S A N K O F A

I’m crossing into the next decade wrapped in the arms of SANKOFA — that go back and get it, your baggage made you amazing, your past is the seasoning to your future, can’t grow without roots feeling that I am who I am because of what I experienced — and that is a glorious empowering feeling. I’m embracing the last ten years and moved to tears about what the next ten have in store. I’ve got so many feels. So much to be grateful for. I have the best kids in the galaxy. I have the best friends in the universe. I am so fluffing excited and overflowing with love. Here’s a recap:

DAY WORK:

SLAYING. Best year ever. I have a growing positive reputation under new leadership, which is opening doors to meaningful shifts in my own career and for the future of our team. Plus I love saying that I work at one of the leading children’s hospitals in the country. Even though I don’t see patients, my work is meaningful and the cause is worthy.

LIFE WORK:

I started producing two new podcasts but lost motivation on one of them — detailed by an issue to be mentioned later.
I only published one new book this year when I intended to publish two or three. BUT I PUBLISHED ANOTHER BOOK!
I wrote and recorded a short film score.
I appeared in one film and two TV shows.
I started a new manuscript — thats three novels in the wings, not including The Hibouleans.
SEVERAL incredible book events from Detroit to Aurora and I was so honored to share a panel at Wakandacon with groundbreaking black SFF novelists.
I danced all over Chicago — Grant Park, cubbie bear, links hall and in both airports!
And I got to perform a few shows in Chicago and Michigan with an incredible band.

I have a few other ideas in the works to come out in 2020 😍😍😍

PERSONAL WINS:

I got a new bed! I had been sleeping on the same mattress I had since I was 16 🤣 I feel like a whole grown up now!

I went on an epic adventure — I’ve always been a spontaneous risk taker but because of LIFE I hadn’t left the country in 15 years. It was a profound shift in my self worth and manifesting my dreams.

I joined a new church community that is nurturing and affirming in all the ways I need right now with little Octavia-shaped spaces for me to serve the community too.

And Morrison DaVinci Coltrane Reese AKA MUPPET has joined our family!!!!

ROMANCE:

I was intentionally dateless in 2018… I thought I was ready to dive back in in 2019 but I wasn’t. What I won’t do: I will not *look* for someone. I will not chase someone that doesn’t emphatically reciprocate a desire to be with me. I will not settle. I will not be ridiculed. What I will do: I’m going to keep taking time to meet my own needs, date myself, have fun with myself and be open to the truth that who is for me will come to me with unconditional acceptance 🥰

I got married before I was ready. I had kids before I was ready. I got a divorce before I was ready. I’ve been playing catch-up my whole adult life barely making ends meet.

MONEY:

Finances continue to be painful for me. I got married before I was ready. I had kids before I was ready. I got a divorce before I was ready. I’ve been playing catch-up my whole adult life barely making ends meet. BUT my lights are on and I refuse to let my children grow up the way I did… On someone else’s couch. In someone else’s bed. Doing homework by candlelight. Never having friends over… and I’m certain 2020 is the year when things flip. For the best. And I will never have to have a neck pain, a stomach ache, a twitching eye over money again!

MESSES:

I’m getting sued! It’s a long and agonizing process. If you ask me privately, I’ll direct you to public records. But I won’t comment publicly at this time.

FRIENDS:

I have been practicing intentional friendship the last year or two. Realizing that I’ve always been a bit awkward and I never knew how to do it properly, it’s taken a considerable effort to emphatically reciprocate true friendship. And let me tell you: I HAVE THE BEST FRIENDS. Regardless of the state or country, you spoil me. You remind me that I’m fun and worthy and beautiful and lovable. You know my love languages. In addition to the best gifts ever, you bring me unconditional love, acceptance and forgiveness when I flake. And you never stop. You see me. I am so grateful for your love and laughter. And I am doing my best to mirror it back and reflect big shiny love all over you too. Ok I have to stop because I’m crying.

GROWTH:

Remembering The Force is real. Shifting my inner dialogue. Maintaining healthy boundaries. Advocating for myself — being assertive is not being “mean.” More tattoos. More travel. More 🦆 YES moments. 😁😅🥰

Cheers to 2020

~OR

December 31, 2019

This Thing

We recently had family night at my kids’ school. There were games and activities. The main event in the art room was a self portrait in the theme of Wonder. Draw a U shape for your face. Draw one eye. Two ears. Add some features. Your hair. Your mouth. Do you wear glasses? Do you have freckles? Then in the background, use words that describe yourself. Who are you?

I think I got more out of it than the kids…

I stopped to think about myself for a moment. Who I am. Who I tell myself I am. Who other people tell me I am.

I’ve had a very traumatic series of weeks. I want to talk about the triggering event, but I won’t. I laughed at first. Heartily. The whole thing is so silly, really. But then I got frustrated. And then I got confused. And then I got worried. I’ve been surrounded by gas-lighters my whole life. People that, whether they know it or not, blame me for things, challenge my sanity and keep me in a reduced state of presence. I believed them. I’ve done a lot of work to rise above that. But this thing. This big scary thing took me back there and tried to tell me I’m the villain.

I stopped to think about myself for a moment. Who I am. Who I tell myself I am. Who other people tell me I am.

And then I got depressed. I closed up. I wasn’t laughing. I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t talking. I hadn’t sat in my delicious tub in so long it started to collect dust. I stopped responding to texts. Calls. I stopped writing. I hid. From others and myself. I stopped dreaming. I stopped recording podcasts. I started chain smoking. I gained 15lbs. I cried. A lot. I slept a lot. I avoided the world. My prayers became wordless sobs. Soul-wails of agony. WHY ME? Haven’t I been through enough?

I even told my kids, “Mommy’s brain is sick right now — if I don’t seem like myself, be patient with me, ok?”

“Ok, mama,” they said.

I started antidepressants for the first time in my life. Five days later, I stopped them — I was forgetting words mid-phrase. I forgot how to spell my children’s names. I felt like these pills were inducing dementia. I’d rather cope with my own chemistry than be thrown into a worse state.

But this painting… I saw myself. I looked into my own eyes and could finally say, “Octavia, you’re stronger than this.”

I am.

I’m a warrior. This thing that is happening to me is happening because I’m strong. It’s happening because I’m intimidating. It’s happening because I’m powerful enough to not just stand up but also to fight back. Sure, I had to feel the lows — and I’m grateful for that pain — but I don’t have to stay there.

Despite the days when I’ve had to pull over my car just to scream at the top of my lungs and let the tears flow; despite the hours I’ve buried my face in my pillow and wept myself to sleep; despite rolling over every morning and feeling as lonely as the last person on earth, I am surrounded by friends that straighten my crown and lift up my chin. I am protected by a Spirit that can’t be defeated. I have been graced with a team of soldiers I could never repay. I am loved by people that celebrate every win, no matter how minuscule.

If my battle protects others, bring it on. If this war I’m in brings peace and healing to future victims, I’m here for it. If this attack is the plot twist in my narrative, fine. I’m on a mission that can’t be stopped. I have a calling that can’t be blocked. I have a voice that will not be silenced. I’m back.

Let what is for me come to me. Let what is against me be removed from my path.

Let it be.

September 19, 2019 0

Episode 001 Pure Lies

“No one will ever want you – you have three kids.”

Yes, that’s an actual quote from an actual human on the topic of me leaving my husband. I felt cursed. I felt like I was damaged goods. I felt like this person was right. Until I started dating again and I found out that they were very wrong. I could get a date! I was desirable – I was attractive – I was wanted! But then, I started to have doubts.

When I got ghosted the first time… and then the second time… and then the third time… all of them saying, “YOU’VE GOT THREE KIDS!”

Yeah, homie, I know. I was there.

The next time it came up, it was a two-fer. This person said the same for him and for his friend – yes I was romantically involved with friends – not at the same time; years apart; the first gave his blessing. But anyway… this person told me for him and his friend precisely why I was fun, but not a keeper.

Then came this one wildly attractive guy that I had a crush on – now, let it be known, I have crushes on many people, frequently. People are attractive, and for me, 98% of the time, I’d rather silently admire someone from afar than actually try to get to know them. I think it’s important to acknowledge attraction as a normal and natural thing – and a thing that can exist within itself as only that – a crush. People, especially people we are attracted to, don’t need to be owned and kept. Why are we so incapable of acknowledging beauty without trying to own it? Anyway, that’s another show. THIS show, is about the crush that jumped the entire gun to break up with me before we even talked about having a date because I already have kids and that’s something he wants to experience for the first time together with someone else.

And finally, most recently, I was just told, “You’re like the perfect woman! But you’re divorced and have three kids. I want to have kids. If we have kids together, my first kids won’t be your first kids.”

Yep, I’ll say that one again – my first kids won’t be your first kids.

Now, let it be known, I would rather be single and happy than feel guilt or shame for having three delightful children with a man I very much loved at the time. Those boys were made from love and they are the very epitome of it.

And we are a package deal. It hurts my heart to think some men would rather abandon the treasure of loving me because it means they’d also have to love my children. It makes me ache to know that they’re missing out on three of the best children in the world. That is entirely their loss – times four – and if they don’t want to find out how awesome my kids are, they don’t deserve me either.

I’d also like to point out pointedly point out – that as a pansexual – only cis-het men have expressed this concept of sperm-egotism; women and non-binary people I have dated couldn’t care less – they embrace me and my little darlings.

My personal opinion, I am pretty fucking awesome and I have no doubt that if and when these men find their life partners, they will always wonder about me – they will always wonder, what if I had given Octavia a try.

And you know why? Because kids grow up. Children are temporary fleeting treasures that are here for a few moments and then off on their own to adult in the wild. When the children are gone, what’s left but the two adults that raised them and whatever partnership they have is fully exposed. Children are neither bandaids nor baggage. They can’t save a relationship up against the ropes and they certainly shouldn’t be a barrier between two hearts that desperately desire each other.

Since I have been prematurely rejected more than five times with this – but you already have kids – response, I decided to take this strange perspective to the socials and to ask for others’ ideas on the topic.

Many of the responses were confirmation bias – trashy insult; they’re intimidated by you and this is a neg to make you feel small; it’s just an excuse for being noncommittal; this is fragile masculinity afraid to parent a child he didn’t produce; immaturity avoiding responsibility… but then there were a few I hadn’t heard before, something on the topic of purity. This is the angle I want to explore and then destroy…

Follow @RoadtoRelovery on instagram and Facebook.

Or email me, Octavia Reese at roadtorelovery@gmail.com or octavia@tavindamedia.com

Head over to Road to Relovery the Podcast to listen, or search “Tavinda Media” in your favorite podcast app and subscribe!

June 13, 2019 0

Me, on Purpose

“I agree not to embarrass you.”

I’ve had to sign contracts like that before – agreements binding me to behavior that isn’t too loud or too wild or too crazy or too fun or too Black or too…human…

Some were official legally binding documents; some were impossible cultural implications where every day was a new adventure in shame, humiliation, disappointment and emotional terrorism. You look ridiculous. No one will ever want you. Be more like Michelle Obama. Put your contacts in – people like you better with light eyes. Straighten your hair or people will think you’re uneducated. Tattoos make you look cheap…or criminal. You think you’re so smart. Who put you in charge? Sit down. Oh, you’re not a real author. Wow, you’re so talented you make me sick. Don’t pierce anything on your face. Beauty queens don’t do that. Moms don’t do that. Pastors’ wives don’t do that. Don’t wear bright nail polish – colors aren’t professional. Don’t sit there. Don’t sit there LIKE THAT. Don’t wear that. What if people see you WEARING that? Don’t dance like that – don’t dance at all. No clapping. Smile more. Talk less. Stand up, suck it in, bright eyes, chin up, butt tucked. Shave your legs. Shave everything. Except your head. Don’t talk to that person.

Don’t smoke, don’t swear, don’t talk too long or too loud. Don’t hug someone too long. Don’t kiss anyone. Don’t hold hands – actually, no PDA at all. Don’t even act like you have a boyfriend or a girlfriend and for the love of all things holy, don’t live with them! People might think you’re… doing intimate things together. Don’t read any racy books or visit any controversial web sites. Don’t go into Victoria’s Secret, or shop for anything… intimate. Don’t talk about bleeding or …periods. Don’t let anyone see your tampons. Or leakage. Be discrete. Act like you don’t bleed at all. Oh, really nothing about the bathroom. Don’t let air escape you – no burps or farts. Oh, God don’t fart! Don’t overindulge in… things… Only drink water. It looks healthier. Don’t drink…alcohol. Or at least, don’t let anyone catch you drinking alcohol.

Actually, don’t let anyone catch you doing anything. Just stand still, look pretty, be docile and polite.

Because if I don’t submit to these things, people won’t like me.

And if people don’t like me, they won’t support me. They won’t talk to me or appreciate me. They won’t want to be seen with me. They’re going to judge me and talk about me. They’re going to reject me. Don’t give them a reason to reject me! Don’t disappoint anyone! Don’t let anyone down! Everyone must like and admire me!

But after all of that molding and adapting and cinching the moral corset, guess what? There are still people that don’t like me. There are still people that refuse to work with me. There are still people that can’t handle me doing my best.

“You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.”

― Dita Von Teese

So after all of that exhausting (and pointless) people-pleasing, what happens?

What happens when I let someone in? What happens when I open the door and welcome someone into what I really think and feel? Will they be disappointed anyway? After years of trying to present myself as one perfect thing, who is more deceived? The person that thought I was someone else or me — for stifling my personality, silencing my inner voice and denying my own truth?

People say you should never meet your heroes. Because you find out what they present is usually a façade. A sham. An act. An impossible standard even they couldn’t meet. What happens when we grow up and realize even the most flawless looking role models have been leading a double life? Eventually, all skeletons demand release. Eventually, all masks crack. Eventually, pretending isn’t worth it anymore. Who are you, really? Are you putting all your energy into being someone else? Or are you being yourself on purpose?

2019 is my Flourish year. It’s the year that I’m being Octavia on purpose. It’s the year that I stop catching accidental glimpses of my talents and start intentionally bringing out the light burning within me. It’s the year I stop apologizing for being awesome. It’s the year I quit playing small to make others feel better. It’s the year I realize not everyone is equipped to love me, support me and accept me, on purpose. It’s the year that I stop trying to please and impress people that would probably never like me anyway. It’s the year that I stop worrying about how to be one of the cool kids. It’s the year that I finally stop stressing about how to win the attention and acceptance of people that don’t know me and don’t want to know me. It’s the year that I stop trying to be safe.

I’m not safe.

I’m not predictable. I’m vulnerable and real. I am the kind of hero that is graceful and messy and beautiful and flawed

February 25, 2019 2

Believe Me, Too

Last week, at the pinnacle of the viral #metoo movement, I shared an Ebony article on Facebook. It was a passionately-worded piece wagging its finger at all of the #metoo hype, as if to say, “Hey! We’ve been saying this for a decade and the movement was started by a Black woman!” While the article did feel a bit ragey, with its give-credit-where-credit’s-due feel, it highlighted several things:

Black women are overlooked
Black people’s problems tend to *stay* Black people’s problems
Celebrities with high-profile scandals have a vast reach
White celebrities can get ish done

I even wrote a disclaimer on my article-share, warning my friends and followers to not be turned off by the title and tone. I urged my friends to read it. Read it because hey, this isn’t new. This is all races, all sexes, all genders. And it’s a whole lot easier to ignore abused people – especially when we’re shouting from the margins.

Well, I had a friend. That one (sometimes three) friend(s), that did have to say something about – by my own words – “playing the Race Card.”

He expressed his thought that justice is great, why bring race into it? Just be grateful this is getting attention!

I saw red. I saw flames. If I had laser eyes to shoot at his fingers on the keyboard via the inter webs, I would have aimed and fired. We went back and forth a little, but then he did something amazing that I never expected. He took it to the DM.

And it went down. But it went down beautifully.

He asked me to explain how we missed each other, why his challenge to my article-share insulted me, and how he can be a better ally.

Yeah. He asked how he could serve me.

And by the time we exchanged stories, we were both in tears.

We saw each other. We heard each other.

He asked …how he could be a better ally.

This is my DM response to him, (some parts edited for this blog and names removed), and it’s something that all well-intentioned white people should read before they roll their eyes at yet another angry Black woman that makes everything about race and gender:

[TLDR Version: Privilege is real. We live in a constant state of gender and race humiliation. It happened to me, too. Believe us. Whether its racism or sexism, believe us.]

PRIVILEGE

The first time I ever saw white privileged was when I was going through my divorce. Yeah. I know it sounds weird. My first time. But when you’re Black in America you only see the negative attitudes towards your own race and not the actual privilege of being white. That’s not our side of the story. When he and I decided to split, I was the one that was depressed and miserable in the far burbs so I was happy to move.

But I had spent the majority of our marriage as a full-time mom/student with part time gigs. I didn’t have a resume, savings or a sustaining job. Every day while I was still home with the kids, he would come home and say: did you get a job yet? How many applications? Any interviews? How about an apartment? When are you leaving? The pressure was maddening. I wanted to punch him and throw up and run away crying all at once. Every. Day. I felt unwanted and lazy and rejected.

But then I realized he wasn’t deliberately bullying me. He just had no idea. He didn’t have a resume. He’s never had to sell himself on a piece of paper to strangers. He’s never asked strangers for a job and he’s never not gotten an offer for a job he asked for. He lives in a bubble of privilege where he’s never had to go without or rely solely on his own talents. He’s never had to worry that he wouldn’t get an interview because his name sounds “exotic” or “weird.”

He’s never had to worry that someone would look at him and think “a man can’t do this” or “a dad can’t do this.” That is privilege. But people always think a woman can’t do this or a mom isn’t as committed as a childless person. These are things I choke on daily.

He had no idea how difficult it can be to get a job especially when you’re not a white man.

HUMILIATION

You aren’t humiliated by others for the color of your skin.
I just got a lotus tattoo for my birthday. Beauty and blessings springing forth from the mud. X— made some mud comments about me in sixth grade. Again, not your reality. Not even on your radar. But it was stinging and humiliating. It made me feel ugly and less than and unlike and unaccepted and rejected and reminded me that I will never be one of you.

My new ink is my peace with that. I know now that I am beautiful and talented and radiantly intimidating. In first grade I had to change for gym class alone because my changing buddy’s mom found out she was undressing with a black girl and didn’t want me around her daughter. And that, too. All the time: Black girl. I hate it when people say, “so this Black person — no offense — was talking…” Why is “Black person” offensive? I’m not sorry I’m Black. Does my Blackness offend you? Why are you apologizing? I am Black! Say it! Black isn’t a bad word. N** is. Black isn’t. Neither is white. Say it. We are our colors and we all deserve to be seen.

BELIEVE ME

With all of that said, it is SO crushing then, when I say to someone, for example, a white significant other, “Babe I had a weird experience today and I really feel like it was racially motived,” and he says, “nahhh I don’t think so. Maybe you did something wrong.” That’s the most devastating thing. When people in the majority point fingers at me and accuse me of playing the race card.

When I experience something and feel sad and violated and discriminated and someone that couldn’t possibly be able to relate blows me off and says they don’t believe me — it’s a terribly crippling feeling. It’s gaslighting. It’s crazymaking.

If I say “this feels racist,” BELIEVE ME. Please. This is my world, not yours. Please believe me that something hurts and it’s not fair. What if we went to the doctor complaining of illness and he doc says, “Mmmnah I don’t think so. Stop whining!”

#METOO

The last place I worked my coworker rubbed my knee under my dress when the two of us were alone in a conference room. Later he “brushed” past me rubbing his body on my butt. Twice. And then when we were leaving that hospital site, we were alone in an elevator and he stroked my face. Twice. Because I looked tired. I wanted to slit his throat and set myself on fire.

When I reported him to HR, the woman said,” nahhh I don’t think so. That doesn’t sound like X—. Maybe he meant…”

By this time I was numb and tuned her out. Here’s a woman WHOSE JOB IT IS TO TAKE MY REPORT and she didn’t believe my story. #metoo

This happened to me! And she didn’t care. Now, sidebar, there is another dynamic between women where unsolicited sexual advances by an attractive man are not crimes but compliments. Part of me wonders if she was jealous that X— was flirting with me and not her?? Who knows. I don’t care. The point is that she didn’t believe my experience. But she’s not me. Don’t tell me my truth is not true. Now this part is for you and your brilliant girls: when they come to you, and they will, and they say, “Papa someone made me feel weird today,” BELIEVE THEM.

Don’t ask what or if they did anything to deserve it. Don’t tell them “nnnnnno I don’t think it’s like that. Why are you forcing some issue into this?“
Don’t assume they’re just girls making things up or being dramatic or being emotional or too sensitive or being [insert negative idea about women here].

Listen. Believe them.
They will need you to just believe them. And hold them. And validate them. And tell them it’ll be ok. And tell them you’ll do something.

And then… do something.

~OR

October 20, 2017 1

Stubborn

stub·born

ˈstəbərn/

adjective

having or showing dogged determination not to change one’s attitude or position on something, especially in spite of good arguments or reasons to do so.

“he accused her of being a silly, stubborn old woman”

synonyms: obstinate, headstrong, willful, strong-willed, pigheaded, obdurate, difficult,contrary, perverse, recalcitrant, inflexible, iron-willed, uncompromising,unbending; More
difficult to move, remove, or cure.

“the removal of stubborn screws”

synonyms: indelible, permanent, persistent, tenacious, resistant

“stubborn stains”

#sorrynotsorry

Today – and as I grow, heal, mature, and hopefully evermore – I am stubborn. Being the peacekeeping, balance-loving, diplomatic Libra that I am, I usually believe there is always a compromise and solution – we just need to explore the possibilities and find it. But there are some things I have learned are nonnegotiable. Some things are what they are – some people are who they are – and I’m finally learning to be unapologetically me.

So, Sorry. I’m not sorry. The list below is my final farewell to things about myself I have learned to love, despite others’ – yes real people’s – strong suggestions to change, eliminate, or “correct” – and yes, I said “correct” with a side-eye. Skip you. I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry for having a wide nose.

I’m not sorry for having full lips.

I’m not sorry for having brown skin.

I’m not sorry for having dark scars.

I’m not sorry for having dark brown eyes.

I’m not sorry for looking like Vanessa Williams.

I’m not sorry for having a bubble butt.

I’m not sorry for having a lisp.

I’m not sorry for having a crooked smile.

I’m not sorry for having brown gums.

I’m not sorry for having bulging eyes.

I’m not sorry for not talking how you think I should talk.

I’m not sorry I’m independent.

I’m not sorry I’m not attached to my phone.

I’m not sorry I didn’t want a second date.

I’m not sorry I passionately want to explore all my talents.

I’m not sorry I want to be a working mother.

I’m not sorry the laundry isn’t always clean.

I’m not sorry the house isn’t always spotless.

I’m not sorry I hate shaving my arm pits.

I’m not sorry I get hair bumps when I do reluctantly shave them.

I’m not sorry I also hate shaving my ahem…

I’m not sorry I don’t shower every day.

I’m not sorry I have thick, coarse, self-knotting hair.

I’m not sorry I have short nails.

I’m not sorry I have rough palms.

I’m not sorry I love everyone.

I’m not sorry I love white people.

I’m not sorry I love black people.

I’m not sorry I’m black.

I’m not sorry my pelvis isn’t flexible.

I’m not sorry I don’t always enjoy chicken wings.

I’m not sorry I’m allergic to watermelon.

I’m not sorry I defy your stereotypes.

I’m not sorry I have stripy stretch marks after carrying four children.

I’m not sorry I will never look the same in a bikini.

I’m not sorry for wearing a bikini.

I’m not sorry for being vulnerable.

I’m not sorry for speaking freely.

I’m not sorry for having ideas.

I’m not sorry for talking.

I’m not sorry for speaking up.

I’m sorry for singing.

I’m not sorry for refusing to work for free.

I’m not sorry my name is hard to pronounce.

I’m not sorry I’m afraid of the dark.

I’m not sorry I’m a slow reader.

I’m not sorry I don’t enjoy deep analytical conversations.

I’m not sorry for walking away from an abusive situation.

I’m not sorry for exiting an abusive conversation.

I’m not sorry for refusing to participate in gossip.

I’m not sorry having a tattoo.

I’m not sorry for wanting a hundred more.

I’m not sorry for liking tattoos.

I’m not sorry for being attractive.

I’m not sorry for dressing well.

I’m not sorry for not giving you my phone number.

I’m not sorry for not smiling when I don’t feel like smiling.

I’m not sorry for following my dreams.

I’m not sorry for loving karaoke.

I’m not sorry for enjoying TV.

I’m not sorry for loving a day on the couch.

I’m not sorry for having abstract ideas.

I’m not sorry for being creative.

I’m not sorry for not fitting into your box.

I’m not sorry for not being Michelle Obama.

I’m not sorry for having goals.

I’m not sorry for laughing too loud.

I’m not sorry for dancing too much.

I’m not sorry for being silly.

I’m not sorry my feet stink some times.

I’m not sorry for farting.

I’m not sorry for slacking on my pedicures.

I’m not sorry for having a sweet tooth.

I’m not sorry for having three children.

I’m not sorry I refused to be talked down to.

I’m not sorry for being intuitive.

I’m not sorry for being right.

I’m not sorry for making mistakes.

I’m not sorry for being happy.

I’m not sorry for being sad.

I’m not sorry for needing help.

I’m not sorry for falling in love.

I’m not sorry for changing my mind.

I’m not sorry for believing in magic.

I’m not sorry for being Christian.

I’m not sorry for looking for the truth in all religions.

I’m not sorry for saying, “No.”

I’m not sorry for being strong.

I’m not sorry for being brave.

I’m not sorry for not counting calories.

I’m not sorry I’m finally starting to know my worth.

I’m not sorry for being Octavia.

~OR

January 11, 2016 2

Winter Storm Octavia (pt II)

*flashback*

So there’s this guy.

We’ll call him Nameless. Nameless because I literally stopped writing just before that last sentence and spent 15 minutes trying to think of an appropriate pseudonym, but nothing worked. He just is. He’s a confusingly attractive person; an author, a sort of introvert, an artist, a tech geek, a well-read intellectual snob, a phenomenal car-singer, a time-stopper…and just…cozy. But he’s wonderful and one of my favorite people on the planet. Anyway, last year, Nameless told me, “you’re like… a fat girl…”

I wanted to punch him. Once for me, and about 80 more times for all the big beautiful ladies out there.

But I let him continue, “No, you’re not fat but you’re like one of those insecure women that just want to be touched, or loved, or noticed. When I hug you, you react like you haven’t been hugged in years.”

That stung. It was kinda true.

It took me this long – yes, a full Earth’s rotation of the sun – to see it. I’ve been starving for unconditional companionship. The kind where I am accepted for all my goof, SNL-host wannabe-ness, full-sleeve tattoo dreams, dredlocks, quirks, wild ambitions and nerdish tendencies.

I looked (and still do) for it from my mother. Fail. My father. Extra fail. My husband. Super fail. And now I had been trying to make up for lost time by this sort of speed dating, desperately seeking connection to another human. Epic fail. Ok, not-so epic fail; oddly enough it has been incredibly healing in many ways.

As a mother, my most passionate task is to always exhibit to my boys the no-strings-attached agape-love I never received.

It is also my job to love myself unconditionally and treat myself like a great prize to be won. My job. Mine. Just learned that. That right there. That’s the moral.

I’ve said comically before, screw this, I’ll date myself. But really. Truly. I need to date myself. I need to love myself first. I need to be my own hero.

So, here’s my storm: I’m going to tell my own story. Not just glamorize ridiculous past dates like I have been. But really tell my story. All of it. From the beginning. From my mother teaching me to pinch my nose when I was four years old so it wouldn’t get too wide, to never feeling thin enough to be on national television in a bikini; from my father never being around to having my husband tell me I look ridiculous and need to be more like Michelle Obama. I have a voice that needs to be heard. It is not meant to shame or embarrass; it is meant to inspire, empower and heal — not just myself, but others. There are many sides to every story, and I’m not ashamed of mine anymore.

It is called Eighty-Five Cents, and I hope to complete it in 2015.

It took my life getting wrecked, me ignoring my calling, my life getting second-wrecked, and me being willing to be an open book for me to really be ready to love me, let go of the hurt, and realize that I’m not the only normal person out there struggling to acknowledge their own value in this world.

I know it’s a little cheesy to end on the Frozen note, but really…have you actually listened to these words?

The fears that once controlled me can’t get to me at all.

It’s time to see what I can do

Test the limits and break through.

No right. No wrong.

No rules for me. I’m free.

I’m one with the earth and sky.

You’ll never see me cry.

Here I stand.

And here I’ll stay.

I’ll rise like the break of dawn.

That perfect girl is gone.

Let the storm rage on.

~ OR

February 18, 2015 1