April 11th

Mommie Dearest

Dear Lover, 

I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I first encountered Billie Holiday's song "God Bless The Child," but the emotions it stirred in me, I will never forget. Tears flowed nonstop as I felt as if Miss Billie had penned those lyrics just for me—for those children who questioned the divine rationale behind their given parents. I vividly remember wrestling with a deep sense of injustice, questioning what I had done to deserve such flawed parents. When I started sharing my story, aiming to shed light on the experiences of those without parents, the judgment I faced for the abuse I endured and the strained relationship with my mother was disheartening. Some argue that getting disciplined for misbehavior is common, despite the evident contradiction my bruises portrayed.

I want to acknowledge that this love letter might be triggering, but it is vital for me to share, as it encapsulates the most profound lessons life has granted me. Importantly, my intention is not to evoke distress but to emphasize the significance of these lessons in fostering healing and understanding.

I've never felt a genuine connection with my mother throughout my entire life. The disconnection runs so deep that I can count on one hand the instances I referred to her as my mother. Strangely, I often used her first name, and oddly, she seemed accepting of it. Perhaps, on some level, she sensed the same disconnection, for what parent could be content with their child addressing them by their first name? Despite the lack of a profound connection, my mother has served as a significant teacher in various ways. There are several lessons she imparted, and I'll share those that have lingered with me to this day. 

One pivotal lesson revolves around the appropriate use of pronouns, a concept introduced at a young age. At the time, my comprehension of sexuality was limited, as is often the case for most thirteen-year-olds. Despite this, I was aware that my mom's boyfriend's aunt had a preference for women. Instead of directly addressing my curiosity, I expressed it by using the term dyke. Rather than seizing the opportunity to educate me, my mother chose to inform her boyfriend, who opted for a form of discipline that went beyond words – I found myself cornered and subjected to punches. In that moment, the realization struck me that my mother couldn't truly love me, as genuine love wouldn't permit such harm to be inflicted upon a child.

In my younger years, I pleaded with her to let me join a modeling agency called John Casablanca. The agency aimed to harness students' natural talents, which for me was my appearance and height. Though I can't recall my agent's name, he took a liking to me. However, when it became evident that modeling wasn't in my future, I was withdrawn from the school. 

Years later, on evenings when my mother couldn't prepare dinner for my sisters and me due to her overnight shifts, our go-to meal became pizza. On one such occasion, as we ordered pizza, the delivery guy turned out to be none other than my former agent from the modeling agency. It appeared that modeling wasn't in his future either. We were both excited to see each other, and in hindsight, I fail to see any harm in him asking about my life and what I have been up to. Yet, my mother was visibly upset with how candidly I was conversing with him.

Instead of intervening to explain the potential risks of such openness – because looking back, I now understand the real dangers, people can be dangerous and niggas be kidnapping– she stayed in the corner, glaring at me, and allowed the conversation to unfold. It was evident she was waiting for me to finish, anticipating what was to come. At that moment, I sensed trouble and tried to stall for as long as possible. The moment I shut the door, she unleashed a forceful punch to my lip, causing it to swell and burst.

I understand this may be overwhelming, but this has been my reality until I made the decision to leave her house during high school. I don’t remember the  exact details of how this unfolded, but what remains vivid is the moment when the authorities were called. As we were all outside – me, my mother, and the police – trying to figure out the best solution, in an unusual alignment, both my mother and I acknowledged that emancipating myself was the best course of action. However, she was reluctant to navigate the intricate process, deeming it too overwhelming. Faced with this reality, I made the decision to pack up my belongings and leave, catalyzing my journey into independence at an unusually early age. I opted to live with my sister's father, and while he wasn't much better, he seemed like the only available option until I could start on my journey to college.

I was taught how to “show face” since I was a child, so it was no different for me when I arrived at college. Addiction runs through my blood, and in college, while I wasn't an alcoholic, I did enjoy partying. However, a noticeable pattern emerged - whenever I consumed alcohol, my emotions swung between intense anger and profound sadness.  Regardless of the emotion, I often found myself reiterating my upbringing as a victim. It wasn't until later that I connected the dots, realizing the source of the boiling anger within me was rooted in my relationship with my mother. The breaking point occurred during a college party, where a friend's actions triggered such a severe response that I blacked thee entire fuck out. Looking back, I recognized the warning signs indicating a need for help, as that day held the potential to alter the trajectory of my life permanently. One might expect such an incident to propel me toward seeking the necessary assistance and support for my journey of healing and self-discovery, but, truthfully, I didn't know what the next step would be. Moreover, during this time, nobody was talking about therapy or mental health, making it even more challenging to navigate. Bringing up the topic would often result in people thinking you were crazy, adding another layer of difficulty to an already complex situation.

Nevertheless, my perspective of my mother underwent a transformation as I entered into my own womanhood. It's funny how personal experiences can reshape our perspective on others' actions. The lens through which I once viewed her as my mother shifted, and recognizing her as a person, a woman, made it simpler for me to acknowledge the shared human experiences between us.

Upon meeting my father via conversations, he divulged many details about my mother that were previously unknown to me. I was unaware of the challenges she faced throughout her life. Despite the tumultuous nature of their relationship, he consistently emphasized that I was wanted by both of them, even though neither played a significant role in my life. Describing me as a "love child," he acknowledged that love couldn't always shield someone from the twists and turns that life has in store. As he shared his perspectives, everything began to fall into place, providing clarity to my mother's story and the path that led to her becoming the person she is.

While I don't condone her actions, I've come to understand that when she looked at me, I became a constant reminder of the life she had hoped for with my father, a life that never came to be. Her expectations weren't necessarily about perfection, but rather, about something distinct from the harsh reality we found ourselves in. The proof lies in her genuine love for my father, the only man she ever married, evident in those cherished pictures capturing their happiness. Witnessing their joy through pictures, I couldn't recall ever seeing her so happy. Never.  However, when my father began to wrestle with his demons, reality struck and that's when the beginning of her fairy tale started to end.

At this point, I had heard numerous stories from various family members pointing to a range of factors that contributed to their separation – a robbery gone wrong, infidelity, substance use, and instances of domestic violence. According to my father, she chose to separate me from him during a tumultuous period in his life, marking the last time I saw him at the age of four. If these elements were indeed part of their story, could I fault her for wanting to leave? However, it seems she might not have fully grasped the repercussions on all parties involved, and unfortunately, I ended up with the short end of the stick.

Reflecting on the past, it now makes sense why a genuine connection never formed between us. I not only resembled my father but also embodied her resentment towards him. Unfortunately, she seized every opportunity to remind me of this reality, and I realized those punches were not for me but instead, for him.

I have not spoken to my mother in almost two decades, and the last time I laid eyes on her was at Na-Na's funeral. Although I had always admired her beauty, witnessing her at Na-Na's funeral made it clear that life had taken its toll. It appeared as though life had caught up with her, and her relationship with alcohol might have played a role too.

Rumors circulated that she started drinking as a teenager, prompting me to ponder the demons she might have been grappling with. I can't help but wonder if given the chance to go back, what choices would she alter? Does she regret the path she chose? Did she truly desire motherhood? If given the opportunity for a second chance, what dreams and aspirations would she pursue in her life? Similar to my father, I've heard she was exceptionally intelligent, possessing both brains and beauty. 

These lingering questions weave a complex tapestry of reflections, prompting me to ponder the divergent paths life might have taken for both my mother and our relationship. One might wonder if there were ever moments of joy and truthfully, I can't recall. The only glimmer of tenderness emerged when she sang a morning refrain, urging us to kickstart our day: 'Get out that bed, get out that bed, sleepyhead, sleepyhead.' Despite being her eldest daughter among all the girls, expressions of I love you, warm embraces, and other displays of affection were notably absent in our interactions.

Despite the absence of maternal love, I must recognize her influence in molding my resilience. The journey of navigating life as a woman, particularly one of color, introduces its unique challenges. The tumultuous nature of my upbringing brought a stark awareness that enduring my challenging childhood equipped me to face any obstacle. It raises the contemplation of whether her actions were a deliberate effort to instill toughness in me.

Furthermore, the void of maternal love underscored the significance of relying on community support. Though the meaning of this dependence wasn't clear during my childhood, I've come to deeply appreciate it in my adulthood. Many women, acting in a motherly capacity, have entered my life, providing their presence and reassurance. For this, I am eternally grateful, as their support has been a comforting beacon, assuring me that everything would be okay. Acknowledging myself for taking on the role of mothering me adds another layer to this journey. Mothering oneself is a profound act of self-compassion, and I've learned to embrace it as a source of empowerment.

As I pen down these reflections, I am not seeking pity or understanding. Instead, I share my story with the hope that it resonates with others who may have faced similar struggles with mothers in their lives. My story is a narrative woven with threads of pain, resilience, and the unyielding spirit to rise above circumstances. It is a testament to the human capacity to endure and, ultimately, thrive.

 As I look toward the future, I carry the lessons of my past, acknowledging that the scars are not marks of weakness but symbols of the strength that resides within, serving as a constant reminder that everything I need is within me or within reach.

If you find yourself in a strained relationship with your mother, it's crucial to recognize the intricate and diverse nature of familial dynamics. Understand that self-preservation may necessitate creating distance, and hold steadfast in establishing and maintaining boundaries. Acknowledge that the journey toward reconciliation and self-discovery is unique, unfolding at its own pace. In the midst of this process, prioritize understanding and consider seeking support to navigate forgiveness, not necessarily for your mother but for yourself. Because forgiveness is about accepting the future for what it is, not what it could have been.

If you haven't experienced such a relationship but know someone who has, refrain from passing judgment. Create a safe space where individuals can openly share their emotions without fear of criticism. Approach these situations with empathy, fostering a compassionate and understanding environment. Acknowledge the significance of chosen families, as they play a vital role in contributing to the healing process.

Reflecting on the melodies of Billie Holiday's "God Bless The Child," I can't help but wonder if perhaps she penned those soul-stirring lyrics not only as a soundtrack to my life but as a universal ode to resilience. As I listen to this song now, my thoughts drift to my mother. While we may never have the conventional relationship that I once envied in my friends, I am forever thankful for the woman who gave me birth. Because in everything she is not, she played a role in making me everything I am.

Love,

Eboné

Turbulence Part 1

Dear Lover,

As the holiday season approaches, I find myself reflecting on the unique experiences shared with Tyler during the pandemic. Since my Na-Na's passing, holiday moments have carried a mix of highs and lows, particularly as I navigated the challenge of embracing new traditions without her. Tyler, recognizing the difficulties of these times, displayed his friendship by inviting me to join his family for Thanksgiving. While I was surprised, not due to a lack of closeness – as Tyler and I share a deep bond – I was taken aback by the profound connection we had forged. Introduced to each other through mutual friends, meeting someone who mirrored my creativity, language, and perspectives was a rare and special occurrence. In Tyler’s company, our friendship was embraced by a soothing sense of familiarity, and I believe I provided him with a similar source of solace.

He picked me up from my best friend's house, and although I was excited to see him, a subtle nervousness lingered. I had previously met his family and even interviewed his mom for my show, a setup orchestrated by him. While I felt a genuine connection with them, spending the holidays with someone's family carries a certain intimacy, especially given our past closeness. Upon arriving at his mother's house, the entire family was gathered: his brother and his girlfriend, his sister and her girlfriend, and his younger siblings. Being in their midst brought back memories of holidays with my own family in my younger years, rekindling the joy I once experienced when we all gathered at Na-Na's house.

Throughout the night, I couldn't help but contemplate the "what ifs" that lingered between us. Although I had made the decision for us to remain friends, there were moments when I questioned if it was indeed the right choice.

Tyler decided to visit me in New York for the weekend before Christmas. Once again, the excitement of anticipating his arrival was tangible, as our moments together were consistently filled with genuine joy. Before Tyler entered my life, I had recently ended a relationship where I felt constrained, unable to reveal my true self. It felt like being confined in a cage. However, with Tyler, I felt the liberation to be entirely authentic—whether in my girly-girl moments, exuding hood vibes, pursuing ambitious nerdy interests, or embracing a quiet, laid-back demeanor. Tyler welcomed every aspect of my personality, and in return, it fostered the belief that it was acceptable for me to show up as myself because someone was willing to accept me for who I am.

When Tyler arrived, I greeted him at the airport, and the excitement of our reunion was noticeable. While he had been to New York before, this marked our first time experiencing the city together. I was eager to show him the city that meant so much to me and share with him the New York that I had known since childhood. He booked a hotel I selected in downtown Brooklyn, and I should have been better prepared with liquor and other essentials as New York had a pandemic-related curfew in place. Once we settled in, the curfew was looming, and we found ourselves without any food or drinks. Fortunately, we managed to order some food, but after exploring the area, our only option for a drink was what some affectionately call "thot juice" (if you know, you know). Despite the enforced curfew, our first night together turned out to be incredibly enjoyable. Reflecting on it now, it felt like we were having an unforgettable sleepover, one that I wished would never come to an end.

During our sleepover, Tyler's personality unfolded in ways that only intimate settings can reveal. He wasn't just the charismatic friend I knew; he was also the playful, carefree spirit who suggested we play games like we were kids again. Laughter echoed through the room as we jumped on the bed, listening to music while shedding the weight of adult responsibilities for those carefree moments. It was in these instances that I saw a side of Tyler that transcended the complexities of life—a genuine, uninhibited joy that made our connection even more profound.

However, in the midst of our sleepover, an unexpected interruption occurred when someone he was currently dating called. Despite the uncertainty surrounding the depth of their relationship, my intuition assured me that he liked her. I had become so attuned to myself during that period that my awareness extended to everything around me, including his emotions. A hint of jealousy crept in as he continued talking to her. I walked into the hallway and decided to confide in my two friends, knowing they were the ones I could turn to, even if I couldn't find the perfect words to articulate how I was feeling. Unwilling to stay in the room with him while he was on the phone with her, I, in a decisive move, informed him that I was heading home. It was the only card I had to play, and surprisingly, it worked. He promptly got off the phone, and we resumed our sleepover.

We kicked off our day bright and early, and I took him to all my favorite spots as well as the places I knew he had on his list to visit. The day started with some early drinks, and for both of us, it felt like we were in our own little world. Our energy was undeniable, even if we were oblivious to it. As we strolled down the street, several people commented on how good we looked together, and even my close friend remarked that we resembled a walking Hallmark card. This marked the first time he met my closest friends in New York, and I got to know his friends residing in the city as well. Everything just felt perfect, like stepping into one of those holiday movies set in New York that always tug at your heartstrings, no matter how many times you've seen it.

My favorite moments during our time together were our conversations. Once we decided to be friends, we made a pact to always be honest with each other. In my heart at that time, I truly believed Tyler didn't have a space where he could truly be himself. His appearance often made it easy for him to get his way whenever he pleased. I'm not implying that the women in his life didn't challenge him, but I knew they didn't challenge him the way I did. I saw beyond his looks; I thought he was incredibly cool and talented. Moreover, I appreciated how he trusted me enough to be himself, a trust that I knew wasn't easy for him to give. We shared almost everything with each other, and I didn't take that lightly.

During our conversation, we delved into the topic of the girl he was dating. Once again, he downplayed the depth of their relationship, but I, possessing what some might call the gift of sight, could see the unfolding of their future. Having foresight isn't always easy, and in that moment, I felt frustrated that everything I had envisioned about his future seemed destined to unfold, without me in the picture. As we stood in line at the Supreme store, I encouraged him to be honest and forthright about his feelings for the girl. After taking a deep breath, he admitted that he did like her, but it didn't go beyond that. He often shared with me that he couldn't be himself with her as he could with me, and I interjected, emphasizing that it wasn't fair to her. What I truly wanted to convey was that it wasn't fair to me, but in the intricate game of love, you win some and then you lose some.

Despite my playful tone, I subtly hinted that she will become the mother of his child. He brushed it off casually, yet amidst our jokes about his aversion to condoms, I couldn't shake the conviction that what I saw was bound to happen. I also reiterated multiple times that God was going to bless him with a daughter, to which he responded with a mix of skepticism and amusement. Knowing Tyler's deep appreciation for women, I understood that in the grand design of life, God often grants us what we cherish the most to serve as our greatest teachers.

Later that evening, we joined my friends for dinner, and it was equally important for my friends to meet him, as they were well aware of my feelings toward him. As the night progressed, one of my dear friends, whom I cherish, boldly asked him about the status of our relationship. I was taken aback by the question, and things took an awkward turn. Although I knew my friend had good intentions, and as mentioned earlier, no one could deny our chemistry, I was low-key mad that she asked him that. Some things are better left unsaid. On our way back to the hotel, we found ourselves in an argument over heaven knows what, and before I knew it, I was left standing outside our hotel looking dumb as hell while he went inside. I'll admit, I half-expected him to come back out and get me, but my dramatic ass eventually realized that he wasn't returning. And it was cold as hell that night.

Once I entered the room, Tyler was already in bed, and it was evident that the night had come to an end. I joined him in bed, realizing he wasn't asleep. Up until that point, we hadn't been intimate for a considerable period, maintaining a boundary because we both desired our friendship to remain just that. However, that night, a certain feeling lingered, and it seemed like crossing that line was a possibility. I slept on my stomach, sensing his hand close by, and as surreal as it may sound, I found myself hoping for another chance at whatever undefined connection we shared. At that time, few understood the depth of my feelings for him, and honestly, I wasn't entirely sure how I felt either, but I knew it surpassed mere friendship. Despite the lingering possibilities, nothing transpired, leaving me with memories and the unexplored potential of what could have been.

As his time in New York was coming to an end, his friend arrived to pick us up so that we could drop him off at the airport. We keekee about our weekend together, laughing at the previous night, as we were definitely a bit tipsy. Upon reaching the airport, we exchanged hugs, and he unexpectedly said, I love you. I believed him, recognizing it wasn't a declaration of romantic love but a genuine affection for someone you deeply care about. It caught me off guard because, despite always sensing his feelings, I had never heard him express it verbally in those three words. However, my intuitive sense kicked in, telling me this would be the final time we'd share this space. Despite the realization, I responded with an I love you too, knowing deep down that, for us, those words would remain just that—mere words.

On my way home, I found myself reflecting on the weekend, and a recurring question lingered: How did Tyler and I end up here?

Love you deep,

Eboné

For The Love of Money

Dear Lover,

If you've been on this journey with me during our PHG ride, you might be wondering whatever happened to the retreat. I never thought I'd share this story for two compelling reasons: first, the deep sense of embarrassment it invokes, and second, the profound shame it once carried. This experience has been a substantial learning curve, shedding light not only on myself but also on my complex relationship with money. It often felt like I was in a perpetual state of financial scarcity, and despite my awareness of the power of mindset, it genuinely seemed like I was robbing Peter, Paulette, and Patricia just to pay goddamn Paul. Then, an unexpected opportunity came my way, and I couldn't help but feel like I had stumbled upon a bit of luck, or so I thought.

Our paths intertwined when I stumbled upon Foxy's profile on Instagram while searching for a graphic designer. It was during a pivotal moment for The Professional Homegirl, transitioning from a blog to a podcast. Foxy came on board to assist, generously lending her skills to create graphics for my website and juice recipes (listen, I love a good juice okay!). In an instant, a connection sparked between us, fueled by our shared passion for entrepreneurship. The drive to leave our mark on the world united us, and it became evident that Foxy, who had been diligently grinding for quite some time (so she says, chile), saw this opportunity as a blessing, balancing the demands of parenthood and marriage with unwavering determination.

My curiosity was piqued when Foxy shared a lucrative business venture from her past that had generated an impressive $30,000 profit. During that period, influencers were collaborating with companies that oversaw the logistics, managing every aspect of the event, from securing the venue to coordinating talent and promotion. These collaborations often resulted in successful events, satisfied attendees, and profitable outcomes for all parties involved. You know my thirsty ass was feening to know more. In Foxy's case, she had partnered with a renowned hair stylist known for their wig expertise, which had led to her impressive earnings.

Foxy believed I could replicate this success with my own brand, and she proposed that we collaborate with well-known 'influencers' to create a retreat, set in Iceland at a luxurious hotel. Retreats were a trending venture among 'the girls,' and witnessing its success for others fueled my belief that it would be equally successful for us. I didn't fully understand it then, but now I can clearly see how this experience has highlighted the importance of refraining from comparisons because what might work for one person might not work well for another. Eventually, I was going to find out. Initially, I had reservations, given that The Professional Homegirl was still in its early stages. However, the prospect of earning a substantial amount of money was too enticing to resist.

We opted to collaborate with two influencers renowned in the business industry and well-regarded in their respective fields. The first was a shoe designer who garnered attention for herself by creating a buzz with a unique glass slipper. The second influencer was a widely recognized blogger who showcased individuals living a bomb lifestyle, someone I admired for her self-made success.

My excitement got the better of me, and without thoroughly investigating all the details, my focus remained solely on the prize - the money. So, we rolled up our sleeves and got to work. We divided the costs evenly, and I took on additional hours at my job to ensure the success of this event. Foxy managed the graphics for both the influencers and me, while I started promoting the event.

As the time approached for our influencers to promote the event on their social media platforms, the shoe designer made numerous posts. Unfortunately, despite our anticipation, these efforts didn't result in any sign-ups. We were particularly hopeful for the blogger's post, given her immense following, which at the time numbered in the millions. However, an unexpected setback occurred when her page was deleted, leaving us uncertain about its restoration and its potential to drive interest. Ultimately, her page was reinstated, but even with this development, it failed to attract any sign-ups. Another valuable lesson I learned is that men lie, women lie, and so do numbers.

At this point, I was filled with anxiety. Every last cent of my money had been invested in this retreat, and my financial well-being was hanging by a thread. Foxy seemed surprisingly composed, which left me slightly uneasy and annoyed. I couldn't help but wonder what she saw that I didn't. Her unwavering optimism contrasted with my intuition that this shit was a lost cause. I decided to give Foxy a call to discuss my thoughts of discontinuing the project. However, she didn't answer my calls, leaving me feeling frustrated and abandoned. It finally dawned on me: this bitch ghosted me! Just writing this shit gets me tight all over again lol.

Feeling cornered and not knowing how to proceed, I contacted the influencers to lay out the situation. I sought their understanding and requested some time to navigate the challenges, despite having contracts and deposits in place. Remind you, thousands of dollars were put down for the deposit for the hotel as well. To my surprise, the blogger responded with indifference, even requesting additional funds, a move that struck me as audacious. I chose not to respond and couldn’t stop thinking how this bitch had the nerve.

While I didn't anticipate them returning any deposits or offering assistance, I suppose I wanted them to grasp the severity of my predicament and perhaps extend a helping hand. After all, isn't that what sisterhood and women's empowerment are about—supporting each other in times of need? However, it struck me that sisterhood and women's empowerment take on unique forms for each of us. It became apparent that some individuals exploited this platform for their self-interest, revealing how trust and vulnerability within sisterhood could be manipulated.

One night, as I grappled with financial hardship and the profound loss of my Na-Na, I found myself on the rooftop's edge, consumed by unrelenting anger. It felt as though this anger had no end, and I questioned God, wondering why I had been brought into a world without the safety net that others seemed to enjoy. Why was I alone in the constant struggle, grinding through life and holding my breath? The weight of this anger became unbearable, and it pushed me to contemplate ending everything. In that darkest moment, my best friend stepped in, extending a lifeline of hope.

In the aftermath of that night, my emotional state remained fragile. The ongoing financial challenges and the burden of personal losses persisted, casting a lingering shadow over my life. The stark disparity between my aspirations and the harsh reality I confronted deepened the emotional toll. The retreat, initially envisioned as a symbol of financial triumph, had inadvertently transformed into a battleground for my emotional battles. When my roommate and I opted to go separate ways after our lease ended, the realization hit me that affording my own place was beyond my means. Each setback seemed to reverberate with the anger I had experienced on that rooftop, and the cumulative weight became nearly unbearable.

Facing financial hardship, I resolved to rent a room and gradually navigate my way out of adversity, a decision I ultimately succeeded in implementing. Operating without any external financial support, I grappled with internal anger and questioned my faith in God. However, amidst these struggles, I clung to an unyielding belief that everything would eventually align, driven by my unwavering faith in one undeniable truth—I believe in myself.

Fast forward to now, and I'm incredibly grateful for the lessons I learned during that retreat. It served as a pivotal moment in my life, teaching me a crucial lesson: to never compromise my principles, even when it may seem like a shortcut to success (BTW THERE ARE NO SHORTCUTS TO SUCCESS). I was so laser-focused on making money that I was willing to go against my own better judgment. However, this experience unveiled a profound reality to me – that not everything is as it seems, especially in the realm of social media.

Social media often presents a curated and distorted perception of people's lives and businesses. It's easy to be swayed by the illusion of grandeur and success that some portray. This retreat showed me the importance of not only staying true to my values but also approaching success with a critical and discerning eye. It's a reminder that genuine impact goes far beyond mere numbers and appearances.

This journey, with its twists and turns, led me to appreciate the value of authenticity and staying true to my convictions. While the retreat venture didn't unfold as planned, the personal growth and insights gained were invaluable. I emerged with a newfound understanding that true success encompasses not only financial prosperity but also integrity, genuine connections, and a commitment to one's principles. It's a testament to the resilience born from facing challenges head-on and the unwavering belief in oneself that can ultimately lead to a richer, more fulfilling success.

Moreover, this experience prompted a profound shift in my relationship with money. I realized that I had been living outside of my means, not taking money seriously, and treating it more as a convenience than a responsibility. It was a transformative moment, compelling me to view money as a powerful tool rather than a necessity. I had to stop blaming others for not teaching me better financial management and take accountability for my role in my many poor decisions.

Reflecting on my childhood, I recognized a pattern that contributed to my unhealthy relationship with money. My Na-Na, in her generosity, would often give me significant sums of money, even during my early years. Back then, I didn't fully comprehend the accessibility of asking for her financial support, unknowingly laying the foundation for an unhealthy dependency on money. I had grown so accustomed to having my Na-Na's support as a cushion that the realization hit me—someday, I would have to figure out my financial path independently. This awakening became a pivotal moment, prompting me to reevaluate my approach to money and foster a healthier and more responsible relationship with it.

This evolution marked a departure from the superficial pursuit of materialism to a more purposeful embrace of financial empowerment. It represented a journey from wanting to embody a "bad bitch" persona (I’m still a bad bitch okay!) to realizing that true liberation comes from leveraging financial resources to create genuine freedom—freedom to pursue passions, freedom to uplift others, and freedom to make a meaningful and lasting difference. This experience served as a poignant reminder that our relationship with money is an extension of our relationship with ourselves. It reflects our values, fears, and aspirations, and understanding this connection is a fundamental step in achieving financial peace.

Many of you may be curious about what happened to Foxy and those influencers. I'll be upfront and say that I haven't seen or heard from Foxy since she ghosted me. Believe me, a bitch was looking for her, but as I've grown and evolved, I've chosen to move forward because, as a wise woman once said, "you can never win when you're playing dirty." As for the influencers, in a strange way, I'm thankful for them, as they taught me that not everything that shimmers is gold, and that we're all playing the same game, just with different rules. This experience underscored the value of remaining true to my moral principles, as you never know which bridges may have been accidentally burned while forging your own path.

As I stand here today, sharing the highs and lows of my financial journey, I do so with a sense of vulnerability and strength. The scars from that ill-fated retreat venture have healed, but the lessons remain. They serve as a constant reminder that success isn't solely measured in dollars and cents. These experiences teach us that setbacks are not synonymous with failure; they are, in fact, stepping stones toward a more resilient and enlightened version of oneself—a version whose worth transcends any monetary value.

For those embarking on their own financial journey, I implore you to delve into the complexities of your relationship with money. This journey extends beyond budgets and bank statements; it's a journey into self-awareness and purpose. The significance of "For the Love of Money" goes beyond its surface; it unfolds as a narrative of love between oneself and the promise of a fulfilling life. The key to a richer, more meaningful existence lies in understanding the intricacies of this relationship.

Love,

Eboné