.

“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” — Isaiah 43:18–19

Here’s to making the adjustments that lead to your strongest finish yet.

From Fixer to Witness: Parenting Adult Children with Love, Trust, and Letting Go

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I was watching an episode of The Tamron Hall Show the other day, and the conversation centered on the need for mom groups for new mothers and those raising young children— spaces where support, shared wisdom, and reassurance are readily offered. It made me pause and reflect on my own journey, and on the women who walk alongside me in different seasons of life. I found myself thinking about mothers of adult children, a group that rarely gets the same attention, yet carries its own unique and complex challenges. Where are the spaces for us to wrestle with how to “mother well” when our children are no longer children? How do we navigate the delicate balance of staying present while releasing control? This season may be quieter and less visible, but it is no less significant, and I believe it requires just as much community, reflection, and grace.

Today is a day of a true confession…I have always been a fixer.

The one who steps in. The one who anticipates needs before they are spoken. The one who carries, organizes, nurtures, and makes a way out of no way. I was raised by strong Black women who modeled what it meant to hold a family together, even when life was heavy, uncertain, and unfair. They taught me how to love through action, how to sacrifice, and how to ensure that the people we love are cared for, protected, and provided for.

And now I am the mother of adult sons and fixing doesn’t work the same anymore.

The Tension of Love and Letting Go

Loving my sons deeply has never been the challenge. Supporting them has never been the question. The real work—the sacred, stretching, soul-level work—is learning how to love them without controlling them.

Because everything in me still wants to:

  • Offer the solution before they finish the sentence
  • Organize their next step
  • Protect them from disappointment
  • Tell them what they “should” do

But parenting adult children requires something different. It requires restraint. It requires trust. It requires me to sit with the truth that they are living lives that belong to them.

Lives shaped by their choices.
Their timing.
Their growth.
Their mistakes.
Their becoming.

And that truth can feel both beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

Standing at the Intersection

There is a quiet intersection I stand in as a mother, and I’m sure many of you do too:

“I have equipped you to be your own person”
and
“I worry about you in this unpredictable world.”

Both are true.

I see the values I instilled.
I see the strength, the intelligence, the resilience.
And still… I worry.

Not because I don’t trust them,
but because I know the world.

And this is where the shift happens.

I am no longer called to manage their lives.
I am called to bear witness to them.

From Fixer to Presence

Being present without taking over is a discipline. As a mother, I know the struggle with being in this space. I talk to women that share their struggle with being in this space.

It means:

  • Listening without interrupting with solutions
  • Asking instead of telling
  • Supporting without rescuing
  • Trusting without hovering

It means allowing silence in a space that was once filled with direction.

It means understanding that growth often comes through discomfort, and not rushing to remove that discomfort just because we can.

Letting Go and Letting God

Letting go is not about disengaging.
It is about releasing control.

It is about trusting that the same God who carries us, shapes us, and sustains us is also present in their lives.

Letting go means:

  • Releasing the illusion that we can control outcomes
  • Trusting that what we poured into them will rise when needed
  • Believing that they are not navigating life alone

Sometimes letting go looks like prayer instead of instruction.
Sometimes it looks like silence instead of strategy.
Sometimes it looks like stepping back when everything in you wants to step in.

And if I am honest, sometimes it looks like tears.

Ways to Be Present Without Taking Over

Parenting adult children is not passive, it is intentional in a new way. Here are practices I am learning to embrace:

1. Shift from Director to Consultant
Offer wisdom when invited, not imposed. Trust that they will come to you when they are ready to hear.

2. Practice Reflective Listening
Instead of fixing, reflect: “That sounds really hard.”
Presence often heals more than solutions.

3. Honor Their Autonomy
Even when you would choose differently, respect their right to choose.

4. Regulate Your Own Anxiety
Not every decision they make is a crisis. Breathe. Pause. Pray.

5. Stay Connected Without Controlling
Check in with love, not interrogation.
Connection, not compliance, is the goal.

6. Release Outcomes Daily
Letting go is not a one-time decision. It is a daily surrender.

Redefining Strength

The women who raised me were strong in ways that taught me to do.
This season is teaching me a different kind of strength, the strength to be.

To be present.
To be trusting.
To be prayerful.
To be still when I want to move.

Because sometimes the most powerful thing a mother can do is not fix.

It is to stand in love.
To trust what has been planted.
And to believe that what was poured into them will guide them.

A Closing Truth

I am still a fixer.

But I am learning to become something more.

A witness.
A supporter.
A safe place.
A praying mother.

And in this sacred transition I am discovering that letting go is not losing my role, it is evolving it.

And trusting that love—real love—knows when to hold on and when to release.

From Survival to Flourishing: Reclaiming Your Life, Your Purpose, and Your Legacy

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There was a season in my life when survival was not just a mindset—it was a necessity. Like many of the people and communities I now serve, I learned early how to be resilient, resourceful, and responsible long before I had the language for healing, purpose, or rest. I became the strong one. The dependable one. The one who kept going.

But strength without space for softness eventually costs us something.

When Survival Becomes Your Identity

Survival is powerful. It teaches us how to endure, adapt, and overcome. It sharpens our instincts and strengthens our capacity to carry what feels unbearable. But survival is not meant to be a permanent address—it is meant to be a bridge.

For many, survival becomes identity. We wear it like armor. We measure our worth by how much we can handle, how much we can carry, how much we can sacrifice. We become experts at showing up for others while quietly abandoning ourselves.

And over time, we begin to feel the cost:

  • Emotional exhaustion
  • Disconnection from joy
  • Loss of identity
  • A quiet longing for “something more”

That “something more” is not selfish. It is the beginning of flourishing.

The Shift: From Enduring to Becoming

My journey into counseling, education, and community leadership was not born from theory alone—it emerged from lived experience, sacred reflection, and a deep calling to transform pain into purpose. I did not pursue knowledge simply to achieve—I pursued it to understand.

To understand:

  • The systems that shape our stories
  • The trauma that travels through generations
  • The spiritual and psychological tools that help us reclaim our lives

Flourishing begins when we give ourselves permission to move beyond survival and step into intentional living. It is not about perfection—it is about alignment.

What Does It Mean to Flourish?

Flourishing is not a destination—it is a way of being. It is the ongoing practice of choosing yourself, healing deeply, and living with intention.

Flourishing looks like:

  • Creating space for rest without guilt
  • Allowing softness to coexist with strength
  • Naming your pain without being defined by it
  • Reconnecting with your voice, your desires, and your identity
  • Building relationships rooted in authenticity and mutual care

It is the shift from “I have to survive this” to “I get to become through this.”

Healing Is Your Birthright

Through my work as a counselor, educator, and community leader, I have had the privilege of walking alongside individuals navigating trauma, grief, identity loss, and relational pain. And one truth remains constant:

Healing is not a luxury—it is a birthright.

Yet many of us have been conditioned to believe otherwise. We have been taught to prioritize productivity over peace, performance over presence, and survival over wholeness.

But healing-centered living calls us back to ourselves.

It invites us to:

  • Slow down
  • Listen inward
  • Unlearn what no longer serves us
  • Reclaim what was always ours

Doing the Inner Work

Flourishing requires intentionality. It asks us to do the inner work—not just for ourselves, but for the lives we touch and the legacy we leave.

This means:

  • Examining the narratives we’ve inherited
  • Confronting the wounds we’ve avoided
  • Practicing self-compassion in the process
  • Seeking support when needed

We cannot guide others toward wholeness if we have not first done the work of knowing ourselves.

Flourishing in Community

While healing is deeply personal, it is not meant to happen in isolation. We flourish in environments where we are seen, supported, and valued.

This is why creating healing-centered spaces matters.

Spaces where:

  • Joy is not an afterthought, but a form of resistance
  • Mental health is accessible and normalized
  • People are not reduced to their pain, but empowered in their purpose

Flourishing expands when it is nurtured in community.

This Is Your Invitation

This next chapter is not about doing more—it is about doing what matters most.

It is about:

  • Integration
  • Alignment
  • Legacy

It is about no longer compartmentalizing who you are, but fully embracing the complexity and beauty of your story.

This is your invitation to:

  • Move from burnout to belonging
  • Move from disconnection to clarity
  • Move from inherited wounds to intentional legacy

Your Story Is Not Over

If you have spent your life pouring into everyone else, this is your moment to rediscover yourself.

If you have learned how to survive but never been taught how to dream, this is your moment to imagine again.

If you are burned out, disillusioned, or disconnected from your calling, this is your moment to realign.

Survival is not the end of your story.
Flourishing is.

And legacy is what you build when you choose healing—not just for yourself, but for generations to come.

If this resonates with you, take a moment today to ask yourself:

“What would it look like for me to move from surviving… to truly flourishing?”

Your answer may just be the beginning of everything.

Embracing 2026: Stepping Forward as Our Truest Selves

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As we cross the threshold into 2026, many of us are carrying more than just memories from 2025—we are carrying lessons, wounds, victories, fatigue, and growth. The turning of the calendar is not a magic eraser, but it is an invitation. An invitation to pause, reflect, release, and re-imagine who we are becoming.

Releasing the Weight of 2025

For some, 2025 was marked by stress, uncertainty, loss, or constant adjustment. We learned how to push through, hold it together, and survive. While survival is sometimes necessary, it is not meant to be a permanent residence. As we step into 2026, we are allowed to leave behind the weight of what no longer serves us—the expectations, the self-criticism, the constant urgency, and the belief that rest must be earned.

Letting go does not mean forgetting. It means honoring what we endured without allowing it to define us.

From Survivor Self to Authentic Self

Many of us have learned how to function from our survivor self—the version of us shaped by adversity, fear, or the need to stay safe. The survivor self is resilient, resourceful, and protective. It got us through. But the survivor self often lives in hyper-vigilance, people-pleasing, perfectionism, or emotional armor.

Our authentic self, however, is rooted in truth rather than fear. It is the part of us that lives freely, honestly, and intentionally. The authentic self does not abandon boundaries, but it also does not hide behind them. It allows us to be fully present, deeply connected, and aligned with our values.

2026 invites us to ask:

  • Who am I when I am not just surviving?
  • What parts of myself am I ready to reclaim?
  • What would it look like to live from wholeness rather than exhaustion?

Extending Ourselves Grace and Love

So often, we extend compassion, patience, and understanding to others while holding ourselves to impossible standards. We excuse others’ humanity but criticize our own. As we enter this new year, let us commit to offering ourselves the same grace we give so freely.

Grace says:

  • I am allowed to grow at my own pace.
  • I am not defined by my mistakes or my hardest seasons.
  • I deserve rest, joy, and care—not as rewards, but as necessities.

Loving ourselves well is not selfish; it is restorative. When we treat ourselves with kindness, we create space for healing and transformation.

Living the Best Version of Ourselves

Living our best life is not about perfection or comparison—it is about alignment. It is about choosing what nourishes our spirit, supports our mental and emotional well-being, and honors our values. The best version of ourselves is not a future fantasy; it is shaped daily through intentional choices, honest reflection, and courageous boundaries.

In 2026, may we:

  • Choose presence over pressure
  • Choose growth over fear
  • Choose authenticity over approval

Embracing Who We Are Purposed to Be

Each of us carries purpose—not as a destination to reach, but as a way of being. Purpose unfolds when we live in integrity with who we are created to be. It shows up in our relationships, our work, our rest, and the way we show up for ourselves.

As we move into 2026, may we walk forward lighter—released from what was, grounded in who we are, and open to who we are becoming. May this be the year we stop merely surviving and start living fully, boldly, and authentically.

Here’s to a year of healing, clarity, grace, and becoming.
Welcome to 2026.

Joy as a Form of Resistance!

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In a time where Black communities across America face a relentless stream of cultural, political, and emotional trauma—joy becomes more than a feeling. It becomes a radical act. The weight of racism, economic disparity, police violence, erasure, and political disregard bears down with unrelenting force. And yet, against this backdrop of injustice, Black joy rises. Not because the world has given us permission, but because we’ve chosen it as a form of resistance.

Joy Is Not a Distraction. It’s a Declaration.

In the realm of mental health, joy is often regarded as a byproduct of healing. But for Black Americans navigating a sociopolitical climate marked by racial injustice, cultural erasure, and historical trauma, joy is not just a feeling—it is an act of survival. It is, quite literally, resistance.

From a clinical perspective, persistent exposure to racialized trauma can lead to cumulative stress—often referred to as weathering—that takes a toll on both mental and physical health. The ongoing impact of police violence, health disparities, microaggressions, and systemic inequity has left many Black individuals in a chronic state of hypervigilance. For some, this manifests as anxiety, depression, racial battle fatigue, or even complex PTSD. Yet in the midst of all this, many in the Black community continue to create space for laughter, love, creativity, and celebration.

This is not a contradiction. It is a deeply therapeutic response.To be joyful in a world that has consistently tried to rob Black people of their humanity is defiant. Joy says, I still exist. I still love. I still laugh. I still create. I still dance. In this way, joy is not frivolous—it’s revolutionary. In every smile shared at the cookout, in every spontaneous moment of laughter between sisters, in every sideline cheer at youth games, or in every perfectly timed “Y’all alright?” text that turns into a healing phone call—Black joy holds space for healing, connection, and spiritual defiance.

What If You Just Had Fun?

That question—”What if you just had fun?”—might seem too light for times like these. But it’s not meant to suggest apathy. Rather, it’s an invitation to reclaim something sacred.

What if you gave yourself permission to feel free, even when the world tells you to stay on high alert?
What if you allowed your soul to breathe, to dance, to sing, to wear colors that make no sense but bring you joy?
What if you told the truth about your pain—and still chose laughter in the same breath?

In a culture that feeds off Black pain for entertainment, economics, and policy, Black joy breaks the cycle. It rewrites the narrative. It reminds us that our ancestors didn’t just survive—they celebrated, they created, they dreamed.

Choosing Joy Without Denying Reality

Let’s be clear: choosing joy does not mean ignoring grief, anger, or fear. Black people have long held the skill of “both/and”—we grieve and we grind, we rage and we rest, we cry and we cook. We understand that joy can live in the same room as pain.

To rest, to dance, to play spades, to sing loudly off-key, to roller skate at sunset, to tell that same funny story one more time—is to declare, I will not be defined by trauma alone. That is not trivial. That is sacred.

A Call to Radical Joy

This is your reminder: Your joy is not an accessory to your activism. It is part of your liberation. Protect it. Practice it. Pass it on.

So yes, in this time of cultural reckoning and social fatigue, what if you just had fun? Not to run from what’s wrong, but to ground yourself in what’s still right. In who you still are. In what you still deserve.

Joy is resistance.
Joy is refuge.
Joy is your birthright.

And nobody—no system, no headline, no policymaker—can take it away.

Five Powerful Lessons from a Week in Barbados with Extraordinary Black Women

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Friendships are so important for me, and it is something I don’t take for granted. I have a few people that are special for me, and I can count on one hand how many people I have that are true, die hard, ride or die friends! For my bestie of over 44 years 60th birthday, she gathered eight phenomenal Black women for a week of celebration, sisterhood, and renewal in Barbados. What unfolded was more than just a vacation—it was a masterclass in joy, resilience, and the deep power of community. Against the backdrop of stunning beaches, vibrant culture, and the rhythmic pulse of island life, we reconnected with ourselves and each other. This journey was more than just an escape; it was a sacred retreat where we rediscovered our strength, our laughter, and the necessity of prioritizing ourselves. Here are five transformative lessons I took away from this life-giving experience:

1. Rest is Essential
Too often, we wear exhaustion as a badge of honor, believing that productivity is the ultimate measure of our worth. In Barbados, I was reminded that rest is not a luxury—it is a necessity. No one brought their computers, and no one did any work! The sound of the ocean, the warmth of the sun, and the gentle rhythm of island life taught me that slowing down is an act of self-preservation. We must give ourselves permission to pause, to breathe, and to replenish our spirits. Rest is not something we should feel guilty about; it is fuel for our purpose. Watching the waves roll in and out reminded me that nature itself embraces rest as part of its cycle. Just as the ocean ebbs and flows, so must we.

2. Black Women Are Powerful
Spending time with these women—each of whom carries wisdom, strength, and grace—was a testament to the power of Black womanhood. We shared stories of triumph and perseverance, and I was reminded that our collective resilience is unshakable. The way we uplifted each other, spoke life into one another, and honored our journeys revealed just how formidable we are. Black women have always been the backbone of families, communities, and movements, but this experience reinforced the importance of also being the backbone for each other. When Black women come together, we are unstoppable forces of love, healing, and transformation. Seeing these women, each accomplished in their own right, embrace their authenticity without pretense was a reminder that our true power lies in being unapologetically ourselves.

3. The Support of Black Women Is Life-Giving
There is nothing like the affirmation, laughter, and encouragement of Black women. Throughout the week, we lifted each other up, offered words of wisdom, and created space for vulnerability. It was a reminder that true support is more than just being present—it’s about being intentional in our love, our listening, and our care for one another. The moments of deep conversation, the spontaneous laughter, the knowing glances that needed no words—these were the sacred exchanges that nourished our souls. It reinforced for me that sisterhood is not just about friendship; it is a sanctuary. When we show up for each other, we cultivate a foundation of strength that carries us forward long after the trip ends.

4. Live Every Day with Unapologetic Joy
Joy is our birthright, and we must claim it without hesitation. Whether it was savoring delicious food, soaking in breathtaking views, or simply relishing each other’s presence, we embraced happiness without restraint. We did not wait for a special occasion to celebrate—we made every moment special. This week taught me that we do not need permission to be happy. We do not need to shrink ourselves or dim our light for fear of taking up too much space. We deserve to live fully and joyfully every single day. Too often, the world places limitations on Black women’s joy, telling us when, where, and how we should express it. But we laughed loudly, danced freely, and created memories without inhibition. Joy, after all, is an act of resistance, and we must guard it fiercely.

5. Dance Like No One Is Watching
From the beaches to the dance floors, we moved with freedom and abandon. Every night, we spent time dancing and trying to learn new line dances, much to our struggle! Dancing became a metaphor for life—expressing ourselves without fear, embracing the rhythm of the moment, and refusing to be constrained by expectation. There is something liberating about moving your body to music without concern for how you look or who is watching. It is a reminder that we should live with the same kind of freedom—unbothered by judgment, uninhibited by societal expectations, and fully present in our own experience. Life is too short to sit on the sidelines. Whether it’s dancing, pursuing a dream, or speaking our truth, we must move boldly and unapologetically through life. Dance, love, and live out loud.

This week in paradise was more than just a trip; it was a reaffirmation of everything that makes life rich and beautiful. It was a reminder that Black women, in all our brilliance, deserve spaces where we can exhale, recharge, and simply be. New and lasting friendships were formed, and our lives will not be the same after our time with our friend. As we continue to hold all that we gained on our trip, may we all embrace rest, honor our power, cherish our sisters, claim our joy, and dance through life with fearless abandon. I am blessed to have my friend, and grateful for her vision of creating space for us to celebrate her…and each other!