Nothing grinds my gears more than somebody fucking up the background vocals for Bills, Bills, Bills by Destiny’s Child.

In fact, I can recall at least one childhood karaoke session where I checked an unsuspecting victim child for adding an extra vocal to the first line of the song. I was barely old enough to cross the street by myself yet I found it in me to be so deeply offended by such a small infraction that to me made a world of difference.

But also, I recognized the magic that is a background vocal from young and personally I think that’s something to be celebrated.

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On quite a few occasions people have pointed out, been amused by (or a mix of both) the fact that I tend to sing background vocals and adlibs really passionately. It don’t matter if I’m in the club or the car or even if I sound like a dying cat, I’ma jump right in on the 2 when everybody else is focused on the 1. To quote Kendrick Lamar, “somebody’s gotta do it”.

Meanwhile in my alternate universe I’m shocked that other people aren’t as moved by background vocals as I am. I have zero formal music training unless you count that one summer I “if johnny had 2 apples”d my way through the Harlem School of the Arts, fyi. But for me, background vocals set the pace of a song. It sort of gives the listener a guided tour through the lyrics and helps them mark their place in the stanzas.

Assuming you people listen to music and not just skim through it.

In some ways I hear everything in the background before the foreground hits me. I don’t know what you call that but that’s how I experience music.

And all that Jazz

If I had to list out content pillars in my brain so far for 2026, jazz would be at the top of the list. It all started with me reading The Culture Communique’s Substack post about Black jazz films which eventually led me to renting Mo’ Betta Blues. That led me to jazz nights, a Dizzy Gillespie CD and eventually New Orleans.

None of this was on my bingo card for 2026 but I like it here and we can speak more about it later.

I think the reason I’ve been so drawn to jazz is because all these sounds together, in harmony make you feel the music. The beauty of jazz (and really any good music to be real) is that every note, every instrument and every vocal is placed with intention. When the music is good (and I mean really good) everyone plays their position to create something bigger than themselves. When everyone is fighting to be the loudest, what should be beautiful music turns into friction sonified.

Something rooted in ego. Something that feels less magical because it’s fighting to be seen (figuratively) and not felt.

Listening to jazz music has become one of those things that has helped me slow down and just exist in the moment. Since I don’t have background vocals and adlibs to guide me, I have to listen deeply and allow my brain to appreciate each layer.

“[Background vocals] add a texture that can lift you up or it can bring things to like an ethereal place…Honestly I never really get tired of that.” - Mariah Carey

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Your best has yet to come

It’s interesting that in one part of my brain, I can hold the truth that there is value in not being front and center. However, as I’ve been pushing myself to live a life full of expressed creativity, I sometimes let lack of validation make me question what I’m doing it for if no one sees me.

In some ways I’ve been leaning on my background vocal adoration to help me propel forward with my creativity. In the same way that Brandy’s Angel in Disguise needed Joe’s harmonies to make heartbreak sound ethereal, and in the same way Aaliyah’s Come Over required Tank’s je ne sais quoi to make yearning sound so heavy yet so light, I need to lead with knowing that as long as I’m putting my best foot forward whatever is for me will come exactly when it needs to.

I’m called to create what I’m meant to create and there’s no amount of validation (or lack thereof) that can take away from that.

Contrary to my own beliefs (really worries) my best art is not behind me. In fact, it’s likely to not have even been created yet.

Real talk.

Currently, I’m in a space where I’m happily making things and caring less about the response to output and more about how the input is shaping me regardless of who sees. That was a fake eloquent way of me saying I’m putting in work. I’m getting my reps in and that is a reward in itself.

If I blow up overnight that would be weird but fuck it…I’m game. But if not I’m just as happy getting my creative shit off just because. The world deserves my really cool ideas that invade my thoughts.

Until next time.

-Mika

P.S. I started making a playlist of songs where the background vocals make me stank face. Enjoy.

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How does one in good faith create just for the sake of creating knowing what they know?

My first experience creating video technically didn’t involve video at all.

I was maybe 7 years old and I pulled random objects from around the house—markers, cassette tapes, rubberbands, you name it—and I made what to the imaginative eye looked like an old school Sony camcorder1. The same one that my Dad would have to hide from me so I would stop recording over his memories with my favorite clips from the Fresh Prince of Belair or me acting out high speed police chases with the computer desk chair casted as my getaway car.

A decade later, I’d find myself in a high school film class scripting, filming and acting in an original horror movie as part of a group term project. The same project that had me at home reinforcing my editing skills on a pirated version of Final Cut Express instead of riding the train for fun as many NYC high school kids did at that time.

And a decade after that. I will find myself in an on again, off again relationship with YouTube—drained by the amount of time it takes to edit a video but also fueled when I create a video I’m proud of that ultimately all of two people will watch.

Right now, the relationship is on again and mostly inspired by my relative consistency on Substack (plus all the joy it’s brought me) and my longing to create videos that feel storytelling driven.

With that, here’s a journal entry from a couple years ago when I was going through the motions, posting on YouTube but still questioning whether I should be doing something better with my time.

Monday May 6, 2024

A few days ago, I struggled really badly with creating and asking myself what am I doing it for? For starters my Fenty Beauty Foundation review came out horribly and took a terrible turn. Not to mention, I’m seeing incredibly slow growth on every platform.

I know a lot of it comes down to lack of consistency and confidence. Me showing up on platforms, not wondering or caring if I’m doing it right, if people will judge me, think I’m cringey or if I will fail out loud.

I just need to post things that I love and am proud of instead of wondering if others will like it (literally and figuratively). I’ve been letting my anxiety get in the way for far too long. The buck stops here.

I think that’s why I love creating for YouTube. It’s a space where no one really knows me and I create super freely because of it. The only “pressure” is to be consistent and continually post content that I truly love and enjoy. Though I’ve been inconsistent 10 of the last 12 months I’ve been posting on YouTube (judge your momma), I’m starting to see that I truly love bringing a video to life and it’s helping me realize that I can do hard things.

God, give me the strength and the courage to truly tap into my gifts and share them with the world. I am deserving of this blessing and your children (my brothers and sisters) deserve to experience it as well.

I know I am capable of so much and sometimes the what ifs and noise really stop me from living up to my fullest potential.

Present Day

It’s more than 2 years later and I have uploaded exactly five YT videos since writing that journal entry. LOL

Sometimes the heaviest load to carry as a creative person is knowing that you’re your own worst enemy. Another is recognizing that you’ve internalized a lot of negative sentiments towards your creative pursuits. Whether it’s the folks that think you’re wasting your time with lukewarm talent or others who think that creative interests in general are a distraction that doesn’t pay the bills.

I’ve come to realize that you can’t change what people think about you or your interests but you can change your relationship to your creativity. Which is exactly how I found myself posting on YouTube for the umpteenth time with the hopes of sticking with it this time around. Not because I want to explode on the platform, monetize and hang one of the coveted play button plaques on my gallery wall (though I wouldn’t reject any of it).

But because video editing has consistently been one of those things that has easily captivated my attention and feels like something I should be doing regardless of where it ultimately leads me.

Sometimes your “why” is because it brings you joy, and that is plenty reason to keep going.

Enjoy!

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Since I was 15, I’ve always made a BIG deal out of taking photos but especially on my birthday. Long before dramatically staged Instagram birthday shoots, taking a birthday pic was about the principle for me. I don’t have a photo album lying around with pictures from childhood birthdays, so at some point in my life I became determined to never let another lap around the sun go undocumented.

A reasonable hyperfixation to say the very least.

Literally as I’m writing this, I can vividly see every birthday pic I’ve ever taken since that age. And if I must say so myself, each and every photo was flawlessly executed and very reflective of the new year I was ushering in. I never imagined a life where a birthday went by and July 25th wasn’t stamped in the metadata of a photo I’d cherish forever.

A collection of photos that I can hold onto as a reminder to my future husband that I’ve indeed been fine my whole life.

Also, proof to my kids they do in fact get it from they momma.

That was until a recent birthday, when I found my life mostly in shambles and the only thing I wanted for my birthday was not to be seen and for the day not to be remembered.

A few weeks before my 31st birthday, I found myself debating whether I should resort to drugs while navigating a termite infestation in my first solo apartment1. To some folks, it may seem dramatic af. But if you had termites flying and shedding wings all over your apartment, you’d be losing your shit too.

I bet you didn’t even know that termites fly—did ya? Yup, specifically swarming termites, whose whole purpose is to mate and build new colonies. I was out here trying to write my little blogs and build my YouTube channel (for the umpteenth time) and here come these little fuckers trying to increase the birth rates in their nation by way of my damn office!!!

I had imagined my first time living on my own would shape me into the woman I was becoming2. Just not before it left me on edge, searching for housing again only ~six months after moving halfway across the country, and questioning every decision that had brought me there.

At some point I was literally googling the biblical meaning of termite infestations, because you couldn’t tell me this wasn’t ordained. Divine intervention, if you will. I felt like I didn’t know myself nor did I trust the person looking back at me in my life’s rearview mirror to take the driver’s seat. One symptom of that disconnect was losing joy in something that always grounded me: taking photos.

Capturing myself in my true essence and adoring what was reflected back to me. The most accurate depiction of Leo energy if I ever heard it.

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Self Portraiture as a mirror

Trying to understand why I suddenly hated being seen, I stumbled upon a blog post spotlighting a self-portraiture exhibit titled The Self Portrait. This 2020 exhibition at HOME:3 in North London—hosted by photographer Ronan Mckenzie—featured a collection of self-portraits from 13 Black female photographers of different artistic styles within photography.

It goes without saying that the photos were absolutely stunning (see for yourself). I personally got a kick out of how the photographers used different artistic approaches to self-portraiture. But what really stood out to me was the commentary. These beautiful women who have built careers on capturing beautiful people and things somehow still struggled with utilizing themselves as subjects in their own work.

But I’ll no longer speak for these women. I’m going to share a couple quotes from that blog.

It makes sense that in 2020—a time where literally everyone and their momma was forced to sit with themselves—that people who know their way around a camera and then some would struggle taking a self-portrait.

Or I’m bugging?

“You young and you pretty now”

@mikadadivaDMing this to myself because I really need to start taking as many pictures as humanly possible!!! #selfie #photodump #selfietips #y2kaesthetic

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I recently found so much joy looking through old photos of myself as a teen in the midst of a “creative rut”. No matter how badly my bangs were cut or how many colors and textures I threw on because it felt right, looking at old pictures of myself is like finding individual pieces of fabric that, together, reveal one hell of a masterpiece.

My heart aches for those who run from the camera that will never get to see themselves again in ways they’ll never exist again. Pictures are proof that you made it, bitch. But I understand it and I pray you have the courage to stand in front of a camera again.

For my chronically online folks: ”You young and you pretty…NOW. Why you not taking pictures, sis? Come on”.

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I am not the cooking friend and I don’t aspire to be.

I just thought I had to be honest with that upfront. Can I cook? Yes. But unless I’m meal prepping something I’ve made a few dozen times already or taking my sweet time following a recipe I’m confident I can’t fuck up, you won’t catch me trying to win over people’s love through food. This is not a Kennedy Ryan series and I’m not Soledad Barnes bouncing around Skyland1, eager for everyone to get their hands (and lips) on my latest dish.

That type of validation doesn’t do it for me.

While I’m airing out my own dirty laundry, I’d like to add that I’m not the hosting friend either. I’ve spent many of my earlier years hosting parties and gatherings to please other people only to have some folks still being displeased (vocally, at that), me being on edge the entire time or staying up until the wee hours of the morning trying to reset my space.

I’m anal when it comes to cleanliness, and I’d rather not spend the night counting crumbs on my freshly mopped floors or silently judging who doesn’t have the common decency to use a provided coaster. People are trying to enjoy themselves and here I am counting down the seconds to when my space is back to its zen state.

But just because spending hours in the kitchen over a hot stove or turning my house into a party venue is not my cup of tea, it doesn’t mean that I don’t show up.

While my address may not be on the invitation and I won’t be responsible for a critical main entree (or side for that matter, you know Black folks don’t play about potato salad or mac & cheese), I’m always going to pull up with my perfected shrimp deviled eggs recipe because there’s a chance the food won’t be ready for a while.

Or my doctored cinnamon rolls because my people are wanting a lil something sweet. I’m usually there early to help with any last minute things and help you calm your anxiety. I’ve also been voted most likely to help you keep things tidy throughout the night so that closing shift clean is just a tad bit more tolerable.

That is the role I play in the cookout and I think people love and respect me for it. Not because I’m doing the most, but because I’m doing my part. And that’s really the question I keep coming back to when I think about friendship, family, community, and all these conversations surrounding loneliness: what is your part and do you take pride in playing it?

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The thing about being in a community, a part of a village—or whatever we’re calling it this week—is that not everyone has to play the same role or even a big one. Every role, no matter the size, contributes to the main event.

There’s always the uncle on the grill with shabby Jesus sandals on his unmoisturized feet, aggressively flipping burgers, hot dogs and more with the fire too damn high. But you can’t tell him nothing. “He know what the hell he doing”.

Or that one family friend that no one trusts in the kitchen but you can count on bringing the good ice, the plates you can stack a mile high without bending and some premium liquor.

The younger, in-the-know cousin stays ready with a playlist, putting all of the old heads onto that new new and taking it personally when people don’t dance. He may also “go for a walk” at some point and you’ll happily join him (and Mary Jane).

Your eldest aunty is the only one allowed to make the potato salad and nobody dares question her about it.

Your womanizing ass older brother shows up with yet a new girlfriend and she seems to be as much as a space case as the previous three. This will get unpacked later in the kitchen.

There’s always that one cousin that can sense when the host is overstimulated so they jumpstart on cleaning up. Partially to lend a helping hand but also to dissociate for a bit and recharge their social battery.

Knowing your role is one thing. Refusing to play any role at all, ever, is another. If you keep pulling up to the cookout empty-handed, you can’t be surprised when one day nobody adds you to the group chat to plan for the next.

How you showing up empty handed but leaving with to-go plates?

A few months ago I was a semi-finalist to give a Tedx Talk here in Houston. The “big idea” that I pitched stemmed from one of my top posts here on Substack—If everyone’s a main character, then who’s the supporting cast?. This is a question that has been swirling in my head in many forms ever since I wrote that piece.

In my pitch I expanded my initial idea to say not only is main character energy killing the vibes in public spaces (e.g. the club), it’s precisely the reason why so many people today feel lonely and like it’s almost impossible to build real community. It’s too many main characters walking around while a ton of supporting roles need to be filled—we’ve beyond lost the plot at this point. We haven’t even pushed past the pilot episode tbh.

Though I won’t be on the main stage presenting my big idea this summer, it did get my wheels spinning about how I show up the people in my life but also how they show up for me (or don’t). For a long time, I thought I was a bad friend, sister, niece—you name it—because some people never quite gave me the energy that I gave them.

But overtime I realized that some people are fluent in receiving and functionally illiterate when it comes to reciprocating—whether we’re talking tangibly or otherwise.

Reciprocity: The 6th Love Language

I remember the first Christmas that I started really buying other people presents. I was a young broke ass college student working at a beauty counter in Macy’s but something took over my spirit that made me start buying small gifts for my family and friends. The same energy transferred onto birthdays. I love birthdays and for a while now I’ve been the friend to take you out for lunch, buy you flowers or make a sentimental gift—something to remind you that today is the day God decided to place your fine ass on this earth and that’s more than worthy of celebration.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was shaking off my childhood self-centeredness and becoming more intentional about the type of adult I wanted to be.

Over time, I kept this spirit of giving but something felt like it was missing. I began recognizing who continued to expect gifts from me but wouldn’t even bother to write me a card or pick up the phone to wish me a happy birthday. Folks who I’d travel tens or even hundreds of miles to connect with but didn’t even have the decency to show up to my going away party when I decided to start a new chapter half way across the country.

Reciprocity was severely lacking, and here I was continuing to stretch myself to show up in relationships with unbalanced scales. To some people these offenses would be dealbreakers taken with the utmost disrespect but I’ve recognized that you cannot expect yourself from other people. Especially if you’re someone who is emotionally intelligent and mature, not just by numbers.

Becoming an adult is realizing that some grown ups never quite grow out of that child-like selfishness and it shows in how they show up in friendship, romantic relationships and yes…even cookouts.

Children are supposed to be selfish. That’s kind of the arrangement. Everybody bends around their wants and needs until they learn, slowly and with much resistance, that other people exist and matter too. The problem is that some people get older without ever relinquishing their childlike selfishness and it’s not hard to tell.

In a world where infantilizing adulthood seems to be the norm, I think we can expect a lot of this going forward. But the important thing to do is, be the community member you want to be in community with and stop going so hard for people that only know how to receive.

Cookouts are one of the great sites of Black congregation, where people pool their talents and resources to create memory, tradition, and fellowship. We congregate for cookouts during the happiest of times but also the saddest of times and there will be instances where all you can bring to the cookout is your presence.

That’s human.

But if you are always the person showing up to the cookout empty-handed, with an emptier stomach, and walking away with stacked to-go plates, it might be time to have an honest conversation with yourself.

What do you bring to the cookout besides your hunger and your need to be seen?

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For that reason, I find myself in a cafe today instead of writing from the comfort of my pajamas. My apartment which took me a little over 8000 steps to clean as per my Apple Watch was begging for me to stay in but the streets were calling my name louder than usual.

And I obliged.

Getting to the cafe was mostly a frictionless experience. It appears that everyone is either enjoying Sunday Funday, worshipping at church, or at HEB. Maybe all three at some point today. It’s the perfect opportunity for a public coworking session. And people watching—that’s the best part honestly.

My extreme cleaning sesh last night wore me out and I woke up close to lunchtime, now I’m starved. I’m having a Turkish delight latte (extra hot) and a toasted Italian sandwich on a fluffy ciabatta roll. I’m a little taken aback to see that a light lunch is now entree prices. I’m pretty sure I jumped back just a little. Outside being so expensive is a part of the reason why my Black ass be in the house to begin with.

I wonder if the barista notices my disgust?

The AC is metro booming which usually gets the best of me but the caffeine pumping through my veins charges me up through the first quarter of my to-do list. Meanwhile, I’ll question whether I have ADHD or if it’s just that damn phone within the next 24-48 hours. Stay tuned.

I avoid writing for a bit to check some adult tasks off my to-do list.

Pay rent before late fees occur.
Book hotel for upcoming mental health retreat solo trip.
Daydream about a stranger.

Well that last one wasn’t on my to-do list but it did help a lil. We’ll get back to that.

I’ve been reading back to back romance novels and—after much bargaining with myself—have began writing fiction just for the fuck of it. This new era made me think about how me and my friends used to write romantic fanfiction stories when we were kids, sometimes together and sometimes independently. Basically we had the spirits of young Black publishers before capitalism stole our innocence (and our voices).

Anywho.

I have a copy of a story that I wrote (by hand, on loose leaf no less) and at first I was like eww this is so cringey. Then I had to sit with myself (damn near literally) to transport back to a time when I didn’t even know cringe.

When I didn’t judge myself so harshly.
When I didn’t need to Google how to do something imaginative...I just did it.
When I could write a delusional romance about my favorite artist uninhibited.

Shit, where I could fantasize about the perfect stranger on a Sunday afternoon and not immediately feel gross about it. Or the need to self diagnose instead letting my imagination run free.

When I still cared about dating, some of my friends would remind warn me that Prince Charming isn’t going to show up on my fire escape. And for that reason I’m allowing myself to hold onto a glimmer of hope that romance for me lives in the seasoning aisle or at the car wash.

And of course, at a local cafe where at the very least, I get to experience the joy of fantasizing about a very fine man with a low cut caesar, deep waves and eyes the color of candied pecans. Skin as smooth as whipped shea butter.

To write creatively, I have to allow my mind to wander on and off the page as I once did as a child. I consider it character development for myself but also the ones I’ll craft in my stories. This paired with switching that font from Times New Roman to Courier New has been filling my spirit tremendously.

With that, I’m sharing a short story excerpt that little Mika wrote sometime during the early 2000s.

Throwback, (starring me and Omarion as my love interest)

Circa 2004

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It was the type of anxiety that begged to make decisions for you. Discernment didn’t stand a chance.

The type that had my Apple Watch clocking a 150 bpm heart rate while I was sitting perfectly still… but my mind was on go.

I started traveling solo in my late 20s as a form of exposure therapy. It was also then that I started having heart palpitations that no professional could explain. After a year of doctor’s appointments and predatory medical bills, I finally chalked it up to that scarlet letter: A for Anxiety.

It would be another two years before I found the language for the “weird” feelings I recognized as patterns but couldn’t articulate. My personal philosophy is that you can’t truly take action on what you can’t name. Since discovering attachment theory and realizing the biggest connection I needed to repair was with myself, my outlook has shifted like a big wig.

One way or another, that revelation led me here—back writing and softly telling you my business. Here is a journal entry from when I first self-diagnosed my anxious attachment, right before I got a professional second opinion.

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Wednesday January 10, 2024

The past few years have taken me by storm. In some ways I’ve discovered myself in ways I’m very proud of. And in other ways, I’ve seen too damn much of myself, particularly parts that worry me.

I am both rooting for myself and tired of me.

I’ve realized a long time ago that I was an “anxious girly” but only recently have I discovered how deep it runs. How my anxious ways rule me and completely shits on my mental health in the process.

I watched a video about anxious attachment, ready to silently judge and low and behold them people were talking about me. I felt like someone had placed a security camera in my house and brought my business to the internet without my consent.

How about you tag me next time? Fuckkk.

Learning about attachment styles has really scared me shitless because I know the way I am is “different” but I never knew there was language for it.

It turns out I have an anxious attachment style, an insecure attachment rooted in fear of abandonment, focusing on “what ifs” and the inability to go with the flow and let things (including relationships) form organically.

Some places I think my anxious attachment style comes from

• Being placed in different polarizing environments and changing conditions

• Managing emotions and the unpredictability of the adults around me

• In some ways, being a parentified kid

I want to be able to have healthy relationships. Especially the romantic ones I long for but I need to learn how to love on myself better. Like, my real self. Stopping my world in hopes of becoming someone else’s just isn’t the move.

Doing things that interest me and bring me joy is going to be a big part of this journey I’m sure. Whether it’s trying a new hobby or picking up an old one. Going on healthy solo dates and trips that don’t involve me being on my phone living through other people.

Also, I would love to deep dive into anxious attachment styles and the connection to always reaching for your phone. Is there one or am I dragging it?

I guess…cheers to the girls weekend to my road to recovery.

PRESENT DAY

Being a highly independent person who also craves closeness fools you into thinking you have to choose one. You don’t. But the foundation has to start with you.

When people say you can change your life in a year, they aren’t fucking kidding. That journal entry was from a version of me I barely recognize todY. Not in a shady Mariah Carey-esque “I don’t know her” way, but in a “my mindset has shifted so much I need an reintroduction” kind of way.

Six months after writing that entry, I met a man who could have broke me—intentionally or not. I enrolled in therapy within days of meeting him1. Only one relationship survived that era. Shoutout to my therapist.

I’ve relinquished so much of that old anxiety, or at least learned how to manage it. My therapist brings up my progress and I still look at her with raised eyebrows. I know she’s technically not paid to compliment me, but what if she thinks she is?

We haven’t quite worked through my trust issues just yet…obviously.

But my friends tell me the same thing. They say, “Wow, you’re so mature,” or “The way you handled that fucked-up situation so calmly is commendable.”

I am not going to allow a person walking this earth—or a passing moment—to put me in a hospital. Sometimes you just have to say “fuck it” and remember that life goes on, even when you decide to stay exactly where you at.

If you’ve explored attachment theory or healing anxiety, I'd truly love for to share your thoughts and experience with me (even if it’s via DM).

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It’s a Thursday night, and I find myself pouring my second glass of sangiovese, my favorite red wine, attempting to finish a Substack draft. When I started this journey, I dedicated myself to posting once a week by any means necessary. And sometimes that meant beating myself up while the words that I typed flowed like diarrhea on the page—a bunch of messy shit that I didn’t want to share with the world.

Somewhere down the line, I realized that I can’t write about the life I’m not living. So when my friends called me last minute to go to R&B Thursday at Sugar Room in Houston, I had to say yes.

My creativity depended on it.

I truly believe that in order to write you need to live.

I would love to say I’m one of those writers that can glue myself behind my computer and crank out thousands of words off the strength of “perfecting my craft” but I write through a very specific lens—lived experience and the many forms it may take, including sometimes saying fuck that draft and going to club with my friends.

You will be surprised how much sipping an espresso martini as a stranger serenades you to some slow jams can help the words flow.

So welcome to my new newsletter series, Field Notes, where I unpack some of the thoughts consuming my brain, musings and more that ultimately shape my writing here on Is This Thing On? and The Fly Pages (my style and beauty pub).

Hope you enjoy it!

What I’m reaching for

I cancelled my Amazon Prime subscription and shocker…I didn’t die.

I, like many others, have become far too attached to the convenience of cheaply made everything and 2 day shipping. I’ve been rediscovering things that I already own and that’s been fulfilling.

• My name jewelry for instance. I wrote namesplates and the [around the way] girls who wear em recently. Writing this reignited my love for name jewelry and actually wearing my accessories in general.

• I found some beautiful Zebra print chairs (google reverse search said they’re from here)—someone was throwing them out and it was my lucky day.
  
  I cleaned them with my good ole Bissell Little Green Machine (carpet, car and upholstery cleaning machine). Now my living room is a bit more reflective of my personality—a little hard to figure out at first but once you get used to it, how you gone live without it forreal?

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I ate that

• Baby shower plates over Thanksgiving plates any day. Two of the best meals I’ve had in the last few months came with a side of BBQ meatballs. Respectfully, if your baby shower isn’t serving curried crab and oxtail, my RSVP will be a “maybe”.

• Celebrated 500 subs on Substack with a solo date at a contemporary Indian restaurant named Pondicheri. They make ice cream in house and the Bournvita ice cream sandwich pint will be seeing me again. I love trying new things on a whim and leave with a new favorite…organically. I found this spot in a local magazine last summer!

• I can’t stop making sweet potato and ground beef bowls. It’s so delicious with some kale chips sprinkled on top. Whoever called it Cane Corso food ain’t lying but Big sis needs her fiber!

Words to live by

• I read Before I Let Go by Kennedy Ryan at the beginning of the year and loved it. I’m currently reading the third installment of Ryan’s Skyland series titled Can’t Get Enough. It’s a slower read for me (mainly because I’ve been so busy) but I love Hendrix zownnn.
  
  Wishing her and her 10-figure nigga the best!

• As I’ve been writing more, I’ve been overprotective of Black voices so if I see Black media in the streets, it’s coming home with me.
  
  I came across ~50 Jet magazines and won a couple vintage EBONY issues in a giveaway. I’m loving reading the articles and overanalyzing the vintage ads. The Jet x Ebony x Fashion Fair trifecta was so ahead of its time.
  
  They didn’t just sell makeup and magazines—they created a closed loop of Black excellence in print and retail before Buy Black was a hashtag or emerging category at Sephora.

For your viewing pleasures

• Does it count as a binge watch if I’m taking my time watching it? Anywho, The Handmaid’s Tale on Hulu has me planted. Now my ears are glued to all conversations surrounding birth rates and I absolutely don’t want to ride in a black truck…ever (IYKYK).

• I’ve taken a special interest in Human x AI interpersonal relationships (you read me right) and this YouTube video had me at the edge of my seat. I recommend watching (without judgment).

• Did you know I have a marketing degree? Well, since we’ve got that out the way I’ve been loving watching Black brands getting creative with their content marketing like this Real Housewives spoof by the luxury loungewear brand Fancy Homebody.

Ears to the Streets

I’m trying not to listen to the same music over and over but the overwhelming amount of options has me pressing play on the same shit.

• Shoutout to my bro bestie for the friendly reminder to check out Fetty Wap’s Album Zavier—it’s a banger. With it or What and Boss Don ft. Max B are already on my Bump This In The Whip car playlist.

• Speaking of Max B, me and my homegirl grabbed tickets to see him and French Montana this June during The Wave Gods Narcos tour. My boys are making America wavy again and I’m here for it.
  
  Also, I got a ticket to see Jay Z JAŸ-Z in July. I’ll basically be in the parking lot but I’ll be in the building yankee fitted down and that’s what matters.

• Jazzy Sundays in Buffalo Bayou Park is back in Houston; It’s free and I will not be missing it this year.

• Have you heard Dream Doll’s Clock It Freestyle? I’m convinced any rap girl that touches the beat to Khia’s My Neck, My Back is gonna eat that shit up because the power of the track makes great lyrics even better.

Life is starting to feel wavy again, creatively, and beyond. I’ve been in such good spirits starting since launching The Fly Pages. I’m excited to keep fully tapping into…me.

Love,
Mika

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Editor’s Note: Musical Musings is my original Substack series highlighting when music is less background noise and more revelation. Here’s to the subtle soundtracks that show up to quietly narrate the bigger stories of our lives.

An underrated joy in life is not knowing which small, mundane moments will serve as building blocks to core memories. Something—that no matter how meager it seems at the time becomes weaved into the fiber of your being.

It’s only as we’re blessed to grow older and define who we are (without someone telling us) that we’re able to piece together the context of why we are who we are. We’re so caught up in living through the moment that we don’t even consider how it will shape our inner worlds or how we absorb the one around us.

Albeit by design.

In the most random quiet moments, I’m hit with the context behind who I am—loudly might I add. To me it feels like the powerful surge I imagine going through Raven Baxter’s body when she has a vision. Warm to touch as the light bulb in my brain goes off. But instead of being able to see what the future holds, I get flashbacks to the small bits of my life that later went on to tell bigger parts of my story. Stanzas sprinkled about throughout the decades, coming together to make beautiful poetry.

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The most ghetto hood to live in…adult

Growing up with a dad that was mostly mad at God, I find it funny that he’s unintentionally put me in spaces with people who push me closer to him. Like my third grade teacher who ended up putting me on to Brighter Day by Kirk Franklin. Prior to that, I had limited exposure to gospel outside of popular songs I may have heard in passing. Gospel was a genre I’d never hear at home or from the backseat of my Dad’s money green Ford Explorer.

It wasn’t said explicitly but that was never happening.

I don’t know about yall but I had the worst attitude about getting ready for school in the morning. Not because I hated school—in fact I loved school and was voted most likely to be the teacher’s pet for 10 consecutive years. But because I’ve never enjoyed getting up early. If it’s still dark outside why are my eyes open exactly?

I still hold these beliefs today. I just adult my way through them.

Don’t let it be winter and I have to face the frigid streets of Harlem with the wind breezing off my vaseline slathered face. And that god awful fluorescent overhead light throughout Sisulu’s Children’s Academy, it was a recipe for me to be pissed off first thing in the morning. Not a true worry in the world but also not in the mood.

The day officially began with composition notebooks on desks and number two pencils in hand, following Ms. Shadwick’s lead while she wrote the heading and “do now” task on the board.. Her Expo marker color choice varied to keep things exciting. But red was my favorite because it always matched the deep red polish on her nails. I guess young me appreciated good aesthetics long before it was shoved down my throat through the internet.

Ms. Shadwick was probably one of the most nurturing teachers I’ve ever had. She was stern and commanding— when you heard her voice you clapped once...and didn’t dare make her go past “three times”. But in the same breath, she genuinely cared about her students and made the classroom setting comfortable.

She’s the kind of teacher you think of looking up on Facebook 20 plus years later before you remember you don’t recall her first name. Playing Brighter Day to cleanse the energy of the room was a part of her morning ritual but 25 years later it turned into a way for me to ground myself when life tries to harden me.

In third grade, I had no true concept of adulthood. I wasn’t even considering the fact that childhood had an expiration date. The most I knew was that bad things happen sometimes and adults figured it out and that mostly had nothing to do with me. When you’re a kid, it’s like the idea of getting old isn’t even an option. Because, why would anyone want to do that willingly, right?

But it’s not just the “ getting old” part. It’s navigating the peaks and valleys of life and being the one who has to make big decisions. Doing chores before watching Saturday morning cartoons was the much less chaotic path.

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“...I never thought the dark clouds would end”

I think one of the toughest moments of my life was when I was in college—that weird in-between stage of “wow, I finally have freedom!” and “wait, I’m deadass on my own”? I had a time wreaking havoc on the streets of DC but it was also where adulthood hit me like a ton of bricks. I never knew what depression really was until I was forcefully faced with the reality that I have to figure shit out or drown.

I could hide in plain sight and continue to cry about being unsupported—which I did for a while— or I could put some action behind my faith. I ultimately chose the latter.

It was 2002 when my third grade teacher introduced me to Brighter Day and it was 2014 when my spirit led me back to that song to deliver me what the title reads. And in 2024 it was the song that carried me through a termite infestation after I moved halfway across the country.

Houston, we have a fucking problem

I’ve already told the story of me getting termites after asking God for a sign, so I’ll spare you the repetition. You can read about it here, later.

As a New Yorker in Houston, people…

A. immediately know I’m not from Houston.
B. are shocked that I’m nice and not a stereotypical east coast asshole.
|C. question why I left a beautiful psy-op city like New York.

My answer usually is cost of living and NYC being anxiety inducing but deep down in my spirit I feel like the “random” thought to move and how everything thing mostly aligned for it was my story waiting to be written.

I wouldn’t wish termites on my worst enemy but oddly enough that tragic moment led me to my next chapter: the next version of myself. While sitting in the empty room of my now second Houston apartment within a span of 6 months, I hit play on the song that had comforted me before in some trying moments. I don’t know what made my eyes linger on the song title while it sailed across my screen. But, I noticed for the first time ever that the version I had been listening to all those years was recorded at Lakewood Church in Houston1…minutes away from the new apartment termites had forced me into.

Some hater will say girl so what: maybe it’s just a coincidence. But the redirection, realignment and reconnection with myself that I’ve felt since tells me otherwise. I still, like most people don’t have things figured out but I have such a clearer understanding of who I am and how I wish to show up in the world.

The inner child that I’ve been parenting for the last few years is probably about grade school age so it doesn’t surprise me that I formed a core memory around a song that seeped its way into my unconscious, developing young mind.

Sometimes I get frustrated with God

I still love Him though. Maybe I’m being a bit too honest here?

Or maybe it’s not God I get frustrated with—maybe it’s life handing out ass whoopings with no coupon codes and overnight delivery. People scream things like “keep the faith” or “God got you” and even when you know in your heart it is true, it doesn’t silence the small voice asking what if He forgot about you?

Even with proof of nuance, we try to paint everything black and white—faith included. But what if faith can coexist with doubt? What if it’s questioning and still returning—showing up the best way you can on any given day.

It was 2002 when I was introduced to Brighter Day.
And in 2026, I had to bargain with myself to hit play.

But I did and it lifted my spirits just how I remembered.

It turns out, you don’t have to fake the funk. You just have to return God’s call.

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More Musical Musings

I remember a time when talking tough on the internet would get your ass beat in real life. Back then, your online followers and friends mostly mirrored the circles you walked in real life. If something was said online, chances are you’d have to see about it in the streets. Trolls existed but instead of a random person in Russia or middle america, it would be that one hater in your algebra class or from around the way. Eventually you’d figure it out and handle it accordingly.

That was a much simpler time.

Fast forward to 2026, I just watched people argue with an AI TikTok creator in the comments of a post. In their defense, the video looked legit. That is until you click the profile and realize this “person” has a completely different voice and accent in every…single…video. Either she’s one hell of an impressionist, owns a Scream voice changer… or this shit isn’t real.

I’m pretty sure it was the latter and nobody in the comments clocked it.

They really thought this was some New Orleans woman jumping into gumbo discourse. It wasn’t. It was an AI avatar green screened into video clips, adding “context” to topics like it was a real person. Just Blackfishing, stirring up gumbo drama in a bonnet. That alone is scary1. But what’s worse is how easily people engage without questioning it.

Once I realized it was AI, my wheels started spinning. Not just about the video, but about myself. Because why did I immediately want to jump in the comments and tell everyone I cracked the case?

Really. What would I have gained from that interaction besides a few likes?

Nothing.

Did I want validation?

Possibly. We’re all guilty of it.

Did I feel strongly about defending the internet streets from AI slop?

Fuck no.

If someone is that committed to arguing in a comment section—real person or not—they’re already so far gone. Unstoppable. But then I had to ask myself the realest shit ever.

Did anybody ask you? And that’s when it clicked.

The internet didn’t just get loud as hell: it became a stage for people to get a fix in the form of 15 minutes of fame engagement and validation. Somewhere along the way, we got convinced that everything we consume online requires our input. Spoiler: It doesn’t. Sometimes the best response is no response at all—especially when engaging just pulls you into back-and-forth with people who thrive off that kind of negative interaction.

The internet is becoming a consistently dark and twisted place. As my girl Brenda would say, “damn, this is some scury shit.”

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Online antisociality

In real life, we throw the word antisocial around way too loosely, as we do with many words.

We use it to justify skipping a party because we’d rather be on the couch watching The Handmaid’s Tale. Or to describe that one person who doesn’t like anybody outside of the two people they grew up with and their play cousin. But antisocial behavior is something else entirely.

It’s not about being quiet or introverted. It’s about a consistent disregard for others in a way that society as a whole deems highly inappropriate.

Lack of empathy. Impulsivity. Being comfortable taking it too damn far without thinking twice about the impact… and in mostcases, getting a kick out of it. The pinnacle of “who gon check me, boo?” but in a much darker form.

Now more than ever, the internet has become a mirror of real-life behavior. If someone is antisocial (using the denotation, not the connotation of the word) in real life, do you think they hop online and suddenly button it up?

Fuck no.

Online is prime real estate for the real antisocial folks of the world. The barrier to entry is low. The reach is wide. And the behavior spreads quickly to people they would’ve never crossed paths with otherwise. Whole comment sections full of unsuspecting victims and the people who prey on them.

And the worst part?

It doesn’t stay contained. Research suggests2 behaviors like cyberbullying can be learned and reinforced, meaning the more you engage with it—even passively—the more normalized it becomes. With people spending increasingly more time on social platforms and thereby in comment sections, that kind of behavior doesn’t just exist in isolation. It spreads like drama on Wisteria Lane.

Studies have also found that people who engage in cyberbullying are often already dealing with things like low self-esteem, anger, loneliness, or even their own experiences of being bullied. In other words, hurt people hurt people.

So in theory, if you participate in the bullshit, you’re more likely to become part of it next. But also, people don’t show up negatively online just because. It’s circumstantial.

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Thank me later?

Of all the behavior I’ve witnessed online, the most annoying has to be the unsolicited “help”. The people who jump into comments to add context and advice nobody asked for. Like someone sharing an experience about being called ugly at work—and here comes somebody dropping an AI-generated mockup of them with a “better” physical appearance based on their suggestions. And then closing it out with, “thank me later.”

I recognize that many things can be true at once. Some people genuinely think they’re helping—that their unsolicited advice is a public service. Others treat the comment section like amateur night at the Apollo, fighting for their moment to be the funniest, the smartest, or just the loudest. But either way…everybody has something to say—whether they were asked or not. By any means necessary…when in reality, you could’ve just scrolled.

Or maybe we could just be silent

Being a mean [girl]—online or in real life— is lame as hell. But also—again—hurt people hurt people. I sometimes hate that my empathetic lens allows me to clearly see both sides of one story. I get why people exhibit distasteful online behavior but I don’t like it nor condone it.

Learning how to choose my battles in real life has done wonders for my mental health—and the same applies online. Everybody has their shit. Whether it’s a character flaw they refuse to recognize, a take that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, or something deeper.

And sometimes… you just have to let people have it.

Not everything deserves your reaction.
Not everything requires your input.

Not because they’re right. But because not everything is yours to engage with or fix and it’s so much easier to scroll past than to engage in bullshit that’s not worth your time to begin with.

But most importantly, because, who tf asked you?

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Sometimes it’s just really bad. I’m talking “I wish I could take the coochie back”...bad. Other times it’s okay but self-centered and lazy af, the fast food equivalent of penetration—it gets the job done, it’s “reliable” but you would have felt much better about yourself had you taken the time to find a nourishing, balanced meal or rolled solo.

For a long time, I couldn’t articulate what my type was. Tall, dark, handsome—of course, but not every man I’ve dated falls neatly into those categories. However, all of the men that I’ve truly cared for do have one thing in common—they scratch an itch on my brain. Talking to them for hours about anything under the sun feels erotic in itself. Conversation was the foreplay. The curiosity is mutual. It’s always a pleasurable experience dealing with a man who is invested in getting to know me with all 6 of his senses1 regardless of if it’s for now and not forever.

Kudos to them fully tapping into the Mika experience (while supplies last).

Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes my juicy fruit turn into a prune quicker than a man that has a bag of rocks for brains. Directly after that is a man who isn’t attentive to my body.

Which is why, after my rewatches of Waiting to Exhale, the scene that haunts me isn’t the rage that leads Bernie to lighting her ex husband’s car on fire or Gloria finding out her baby daddy is gay—it’s Robin and Savannah lying there, having sex with men who might as well have been alone in the room. As the men are having the time of their lives, hooting and hollering under the sheets, toes probably curled up like fried shrimp, these women are sitting having full on monologues, confused as to what the fuck is happening and counting down the minutes seconds to when it would be over.

The “what the fuck are you doing to my vagina?” monologues, if you will.

I think unattentive sex is similar to how people show up to concerts in this day and age. Dressed for the theme, knowing their favorite artists catalogue but watching the concert through a screen the whole time while they record. They aren’t fully present for the experience but are still happy to boast about it.

What happened to curious conversations that made you study each other’s lips as you think about where you want to put them next?

The awkward stares that slowly turn into tender, warm kisses from your forehead down to your inner thighs?

The slow closing of space before pure magnetism has yall skin to skin?

Listening with both ears to how your bodies call out to one another and how they respond in real time while y’all unravel, uninhibited?

Niggas don’t want to be the blues in your left thigh trying to become the funk in your right and that’s a problem for me. Go 120 on the highway, not with my vajayay.

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Shame & Performance

Long before many of us were sexual beings in real life, the media had already handed us a “blueprint” for sex. Porn framed it as conquest—something done to women’s bodies rather than a mutually enjoyable experience shared with them. Movies framed it as the pinnacle of romance, and the start of a happily ever after. All the while at home, we mostly avoided the topic for as long as possible until our parents offered “advice” that mostly fell somewhere between “don’t have sex” “and “ don’t come back pregnant”.

Between the script of performance-based sex handed to us by media and the shame passed down through our lineage, we were taught how to act during sex, not how to be present in it. And boy, does it show. Not to mention, in today’s society where everyone is a main character, the nonchalant olympics are never-ending, connecting with people is harder than ever. It feels almost impossible to have good sex with someone you like as a person (at a baseline) when everyone’s looking out for themselves. Meanwhile if we were to put our heads together, sex could feel like a visit to your favorite waterpark--every ride worth the wait but you’re guaranteed to get soaked.

I just want to fuck people I like as a person who like me enough to fuck like they care about my pleasure too. Is that too much to fucking ask?

Convenience Culture Coochie

Somehow everything connects back to social media. Walk with me.

Looking back, there are quite a few men I’ve dated briefly that foolishly thought I liked them enough to give them some—and yes, I mostly met them on them damn apps. I had the most boring date one wintery NYC night. This man may have very well been the most boring person I’ve ever interacted with in life in fact. I mostly led the conversation and had to “huh” a million times because the nigga spoke in a whisper. Yet and still, he had the audacity to reach over, awkwardly grab my hand and ask me…

“So what you doing after this? Trying to go back to my place?”

He absolutely was trying to get some ass and I was confused. Because one, this date was so trash. Two, I can only imagine that time spent in a bedroom with him would be like watching paint dry. You can barely hold a conversation yet I’m supposed to trust that you can get my rocks off? Apparently a cat had his tongue and unfortunately for him, my cat would not.

That should have been the day I left the dating apps alone because the low effort, big reward game is something I graciously bow out from.

Convenience culture really has everything fucked up but especially when it comes to relationships and sex. People are so preoccupied with chasing their next dopamine hit and shifting through “options” that the art of sexploration is totally missed. I’m all for getting your needs met, but I personally think there’s something deeply disturbing about people who can hop on an app, exchange a few messages and have a stranger in their bed faster than dominoes can deliver a pizza. But to rinse and repeat and continue the cycle routinely is even crazier, respectfully.

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Where is the dick that the girls used to sing…no SANG about?

From my POV, sex is way too serious to ever truly be casual. Life forms from it, shit…so can death. There’s no way a woman’s coochie serves as a portal between nonexistence and life, yet you’re telling me we should settle for D that doesn’t aim to please? The boys aren’t even trying to finger anymore. Like, please baby, strum my pain with your finger as the great Lauryn Hill said.

Oh my damn.

The thing about avoiding bad sex is that you literally have to fuck around and find out. However, in 2026 (and beyond), I’m only jumping on D that stimulates me from the inside out. And if you’re trying to secure a ticket to the greatest show on earth, you have to show up for real. And audience participation is required, not suggested.

[Intrigue] me deep.
[Explore] me deep.
[Love] me deep.
[Stroke] me deep.

But please baby, don’t deeply disappoint me with D you could have kept to yourself.

And with that, I’ll leave you with a playlist of my favorite songs by women giving the play by play of how to please and be pleased.

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Be sure to check out The Fly Pages for my style and beauty takes (through the lens of Black culture and self-discovery).

The Fly Pages

Black sitcom Fly Girls that wrote the book on personal style

Long before GRWM videos, orange carts and Pinterest boards, many of the Fly Girls I came up with drew up style inspiration from the screens that previously dominated our lives —television. More speci…

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4 months ago · 4 likes · 4 comments · MIKA Robinson

Can I be honest for a moment? I’ve been struggling working on a piece that I intended on finishing weeks ago. However, the subject matter isn’t one I’ve written about publicly in a while. And quite frankly, I’ve been faced with an internal struggle while working through the draft.

What if someone is offended?
Am I sharing too much?
Will my current readers be open to my POV in this realm?

But ultimately, I decided it’s my coochie AND my rules. And also this is my publication so if I need to take time with my writing I will and not punish myself for it.

Made up deadlines will not get the best that I got, word to Anita Baker.

The gist? Sex (for me) just doesn’t hit like it used to—pun intended. I *think* the reason is because I can only fuck men I like and lately that’s been far and few. Me liking a man takes a lot more than a cute face, a fully connecting beard and gainful employment (though those are all welcome). The brilliant Kamory Rose shared her thoughts on casual sex not being for her and it resonated deeply with me when reflecting on my “love life” in 2025.

Not only is casual sex not for me, sex that doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to levitate out of my body and cheer myself on isn’t welcome either.

Miss me with that weak shit.

I did what I do whenever I hit a wall with my writing—I lived (a lot) and read some of my old journal entries. I’m still working through the draft tentatively titled “to get me off, you gotta love me deep” but let this excerpt from my April 2025 journal entry serve as my offering leading up to that post.

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4/3/2025

I told my therapist that asking for my needs to be met and not getting the desired results makes me feel validated in the reasons why I don’t speak up in the first place. I hate repeating myself and giving step by step instructions. I suffer in silence or abort the mission entirely.

I’m trying to find the balance between recognizing people’s limitations (due to trauma, wiring, etc.) and me speaking up for myself, my needs and not abandoning them.

The chill nature of this relationship (or as he would say…”casual”) is so outdated and that’s something he needs to hear. I’m not solely responsible for shifting his narrative but I want to make him at least start to see why it exists in the first place and why this makes no damn sense.

One edible and a few episodes of Martin later, I felt calmer and less like I wanted to punish this nigga for being avoidant and not wanting to save me from an anxious, sometimes, fearful avoidant leaning spiral.

I don’t need definitions per se (at least yet) but I’m planning to ask about his definition of a “casual relationship” + make it clear I am no longer buying into it.

Essentially, a healthy relationship takes work. It’s much easier to detach than to put in work, which is why people lean on non-labels that free them of the responsibility and accountability…basically being able to perform a job function that’s not inherently theirs and still having the right to say “well that’s not my job” when they stop performing well. Of course, with the expectation that compensation won’t be impacted. I’m guilty of this too.

So if you’re in a casual relationship with someone but you feel the responsibility for their emotional (and other needs), create a mostly safe space and mostly correct your own behaviors that make them feel shitty…that debunks the idea of a casual relationship entirely. No?

The term itself is an oxymoron. Casual meaning relaxed and unconcerned. Relationship meaning the state of being connected. When you’re talking about people who provide consistent care for one another, there isn’t anything unconcerned about it.

Acting casual from my POV would mean not even bothering and going with whoever needs match your capacity at the moment. Not stretching to meet someone where they are.

Fast Forward: Q1 2026

It’s safe to say that I’m in a very different place in less than a year’s time. If there’s anything I’ve learned in 2025 it’s that when you do shit for the plot, you have to remember it thickens—it can go many ways and you have to know when to gracefully eject yourself.

Getting to the season finale doesn’t make what you’ve gained from the series any less valuable.

I’m being more honest with myself and my needs more than ever and quite frankly for any man to get me off, he’s going to have to experience me with all 6 of his senses (yes, 6).

Until next time.

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But after being strong-armed into a YouTube Premium subscription by aggressive ads during a virtual church service, I didn’t have a single penny, sign-up nor trial period to give. At that point, I’d rather soak my contacts in Taylor Port than commit to another monthly charge for the unforeseeable future.

Fuck all the way off.

Convenience Un(culture)

Media is an obvious culprit in this subscription shitshow, but it’s far from the only one. There’s a growing list of things that have quietly adopted subscription-based pricing, from printing limits in your own home to Amazon “essentials” on autopilot and luxury ice.

Businesses have smelled the blood of our lust for “convenience” and have sunk their teeth deep into our wallets, making sure as long as we owe them, they won’t go broke.

In this day and age, that exact mindset has been adapted by more and more companies in order to create predictable, recurring revenue streams1 with little to no improvement to products or services over time. We were sold on “convenience” but in reality we’ve convenienced our way into endless spending, out of small meaningful experiences and away from healthy amounts of friction2.

Shared Moments > Shared Passwords

I’m old enough to remember the days when Netflix was a mail-in DVD service where you had something physical—something tangible—to show for the money you forked over. You didn’t have to worry about Netflix and their password restrictions, you could just pull up to your friend’s house, DVD in hand, and the movie night would commence.

But today, why experience the joy of borrowing the book your friend recommended when you can grab a Kindle or Audible subscription instead or have it shipped overnight?

Why bump into the perfect stranger in the produce aisle when you can have your groceries delivered straight to your door step? Or the perfect stranger delivered to you on a dating app?

Or why take the time putting together a thoughtful gift for your friend when your Amazon Prime subscription can get you something “cheap”, quickly?

I can say so much about the small but impactful ways convenience has taken from the human experience, but fortunately this platform has a limit. However, I will call out that “membership” in 2026’s context doesn’t necessarily mean a part of a group–it’s simply having access to something promised to optimize your life. And in many cases, optimize your way into a silo.

I think subscription culture works because it feeds both our individualism and our fear of exclusion. You’re not watching the show together anymore—you’re just making sure you’ve seen it so you’re not left out of the discourse.

Access replaced invitation.

Is Physical Media on The Way Back?

@aarchorFar too many subscriptions #capitalismsucks #renting

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I’ve seen a few everyday people rant about how we “pay for everything and own nothing” and it cracked open something inside of me. I was face to face with the tension I felt every time I promised myself I’d unsubscribe. Somewhere between endless subscriptions and convenience, we’ve lost the multi-sensorial joy that comes with experiencing physical things.

The smell of a printed book.
The feeling of unwrapping the plastic off a DVD.
Flipping through a photo album on your friend’s coffee table.
The way the light hits the underside of a CD and creates a pretty rainbow.

As I’ve been reshaping my relationship between me and my devices, I’ve been naturally leaning towards physical media. One day, I woke up and was brutally honest about how much time I spend doomscrolling on my phone. Since then, I’ve been intentional about my phone use and have been purposefully absorbing media instead of handing my attention over to algorithms.

For a long while, I forgot how it felt to open a CD and flip through the little booklet filled with album credits and photos from promotional shoots that, even in 2026, aren’t plastered all over the internet. I found a typo in Kanye West’s name in the credits for The Diary of Alicia Keys and something about it made me chuckle.

As my middle school Latin teacher used to say, “errare est humanum”—to err is human. In a world where we constantly have to question whether what’s in front of us is even real, that small imperfection felt grounding.

As someone who has dealt with anxiety for a long while, stepping away from fast and digital makes me feel calm. I watched a DVD for the first time in years and felt myself slow down. Opening the case, finding the season I wanted, popping it in, and pressing play. No ads. No option overload. Just me and the content I consciously chose to sit with.

Hands up, cash out.

It seems like every 3-5 business hours some invisible force is taking my money from me. On demand content once meant you chose what you consume and nowadays it feels like we’re paying to have the choice made mostly for us…with ads. What was once convenience now feels like robbery.

Hands up, cash out.

At this point, I’m surprised there isn’t a tiered Life™ subscription. One flat rate for housing, entertainment, groceries, and the right to exist without pop-ups. I’d say I shouldn’t give them ideas, but there’s already a Black Mirror episode poking at this.

Priced at $2 an episode or $20 per season on YouTube, The Wayans Bros instead made its way back into my life through a $35 complete-series DVD set. All five seasons. Mine. Something I can keep until I disappear into the cloud one day.

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I feel like I beat the system in some small way. But more than that, the physical media I’ve brought back into my life makes my consumption feel intentional and that feels like something worth holding onto.

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It’s wild how much technology and social media have dimmed personal interactions, especially around holidays and other celebrations.

Calling someone to wish them a Happy Birthday has been replaced with a quick text, or worse, a scheduled one. You’re lucky if you get a Christmas GIF, let alone a wrapped present1. We love things quick and easy, yet still scream “where’s the community?”—basically oil and water.

I miss the feeling of the holidays. Spiritually, not weather-wise—it’s currently 80 degrees in December here in Houston, so clearly my prayers got mixed up. And yes, being a child (or even having children) makes a difference when it comes to holiday magic. But even in my earlier adulthood, holidays still had soul.

I could spend all day trying to figure out what’s missing, but instead, I decided to make my inner child happy by creating my very first holiday card 2and sending it to some of my friends. While making it, so many questions ran through my mind.

Is this too cheesy?

Do single people even get the green light to do this?

Do I really not know any of my friends’ mailing addresses?

Why is it so damn hard to find stamps?

Instead of letting those thoughts consume me, I poured that energy into creating something tangible —something traditional—as a way to spread a little holiday cheer. It ended up being a great learning experience, but more than anything, it felt good to slow down and do something intentional.

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I hope my friends felt a familiar warmth when they opened their Home Alone–themed holiday card, stamped with the cutest (and surprisingly hard to find) The Snowy Day illustrated stamps.

If you want to see the behind-the-scenes of the holiday card-making journey, I’ll link the video here. But if you’re curious about everything I used to bring it to life, you can also skip below.

Happy Holidays!

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MOODBOARD

HAIR

Inspo (Pinterest—please lmk the creator’s handle if you have it)

• Sebastian hair Spray

• Nexxus Comb Thru Hairspray

• T3 Curling Wand

• BioSilk Hair Serum

MAKEUP

Inspo: @dianashin for Marsai Martin

SKIN

• Fenty Soft Lit Foundation (review here)

• Fenty Pro Filt’r Concealer Shade 420

• One/Size Beauty Turn Up The Base Concealer

• PATRICK TA Major Sculpt Bronzer Duo

• NARS Exhibit A Blush

• RCMA Loose Setting Powder

• MAC Prep & Prime Spray

• Fenty Beauty “Trophy Wife” Highlighter

EYES

• PATRICK TA Major Sculpt Bronzer Duo

• Fenty Beauty Trophy Wife Highlighter

• MAC Chestnut Lip Liner

• Fenty “Coal Blooded” Lip Pencil (as eyeliner)

• MAC Magic Extension

LIPS

• MAC Chestnut Lip Liner

• MAC “Impulsive” Powderkiss Lipstick

• MAC Explicit Lip Gloss

OUTFIT

• Dapper Dan x Gap Hoodie (2022)

• Sheer Evening Gloves

• Faux Fur Headband

• Ben Oni Jewelry

EQUIPMENT

• Camera

• Soft Box Lights

• Mic

SUPPLIES & SOFTWARE

• Frame Cards

• Red Envelopes

• The Snowy Day Stamps

• Canva

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It seemed punitive at the time but really it was an early life lesson—a microcosm of what can happen when you don’t watch the company you keep. As I wrote notes on Gucci Mane’s Episodes, I was painfully reminded of this moment while reflecting on Gucci’s own experiences being around people willing to watch him self-destruct because they had something to gain in the process.

Welcome to my spoiler-free review of Episodes: The Diary of a Recovering Mad Man by Gucci Mane with Kathy Iandoli.

The Enabling Economy

A few years back, Gucci Mane was diagnosed with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. After losing some of the closest artists to him such as Big Scarr, Enchanting and others to mental health issues coupled with drug abuse, he moved forward with Episodes with the hopes of helping someone reading before it’s too late. The book chronologizes the intersection between Gucci Mane’s struggle with drugs, undiagnosed mental health disorders and the fame and lifestyle that magnified it.

Though to many who read, the key message from the book may be the importance of getting the help you need before it’s too late, I couldn’t help but zoom in on how the people around Gucci Mane throughout the years shaped his healing and in some cases stunted it.

I won’t give out spoilers but Gucci Mane on multiple occasions discussed instances where he’d be having mental health episodes and those around him would recognize it yet feed into his frivolous spending, accepting his personal belonging as random gifts, enabling generosity with drugs etc. what seemed to be an impulsive behavior that served as a telltale sign of a manic episode. Was Gucci a part of his own problem? Yes. But that doesn’t make it right. At least that’s my take.

You don’t have to be in the music industry or entertainment period to know that when you’re talented and admired by the masses, people will ride your coattails with no shame. In some cases it appears as allowing bad behavior to go unchecked (e.g. out of fear etc.). However in others, it may look like allowing you to self destruct so long as it keeps you marketable and their pocketbooks full.

The State vs. Radric Davis Gucci Clone

I think God knew what He was doing when He decided not to make me famous, because damn. I couldn’t imagine losing people I love (people who walked a dangerous path I deliberately stepped away from), changing my entire life, becoming the healthiest version of myself, only for the internet to reduce it to me being a clone or satanic music label leader.

I barely recognize the person I was a year ago, let alone ten. If there were ever “Mika Clone” allegations, I fear I wouldn’t beat them.

That’s why I appreciated Gucci Mane touching on this in the book (and in his Breakfast Club interview). Isn’t it wild how we turn someone’s transformation into punchlines? I guess it’s the American way.

Sidebar: Partner to Psychiatrist Pipeline

Both in the book and in a press interview for The Breakfast Club, it’s evident that Gucci Mane’s wife Keyshia Ka’oir played a major role in Gucci Mane’s path to healing his relationship with drugs and his mental health. According to Keyshia, she recognizes the signs of him being close to having an episode and has such airtight measures in place that he hasn’t had an episode in years.

When Charlemagne asked her what she does for her mental health and if she has a therapist or anyone to talk to, she implies she’s fine and doesn’t need a therapist. Instead she has assumed the therapist role to keep her husband’s mental health in place because she’s mentally strong.

While I understand where she’s coming from (and I hope she and her fans only read this with love), I think the pipeline from partner to psychiatrist is a very slippery slope. While I agree that there are many people out there that were built mentally strong and may not require as much support as the next person, as a woman, entrepreneur, mother, wife and more I hope she recognizes that what she’s taking on is heavy af and if any of it warranted seeking help herself she should go for it without hesitation, shame or ego.

But I digress.

Behind every good man is a better woman, and Gucci Mane should consider himself blessed for having a woman by his side that can show up with love and kindness in such dark times.

Why Should You Read Episodes?

For starters, Gucci Mane has a compelling life story. From his humble beginnings in Bessemer, Alabama to all the ways he impacted the music industry through his downfall then transformation, Gucci Mane is one of them ones and it’s a pleasurable read. Plus, it’s always insightful to look at mental health through someone else’s lens other than your own.

I personally listened to the audible version (FYI, only a small portion is narrated by Gucci Mane himself with the rest done by Guy Lockard) and it was delightful—Lockard has an amazing voice for audiobooks. However, I have a physical copy on the way because I’m about sick of paying for everything and not having tangible, physical items to show for it. If Audible goes up in flames, I still have Episodes with me.

If you plan on reading Episodes: The Diary of a Recovering Mad Man, let me know. I’m always down to chat and share banter about interesting reads.

If you’re curious about what I’m reading, have read, or plan to read, you can check out my Amazon Bookshelf. This post contains affiliate links, but feel free to bypass them if you prefer not to support me that way.

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Editor’s Note: Musical Musings is my original Substack series highlighting when music is less background noise and more revelation. Here’s to the subtle soundtracks that show up to quietly narrate the bigger stories of our lives.

It wouldn’t be a Mika Substack post if I didn’t lead with a story (my not so secret “crabby patty” formula), so let’s set the scene

Back in September (2025), I embarked on a solo road trip to Dallas. The first night of my trip I enjoyed a happy hour at WInsome Prime (a beautiful Black-owned establishment with great food btw). While I was there I started chatting with a guy who was waiting patiently for his friends to arrive—we’ll call him Jean.

After a few cocktails and crab beignets, I saw Jean again. Being the gentleman he was, he checked in to see if I was okay and introduced me to the laggers his two friends he had been waiting for hours earlier. One of the friends happened to have been from New York, so we did what New Yorkers do best, talk about the city and act like everyone else around us doesn’t exist. The other friend present, who was drunk as a skunk and seemingly undressing me with his eyes, did not like that I was paying my fellow New Yorker so much attention instead of him.

I politely tried to loop him into the conversation, not out of obligation but I know how that can feel and that is where I went “wrong”. This man, unprovoked, points to my curly hair and asks me with as straight of a face that his drunk ass could manage “is that you?”. Not in a truly curious tone but in a “ah ha, gotcha bitch” kind of tone.

I took a step back, literally, sized him up then pointed to his bald head and asked him “is that you?” He, of course, was speechless but that’s what he fucking gets for trying to humble me or embarrass me, policing my hair as if it were any of his business. At that moment I told the two gentlemen and Little Bill goodnight, and went to the valet to end my night as I intended to moments before.

He had the right bitch on the wrong day.

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The next evening, I saw TLC perform some of their greatest hits including their 1999 hit Unpretty at the state fair—a childhood dream come true to say the least. It was at that moment that I really started to think heavily about how society—media, friends and family, the men we date etc.—really try to shape us in their image, so much so that insecurity only rears its ugly head in their presence.

The “Old Bitch” in the club

Let me start by saying, it would be performative as hell for me to sit here and act as though I have deep insecurities regarding my appearance. I’ve humbly always thought of myself (and to my knowledge have been perceived) as “conventionally” attractive. I’ve generally been thick (or overweight depending on who you ask) but never has it been something that’s made me feel bad about myself. GLP-1s, BBLs, botox—none of these things appeal to me because I love myself as I am. But frankly, I don’t judge people for indulging. That’s their business and their right.

The closest I’ve been to “fixing” my appearance was the one span of a few months I tried one of those direct to consumer invisalign type treatments to close my gap. It ultimately ended up being a fail (really, a scam) and even then I didn’t want my gap closed entirely because I wouldn’t recognize myself without it.

But just because I love the way I look, doesn’t mean that I’m clear from the societal pressures of having a certain aesthetic. A recent moment this hit me was in the middle of the club. As I looked around the speakeasy, I started to calculate in real-time that mostly everyone was at least 5-10 years younger than me.

The flashy men there (of all ages), seemingly weren’t checking for me and girls with their lingerie-inspired outfits and 613 bussdowns with extra fluffy baby hairs are channeling the aesthetic that the men are looking for. It’s hard for me to describe what I felt in words, but as a single 30-something that goes out with the small hope she’ll meet Mr. Right, undesirable was the best way to put it.

Why is Ageism so gendered?

Aging is the one lens where societal pressures really strike a nerve for me. The truth of the matter is, I’m not getting any younger. In fact, I can never be a day younger than I am today. In a society where the aging of women especially is scrutinized, that makes me feel unpretty in advance. There’s nothing like someone asking me (“politely”) how old I am, and being shocked that I’m thirty something and still attractive.

“Wow, you look great for your age!”

I don’t know if I should take it as a compliment or a warning. When people reduce my attractiveness for “looking good for my age” it stings. I won’t lie. I know I’m a beautiful woman but sometimes I look around and I’m not the young, hot girl in the room anymore. I gain weight differently now and struggle immensely to shed pounds whereas before I could crash diet for a week and be snatched. I have to do a bit more for my skin to have a youthful appearance. I’m more concerned about what feels right for me, not trends, the male gaze or anything else.

Women aren’t allowed to age without being ridiculed in some way. As I’m writing this post Beyoncé, arguably one of the most beautiful women on the planet, is the center of online discourse regarding her looks after attending an F1 race. I won’t turn this into a think piece but I have to call out that when women who spent their youth being admired for their beauty grow older, they end up under a microscope they didn’t fucking ask for.

I like to remind people whenever I get the chance that you’re either blessed to grow old or you die young. What’s your preference?

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Unpretty Lore

TLC On the Set of Unpretty

Unpretty is arguably one of TLC’s best songs not only because of the timeless message but also because you can feel the channeled emotion from when the words were penned. In the behind the scenes of Unpretty (for The Ozone airing on BBC), T-Boz shares that the song was originally a poem—the first poem she ever wrote1. When she passed it along to TLC’s main producer Dallas Austin, he helped mold it into the melodic, acoustic guitar-driven pop song that we know and love.

At the Texas State Fair, T-Boz shared these words with the crowd.

“My words stand true to this day. Especially with social media and people chasing this word perfect. Because nobody’s perfect. And that’s what actually prompted me to write this song. People bullying people, picking on them. Making them feel…unpretty. So, if you know the words, please sing along.”

Given this song was released during TLC’s FanMail era which was very digital, early internet culture influenced, revisiting Unpretty feels a bit full circle yet oddly jarring that we’re still in this place as a society.

The vision, the visual

In 2025, it’s refreshing to look at the comment section of the Unpretty video on YouTube and see people saying that this generation still needs it. While I wish they didn’t, it’s nice to know that other people fully recognize how real this generation’s struggles with image are especially in relation to social media.

In the video, we see the group in a meditation space, grounding themselves as they perform the song. Chilli plays the girlfriend of a man pressuring her to get a breast augmentation, going as far as to show the audience a simulation of the after results on her computer. The video also follows a teenage girl struggling with body image issues and eating disorders, seemingly driven by the pressure of media such as magazines. Throughout the video we see a probe-like camera following the two storylines, possibly symbolizing the common thread of societal pressure between complete strangers.

One overlooked but powerful visual anchor is Left Eye performing the lyrics in sign language, signaling that no woman–young, old, fat, skinny, abled or disabled— is safe from this type of scrutiny. If you haven’t seen this video in a while, I implore you to do so, It’s totally worth it.

“Maybe get rid of you, and then I’ll get back to me”

Ultimately, you’re never going to feel pretty looking into a distorted mirror. One being held up by an easily influenced society that’s always on the quest for more, better, younger. This is why one of the core messages of Unpretty is to find beauty within yourself because if you leave it to anyone or anything else, you’re fucked. Though most things in this world are nuanced, including looks, we live in a world where the average person can’t conceptualize the world outside of binaries.

Get rid of people’s expectations and projections and get back to yourself, Queen.

Note: I wrote this post from the lens of a straight, Black woman because I am that and therefore unable to speak to lived experiences outside of that. However, I’d love for you to share your own experiences in the comments, especially if they vary from mine.

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Long before I joined Substack to softly air out my dirty laundry through introspective-yet-humorous essays, I was a beauty writer contributing to some major-ish publications. I lived and breathed everything beauty. And because I couldn’t land a staff writing job as a beauty writer or editor (which I now believe was redirection and not rejection), I made it my mission to become a respected beauty writer by any means.

Enter Mika…the brand.

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Over ten years ago, I made the executive decision to write under Mika (my nickname) instead of my full name. Mostly because I was tired of people butchering my name—especially non-Black folks who may or may not have done it with a splash of microaggression. My mission in my 20s was very clear—brand myself online as a beauty extraordinaire to attract the attention of publications and brands.

And I did just that.

But not without almost losing my shit in the process.

At some point, Mika stopped being a pen name and started being a persona I had to maintain. I was a young, hot 20-something prancing around NYC, getting exclusive invites to brand events and activations—basically living my dreams.

Everytime I showed up to a brand event or took a deskside with a PR rep, I had to be “on”. With the flip of a figurative switch I’d go from Mika the person to Mika the brand, similarly to Steve Urkel hopping in that machine and walking out as Stefan. I had a personal brand to upkeep after all.

One morning, I hopped on the train and went on my way to cover CURLFEST for a publication I was working with. Before my hour-long journey, I stopped at the corner store to get breakfast (yes, I ate on the train without shame in those days).

I sat down, minding my Black ass business, inhaling the most perfect bacon, egg and cheese a girl could imagine when I realized there was a woman sitting directly across from me staring into my soul. I immediately started questioning who I could have pissed off recently that would send for me.

Is this about to be a problem?
Am I fighting today? Maybe.

Turns out, the stranger recognized me from Twitter.

Mika the person wanted to tell her she can’t be staring down strangers on the train unless you’re ready for whatever comes next but Mika the brand swooped in, smiled, acted unbothered and found social battery to chat with a stranger at 8am when I truly didn’t have it in me.

That was a defining moment for me but wouldn’t be the last time I felt the tension between Mika the person and Mika the brand.

Over a span of five years or so, I purchased endless amounts of new products just because I felt like I HAD to be one of the first people to talk about them—“the people” depended on me. I began to be a glorified test dummy for beauty products whether it was self imposed, people tagging me in highly anticipated launches or editors assigning me reviews for products Mika the person could care less about. I wouldn’t even unbox clothes, groceries and other items I bought for personal use because I felt like it had to be content—to enhance the brand. This was just the tip of the iceberg.

There was also a point where I started making actual close friends with peers and contacts from my beauty writing days, realizing years later they didn’t even know my real name…or that I had interests outside of face serums and lip gloss.

In the years to follow, I would experience a ton of instances where my life was dictated by my personal brand. My breaking point came in 2024 when I got termites after moving halfway across the country and decided to stop freelancing while getting my life back in order. I already was kind of done with freelancing but dealing with the stress of termites added another itchy layer.

Because my personal brand was an extension of my writing career, when I stopped freelancing and posting on socials I felt lost. Like I was a shell of myself trying to figure out who tf I was without the image I curated for the public eye. At that moment I was done feeding the machine, the beast that we refer to as a personal brand.

While I know there are some creators and entrepreneurs that will rebuke my thoughts because they live for the personal brand, I think I should clarify that I don’t think branding is inherently bad. I think there’s a fine line between personal branding and psychosis, where you (and sometimes your audience) forgets that you’re human—with human thoughts, feelings, experiences and deserving of grace.

A brand has a fixed identity. People don’t.

The whole purpose of a brand is to mostly stay the same.

Aesthetic.
Messaging.
Core values.
Tone.
Products & Services.

Brands are built to be predictable so they can attract a target audience.

But people? People don’t have fixed identities at all. We change our minds. We process new experiences. We absorb new information. We become new versions of ourselves without even trying because really that’’s what life is.

Brands are made for consumption. People are made for connection.

We’re living in a time where brands are personified and people are commodified. Brands jump into comments like they’re one of the girls. Creators pull back and establish boundaries… and people get offended.

And this isn’t just my experience. Creators have been sounding the alarm for years. One of my favorite creators, Alliyah’s Face, talked openly about this.

When she started therapy, she insisted on going in person because virtual sessions felt like just another extension of being consumed online. She already felt like a product, and she refused to bring that dynamic into her healing space. That’s real and it’s sad how common it is.

The fucked up part is, when someone who’s been maneuvering as a “brand” finally tries to show up as a human, people don’t know how to receive it. You could be grieving online—crying, voice shaking with snot dripping down to your chin and someone will still comment:

“Omg my condolences… also where’s your shirt from? Link please? ❤️ ” Tone fucking deaf.

Brands stay consistent. People stay curious.

One of the most beautiful parts of being human is curiosity. To try new things. Go to new places. Expand our horizons as much as we can with the time we’re given on this earth. But when you lock yourself into a personal brand so tightly that you can’t move without worrying if it “fits,” your world shrinks. Your creativity shrinks. Your sense of self? Gone with the wind.

A brand needs a million rounds of approvals to make subtle changes, Humans don’t. I personally love life as a shape shifting girlie, just doing things because I can. Who gon check me, boo?

In conclusion

I say all that to say, brand responsibly. Share, create and build whatever platform you want online but don’t lose yourself in the process. Also, don’t relinquish your God given right to explore new parts of yourself and pivot in the public eye.

You are allowed to be a person first.

I’v e talked enough. Share your thoughts in the comments or DM me.

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Some people will read that sentence and say, “Girl, why should I care?” You shouldn’t. But now that I’ve got your attention, sit your ass down and listen to what I have to say.

Living solo has been a mix of blessings and lessons. I’m constantly learning myself in every way imaginable. When you have a lot of undistracted, quiet moments, things tend to work out that way.

Every day, I look around the beautiful space I’ve curated and thank God for choosing me to live the life I live… right before I have to put those dishes away, water the plants, clean out the fridge, and a million other things that come with maintaining a home. I’m enjoying the fruit of sown seeds and answered prayers.

Living alone feels grown as hell. If I could give advice to someone living solo for the first time, here’s what I’d tell them.

You’re not late—rent too damn high

Some people try to flex on—or worse, shame—adults who don’t live on their own. The truth is the death of nuance and inability to think outside of binaries has distracted us. Times have changed and everyone’s path looks different. That’s okay.

Living alone doesn’t earn you a gold star for adulting the “right” way. Rent is high as hell and it’s more than okay to opt out. You’ve been through enough.

Always buy the rotisserie chicken

Sometimes I have a ball in the kitchen, trying new recipes or whipping up old faves. However, the amount of cooking that comes with living alone (especially if you care to eat healthy) is insane and costly.

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again—always buy the rotisserie chicken. It’s nutritious, generally affordable and can be eaten as-is or used for various recipes (down to the bones and cartilage for homemade chicken stock).

Also, get frozen veggies or freeze fresh produce before it goes bad.

Don’t be d*ckmatized by amenities

Unless we’re talking about features like updated appliances, parking availability, or other things that affect your day-to-day, don’t let amenities be the deciding factor for signing a lease.

Chances are you’ll go to the pool a few times or use the business room gym every now and again. But from my observation, most people sign their lease and keep their asses in their respective unit.

Paying for amenities you don’t use isn’t worth it.

Editor’s note: I recently watched video about a $10,000 “luxury” apartment with imaginary amenities. GLUED.

Give someone you trust a spare key

…not that man though. If you have the option, give your spare key to a responsible person you trust. Remember how bad your momma used to cuss you out when you lost your key? Losing it as an adult hits harder than it ever did as a kid.

Also, it’s useful if you’re out of town or need someone to roll into your house real quick.

Decorate the apartment because it’s your home

I saw somewhere that the new American dream is to get out (valid). It’s definitely no longer buy a home because…yeah, that’s a rant for another post.

Take your time adding love into your place but most importantly, just do it. You’ll love yourself (and your space) even more for it.

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Get a small toolkit

Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready.

From putting together furniture to fixing small inconveniences, having a starter toolkit will come in handy (too easy). Plus, you can technically add “home repair specialist” to your résumé or something.

You’ll either love hosting or never want people over

I think it’s safe to say that my house is not the party house. The most you’ll probably get out of me is a happy hour or nice little pregame (and of course I enjoy it when family comes into town and crashes with me).

When I’m at home, I mostly want to sit in my drawers eating rotisserie out the bag while watching my latest fixation. This week, it’s Bad Influencer on Netflix.

Sometimes you gotta close that bedroom door

When you live in your own place by your own rules, it’s easy to get distracted, stay unmotivated or…get back in the damn bed. Just looking at my bed makes me want to put myself down for a nap.

If my bed is out of sight, it’s truly out of mind.

Be intentional about third spaces

When living alone, you’ll look up on Thursday and realize you haven’t touched grass, concrete or anything since Sunday. Finding third spaces that get you out of the house and building routines around them will save your mental health.

Otherwise, you’ll feel “off”, totally forgetting you haven’t had contact with another human in at least 72 hours.

Straighten up before you head out

This is for the girlies, really. We do our hair, try on a million outfits like a My Scene doll, and beat our faces all while causing absolute mayhem in our apartments. THEN we have the nerve to lie to ourselves and say we’ll clean when we get back in.

Manage your time efficiently so when you go out for the night, your crib is as clean as your fit.

On Saturdays we play Anita Baker

Your momma had you up early on Saturday mornings scrubbing walls for a reason. Even the cleanest person you know isn’t above a Saturday cleaning playlist.

With all the moving parts of life, it’s easy to lose track of chores.

Delegate or eliminate that one annoying task

Before having a washer and dryer, it was laundry—the dropoff loved to see me coming. Now, it’s sweeping. Even though I don’t wear shoes in the house, there’s always dirt and dust to sweep. I love that I can just turn on my robo vacuum and go about my business.

Treat yourself to something (physical or a service) that makes your day to day just a little lighter. Life is heavy as is.

In conclusion, living solo is mostly project management and parenting yourself but even with all its quirks, it can be deeply satisfying.

If you’re already there, what’s your favorite part of living alone?

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I knew being back in Washington, D.C., where my journey into adulthood officially began, would move something in me. But celebrating my class’s ten-year anniversary did something greater—it cracked me wide open like an overpriced bottle and an LED sign spelling out “HU ‘15 > Everybody”. After three-ish long days of being outside with my friends, classmates, and peers, partying like it was still 2015, my social battery is drained but my heart is overflowing.

My spirit feels revived after Howard Homecoming weekend—a feeling only truly understood by those who’ve walked the Yard and felt its magnetic pull. Our illustrious university is the place that taught us we are exactly who we think we are. Black excellence embodied.

And if that makes people feel like we got too much dip on our chip, fuck ‘em.

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I may have attended a Black-ass university, but before that, I went to a “diverse” specialized high school that reminded me every day I was the Black minority. I constantly felt like a shrunken version of myself, and as soon as the school bell rang, I ran my Black ass uptown to Harlem to be with my people—home sweet Harlem.

Confession? I never wanted to leave New York for college. I decided early on that I wanted to explore fashion and the only place that made sense was the Big Apple. The one thing that could get me to leave Harlem was being with my people…again. During my senior year, I was ecstatic to attend Howard but not everyone shared or even understood my excitement.

“Oh, the Black Harvard?”
No, the Black Howard.

“HBCUs don’t prepare you for the real world.”
Define real.

“Really? A Black school? You don’t want diversity?”
If diversity is just code for shrink yourself and stay in your place, then no—no, I don’t actually.

Granted, this was commentary coming from teens who likely absorbed those toxic views from adults around them, but it was eye opening. It was the first time I realized that society teaches Black people that in order to thrive, you have to align yourself with them…to assimilate.

Anything too Black, too loud, too proud, too us, is somehow too much but also lesser. We can’t possibly thrive in spaces made for us, by us, because our success only feels real when it’s happening under their watchful eye.

But when we do succeed in our own spaces? Our successes are somehow downplayed and our pride feels like misplaced energy…to them. They call it arrogance…we call it affirmation because we know exactly how “dangerous” Black joy, Black brilliance, and Black excellence is to a world that’s terrified of our Black asses shining too bright for their liking.

And as for diversity? Don’t even get me started (too late…you did).

I’ve met so many different types of Black people on Howard’s campus and continue to, even now. To reduce “Black” to one thing in 2025 is wild, but it’s a choice. Black has never been a monolith. Maybe some folks should get outside and actually engage with Black people when it’s not a direct benefit to them financially or otherwise.

I say all this to say: at this point in my life, in my healing journey, and all the other ones I’ve been walking, I didn’t realize how much I needed to be back at The Mecca. Back with people who may not know every detail of what I went through when I was on campus, but still offered community in ways money could never buy. Just because.

Because that’s what love is.
That’s what Black love is.

To my family—Howard Class of 2015 and beyond—those who made it, those we’ve lost, and those still finding their way…I’m so damn proud of us. I hope you’re proud of yourselves too. We are still Black. Still excellent. Still fly as fuck. Still young and turnt (at least one special weekend in October).

And I think we all needed that reminder.
To be back with each other.
To remember who we are.
To remember how far we’ve come.
To remember that no matter how far we wander, there’s always home at The Hilltop.

Until next time. HU! (you know the rest).

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“Love and happiness. Something that could make you do wrong. Make you do right.”

-Al Green, 1972

Within the first thirty seconds of Love & Basketball, Al Green’s 1972 hit “Love and Happiness” delivers the movie’s core message—one that often gets lost when the film is reduced to a debate about who’s the victim and who’s the villain.

The movie doesn’t dress love up in Venus et Fleur Bouquets and IG-worthy happy endings, which is why its importance as a love story is so often discounted. It shows love as the paradox it truly is—full of joy and sometimes pain, capable of making you do wrong or right, all while stemming from the same source.

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