“Whispers From My Heart” is a sacred space where I pour the unspoken — my healing, my growing, my letting go, my loving. Each poem and love letter is a soft echo of the woman I am becoming: brave, blooming, and beautifully unfinished. These are the whispers born from my deepest battles, my quietest prayers, and my brightest hopes. If you find yourself here, know that you are not alone. Welcome to the parts of me that once hurt, now healing — and the parts of you they just might soothe too.
"Eyes Without a Spark" is a raw, Afro-soul and R&B journey about the painful realization of one-sided love and the powerful, beautiful choice to finally walk away.
If you've ever poured yourself into someone who couldn't love you back, this song is for you. Here’s to healing, letting go, and finally choosing ourselves.
People think that when you choose this path, the path of logic, structure, and profit, you stop feeling. They think you turn into a robot, or a caricature of a corporate shark.
But that’s not it at all. I haven't stopped feeling. If anything, I feel more deeply than I ever have, because my feelings aren't being constantly drained by people who don't deserve them.
The biggest "profit" of this entire journey hasn't been the money. It’s been the ability to be selective.
In our culture, "choosing yourself" is usually code for being a selfish prick. We’re taught to bend, to compromise, to "read the room," and to adjust our edges so we don’t poke anyone. We’re taught that the ultimate sign of character is how much of yourself you’re willing to sacrifice for the "team" or the "relationship."
But he doesn’t operate on that frequency. He chooses himself in every decision, every boundary, every minute of his day. Not in a loud, obnoxious way. He doesn't announce it. He just… does it. It’s his baseline.
If she were here right now, she would be disgusted with me. She would think I’ve become cynical. She would tell me I’ve sold my soul for a "structure" that doesn't love me back. And she’s right. This structure doesn't love me. But it serves me.
The difference between the "old me" and the "current me" is that the old me needed to feel safe to function. She needed to believe the people around her were "good." She operated on a frequency of trust that was, frankly, a liability.
I wanted to be the woman who was controlled. The one who was rational. The one who could walk into a room and make decisions based on data and strategy rather than the chaotic, vibrating frequency of my own insecurities.
I had built this version of myself brick by painful brick. I thought I was becoming powerful. I thought I was becoming untouchable.
But hearing it from him, in that tone, it didn't feel like a compliment. It felt like a diagnosis.
I don’t know what it was about last night. Maybe it was the back pain or maybe it was something quieter, something I hadn’t named yet, something sitting at the back of my mind waiting for a moment like that, when everything is still, when there are no distractions left, when even sleep refuses to take you.
I just found myself staring...
At my curtain, of all things.
I found out by accident. That’s the part that still irritates me when I think about it because I wasn’t supposed to know.
It was almost careless. A half-open document left on a screen that wasn’t meant for me. A conversation thread that wasn’t fully closed. A name I wasn’t supposed to connect to the context that suddenly made too much sense.
I remember the feeling of sinking clarity that unfolds as your mind catches up with what your eyes have already seen. And then, it all clicked.
I gave when I should have kept. I poured it into something that didn’t pour back. And I didn’t notice the imbalance while it was happening. It's funny how normal it felt while it was happening. How reasonable my choices seemed in the moment.
And the worst part? I wasn’t even being asked to. No one forced me into it. No one manipulated me into staying against my will. There was no grand deception that stripped me of choice. I chose it. Over and over again. And that’s what hurt the most later... was what I allowed.
The first crack wasn’t in the system. It didn’t come from him. It came from me. That’s the part I didn’t expect. I found myself, against my own better judgment, comparing. Not him to someone else. But him to something I used to be closer to. A version of myself that didn’t calculate as much.
Because the more I watched him, the more I started seeing something uncomfortable. How often I don’t move like that. How often I calculate longer than necessary. How often I pause where there’s no need for pause. How often I still, even now, run invisible conversations in my head before I act.
So I tested it, and the system held. And that confirmed something I wasn’t entirely ready to accept yet. This wasn’t just working. It was designed to work. And I was functioning exactly as expected within it.
That should have reassured me. It didn’t. Because if something is designed this well, then it existed before me. Which means I didn’t walk into something random. I stepped into something already planned, already thought through. And that brings me back to the same question. What’s the catch?
“This isn’t about interest,” he added.
“Good,” I said. “Because I’m not interested in being interesting.”
“Then we understand each other,” he said.
And just like that, it was decided. Not formally. Not with a contract or agreement or even a clear yes. But something had already been set in motion.
That’s how it started. Not with curiosity. Not with attraction. Not with anything soft or uncertain. With terms.
I met him on a Tuesday.
I remember that part clearly, not because he was memorable at the time, but because Tuesdays usually aren’t. They sit in the middle of the week like a placeholder. Not the rush of Monday, not the relief of Friday. Just… there.
I had built my life around that kind of rhythm. Days that didn’t demand too much emotionally. Spaces that made sense. So when I say I met him on a Tuesday, what I really mean is, he didn’t belong there.
Because they’re not wrong.
I have changed.
But the part they miss, is it came from experience. From finally paying attention to how things actually work instead of how I wanted them to work. And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.
The same traits they criticize in me? They admire in men. A man who prioritizes money is “focused, driven, ambitious.”
He “knows what he wants.”
Now, I believe in numbers.
Numbers don’t pretend.
They don’t shift depending on how they feel that day. They don’t wake up and decide they’re confused. They don’t pull away and then come back and then pull away again.
Money makes sense. You put in the work, you get the result. Maybe not immediately, maybe not always fairly, but there’s a system. There’s a pattern. There’s something you can track, something you can measure, something you can improve.
March, I didn’t expect you to teach me this much. I didn’t expect you to feel like both a breaking point… and a turning point.
Because when I look back at you now, I don’t just see the stress or the uncertainty.
I see clarity. I see growth.
I see decisions I didn’t know I was ready to make.
And maybe the most honest thing I can say is this: March felt like the month where I stopped negotiating with my own life.
So maybe the question isn’t:
“How do I get to the life I want?”
Maybe the question is:
“What systems would make that life possible?”
Because the truth is…
You don’t need a better idea.
You don’t need a richer partner.
You don’t need more motivation.
You need structure, consistency, boundaries.
That’s it.
There’s something I’ve been sitting with quietly… something I don’t always admit, even to myself.
I don’t fully trust myself yet.
On the surface, I look like I do.
I make plans. I set goals.
I speak about the life I want with clarity.
I take steps. I start things.
But underneath that…
I still tolerate subtle disrespect.
Not the kind that’s easy to call out and walk away from.
The kind that makes you pause… but not enough to react.
The kind that makes you uncomfortable… but still leaves room for doubt.
The kind that whispers, “maybe you’re overthinking.”
And that’s exactly why it’s dangerous.