Category: Medium

Every Day, I Am Growing into Who I Want To Be

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And I love this woman so much

Woman finding comfort. Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash
Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

I buy a few things that give me peace; fuzzy socks, The Light We Carry by Michelle Obama, amber, sandalwood, and lavender-scented candles, and sink into the first days of the new year losing pain and heartache, yet honoring grief.

A mourner does not need to discuss their mourning.

I take down the Christmas decorations before the 1st can whisper “goodbye,” and I feel complete relief. The space I missed is free of red and green colors and thistles from an aging artificial tree.

I have found my way into a friend’s heart who is a crush — who has found herself attached, too. She doesn’t want to be. I can tell. But here the two of us are — wading through unknown waters. And while I’ve been writing about and focused on her for a year and six months, she is succumbing.

I have a penchant for falling silent when I am angered. I do this to review what I should say — think about how I should approach the subject. She is the opposite — what comes to her at that moment is spouted and sprayed in your direction without warning.

A day chanced upon us and a rebuttal of hers had silenced me, which she’d recognized immediately when I did not return a response. My behavior placed her in a space to understand my silence as a warning — to embrace it as the moment of calm before a storm.

Others were witnesses — knowing her slight, she acknowledged my silence and advised them she needed to step away to check on me. Funny thing is, I’d been distracted. I moved to silence to take care of something else, but she now knows what triggers me — what causes me to shell up for just a bit before I make my presence known again.

Her birthday is coming up, and I made simple purchases; some things to brighten up her day. Nothing major. I love gift-giving on a budget. I love seeing the lives in my life circle the sun again.

I await the day I will share these with her.

Reflection has become my go-to maneuver for comfort

At this stage in my life, I reflect more. I find a comfortable space, sit back, read, then connect the stories of the books I have read with moments and events in my life.

It is an odd practice, yes, but it brings me the sustainability I have been seeking.

The dog, who is also aging, jumps into my lap and fetal-positions herself without my consent, and I allow her this peaceful display. I sip my choice of decaffeinated coffee and close my eyes.

“When will I move past the past?” “When will I allow myself permission to feel love again?” “How can I discern love and admiration from lust and temptation?”

I reflect to ensure I can still determine what is best for me. I reflect to ensure I can admit wrong and accept defeat. I reflect to ensure I will conquer my demons before they can stifle me into the pits of total despair.

Tradition no longer stimulates me

As I read through various posts on Instagram and WordPress, I noticed people who I follow sharing the vibes they wanted and the foods they intended to have for New Year’s Day. I tilted my head and whispered to myself, “I no longer crave tradition.”

I detest black-eyed peas, and I already had collard greens for Christmas. Cabbage had not been a craving, so I did not cook it, either. Instead, on the first day of the new year, I made barbecued chicken wings, steamed asparagus, and roasted red potatoes.

I did not invite a man to be the first person to walk through my door. I did not do laundry the day before or take the garbage out, either.

These things I did on the actual holiday, itself. I did them because I can — because they needed to be done — because when I did them; I wanted to.

Unbound to tradition or superstition, I still awakened with God-issued breath in my lungs on Monday, January 02, 2023.

I am growing as a plant-mom, and this warms my heart

I love my plants. I have a peace lily named Dora, a croton named Lyric, and a crossbreed aloe vera succulent named Jupiter.

I have shared a story or two where I mentioned them before, but I document their progress. I construct videos/reels via Instagram, and I share photos as well.

It is a thing of beauty to watch life take place before my eyes.

I am a witness to inescapable barriers of constant growth with these three, and it warms my heart.

I love this woman so much

Every day, I am growing into who I want to be, and the peace that comes along with this is indescribable. I no longer wait for anyone’s approval as it pertains to things I want to do for myself.

I do not seek anyone’s opinion on what I believe is best for me and my life.

I no longer search for love in the hearts of those who have not yet found it for themselves. Sometimes, this can be a hard one. With the crush, she’s here . . . I know she’s here, but deep down, I also know there is the impending possibility we will only be able to be friends. And for me, that is okay, too.

I cater to myself more fondly and with a passion, I could not conjure up for at least three years.

I love myself in the totality of the word “love”, and I imagine great things for my mind, body, and soul for the future ahead.

I am not the same person I used to be, and for this, I am eternally grateful.

Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.

At 4 am, She Calls for Comfort

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Musical Selection: Patti Labelle & Michael McDonald|On My Own

Part V: Learning to leave anger in the past

A woman standing on the porch with a mug in her hand. Photo by Candice Picard on Unsplash
Photo by Candice Picard on Unsplash

“How dare that son of a bitch put our daughter in the middle like this?! I hated him before, but now?! Rena, I could gut that fool. I’m so angry right now!”

“I know you are. But we have bigger fish to fry now. Bree isn’t mad at you. She isn’t mad at me. She is still open to making amends and being a part of your life again. Cari, that’s big. That’s huge! The universe will deal with Marcus.”

The universe and everything good and beautiful will deal with Marcus.

The morning light peeks in and kisses Cari gently on her cheek. I look at her as she sleeps — so peaceful. So calm. Last night had been an interesting turn of events. It was Marcus the whole time, behind the crazy ploy of me not attending Bree’s graduation. Why would he even think that would work?

“Good morning, beautiful.”

Cari turns to me, looks at me sheepishly, and smiles. She is full of sunshine and elegance. All the years of drugs and pain and torture seem to disappear when I look at her. Her beauty is everlasting.

“Good morning, my love. Are you ready for today? You are coming with me to get our tickets to Bree’s graduation, yes?”

The thickness of her Dutch accent clutches me — reels me in and takes me hostage. I had been thinking about this, and it seems like something she and Marcus should approach as Bree’s parents. I don’t think I should be there for this.

“I’ve been thinking about this, Cari. Marcus has already shown us how he feels about me. This — this entire issue needs resolving and I think you should go at this one alone. While you’re away, I’ll clean up, pack us a couple of light bags, and after the graduation is done, we’ll take a short trip away from these last few days.”

Cari sits up in my bed, raises herself on her elbows, cups my chin in her hands, and steals my heart yet again with her words.

“I won’t let him make me . . . us uncomfortable. Marcus is a baby in a man’s body with plenty of unsettled issues. I will do this alone . . . this time. If he crosses us again, I won’t do it alone. Understood?”

“I hear you and I understand.”

I watch Cari, as she leaves my place. Everything in me feels like shifting — like maybe I made the wrong decision to let her do this alone, but I won’t waver. I’m sure there will be other times we’ll have to stand toe to toe with Marcus and his antics.

When we first started dating, we had some serious knock-down drag-outs with him, and since then, it has been a blessing — learning to leave anger in the past. Learning to live my life with a more Zen-like approach to things rather than raging through it uncontrollably.

Cari may be recovering from drug and alcohol addiction, but I used to be full of anger — that was my drug. That was my nemesis. I gave it up four years ago with the help of counseling, yoga, and taking on more clients.

Bodywork is where I release. Knowing that I can provide a peaceful and tension-free experience for my clients gives me an incredible sense of purpose — an understanding of how important my work is.

Cari will be okay. She’s got this.

I hate that Rena won’t come with me, but I understand her stance on this. Marcus has always been sly and cunning. It wasn’t until we brought a child into this world that I opened — truly opened my eyes to who he was and how he handled life.

And I hated it.

He was not the man I wanted to raise my child with. He could not be who I wanted — who I needed. He lacked the emotional wherewithal to sustain life with me. And after our divorce, the drugs took over, and he had a field day turning our child against me.

As I approach his home, Bree rushes out to greet me. I park the car, ease myself out of it, and walk over to my child. I cannot believe how much she has grown — how lively she looks — how beautiful she is.

Every inch of my body is shaking. She pulls me into the tightest hug I have had in years, and I step back to look at her once again.

“Bree . . . baby girl, you are so beautiful. I am looking at me!”

“Haha. Dad says that all the time, ‘You look just like your mother.’ I think sometimes it angers him — the fact that I look so much like you. Where’s Rena?!”

“She decided it was best for me to come and do this alone. So, I am here by myself to get the tickets and speak to your daddy.”

“He isn’t here. He’s been gone since I woke up this morning — not answering his text messages, either. I kind of figured he’d do that. I told him you were coming to get the tickets.”

I let out an exasperated sigh. He knows there is unsettled business — feelings that I need to get off my chest regarding how he’d been manipulating our child. What a coward!

“Okay, Bree. I will talk to him. He will know how I feel and also how Rena feels about his actions. Let me get these tickets and head back to Rena’s place so we can get ourselves together.”

“Okay, Mom!”

I watch her skip off happily in front of me toward their home. We settle into their kitchen, and she retrieves the tickets from her purse. She confirms the money had been received via CashApp. I hug her tightly, tell her I’ll see her tomorrow, and I head back to Rena’s.

“You should have seen her, Rena — all bubbly and tall and gorgeous! God, the child is the spitting image of me!”

“Haha. You’re kidding, right?! Sabrina has always been the spitting image of you!”

“How have I not seen it before? Seriously, babe. She has my entire face!”

“She always had your entire face! She has your heart, too. I think and I fear, though — the more she’s around her dad, the more he’ll attempt to influence her.”

“And that is what I don’t want. I can’t wait to see her tomorrow in her cap and gown. She has been through a lot — I put her through a lot, but she still got good grades and is going to an exceptional university!”

“She’s a brilliant kid, and I can’t wait to see her continue to excel in life. I’m also looking forward to the two of you building a bond once again.”

We settle into the afternoon sun. The two of us sit peacefully on my balcony, sipping iced coffee, and eating danishes. I take one look at this woman — the woman I love — the woman I would lose myself for, and I feel tears escaping my eyes.

We have the rest of our lives ahead of us — working on who we were, who we need to be, and growing away from our past.

I love her without fail and I will always love her until I cannot.

“Cari,” I whisper lightly in her direction. “Will you move back in with me?”

And as I wait for the answer, the silence in the pause causes my heart to race. She pushes her body up from the chair, smiles slyly at me, and whispers right back . . .

“My love, I have always been here.”

This concludes the At 4 am, She Calls for Comfort series. Thank you for reading!

Need to catch up? Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV.

Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.

Patti Labelle & Michael McDonald, On My Own, ©1986 Geffen Records

The Transition to Microlocs and My Hair Journey in Phases

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Phase I: The beginning of microlocs and the end of 2022

A collage of the beginning of my microlocs transition. From the afro blowout to the grid, then plaits/braids, cornrows, and the finished product. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt & Akua Montgomery
A collage of the beginning of my microlocs transition. From the afro blowout to the grid, then plaits/braids, cornrows, and the finished product. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt & Akua Montgomery

I have wanted to dive into microlocs for at least three years, however, my stylist does not specialize in this genre of haircare. She can and will care for natural hair or hair in its natural state, but she cannot install, treat, coil, loc, or twist hair.

And since this is a journey I no longer wanted to place on hold to continue to be loyal to my stylist, I mentioned not having anyone to install my locs to my cousin, Akua, and my cousin stormed in to rescue me.

Ending 2022 this way is the best gift I can give myself, considering the bullshit this year brought my way. Now, I will sound off loudly and proudly, and on my terms.

Microlocs are an offshoot of dreadlocks. As the name suggests, they are tinier and a good option for anyone who wants to achieve a dreadlock look but would prefer to cut out the bulk. Deciding to get microlocs is a journey, with phases for each stage of hair growth. — Emilie Branch

Micro means exactly what the prefix states: small (exceptionally small). One does not simply jump from permed and chemically enhanced hair directly to natural hair or locs — the path is usually one many women (and some men) fight with themselves about.

I spent three months growing my permed hair out at the roots. There were no haircuts, no trimming, and no flat-ironing or processing of my hair of any kind. I was preparing for the arduous task of caring for my hair differently — naturally.

The questions I have heard many people ask when transitioning to locs are: “Will this work for me?” “Am I truly ready for this transition?” “How will I treat my hair afterward?” and “Will the loctician I find be the best match for me and my hair?”

I have asked myself every question mentioned above. I have tortured myself over these questions and wondered every single time I leaned into the thought of locking my hair . . . can I endure this?

I can. I did. I will. The photo you see above is a collage of a few snapshots taken by both me and my cousin on the first two days of this journey.

Stepping into a new phase of haircare

On Saturday, December 10, 2022, I began the transition to microlocs. Not only will this be a special day for me, but it is also one that my cousin and I will share, as she is the person who used her creative skills to make this happen.

What we, as Black women, do with our hair can invigorate us and start an entire movement with others. Most of us can be incredibly versatile with our hair and launch our crowns into various new styles that speak to who we are before we open our mouths.

I spent 8 hours (with 2 breaks) at her house sitting stoically in one of her dining room chairs as she began the grid pattern for my locs. The grid pattern is key because once this is parted and designed; there is no changing it. I knew I wanted clean, fine boxes in rows for my grid pattern. Knowing this, my cousin followed suit.

Microlocs grid pattern. Photo Credit: Akua Montgomery and Tremaine L. Loadholt
Microlocs grid pattern. Photo Credit: Akua Montgomery and Tremaine L. Loadholt

We completed all sections of my hair except one side in the back, which we finished on Sunday, December 11, 2022. This session took 5 hours (with 1 break).

I sat patiently, yearning to see each phase as my cousin completed it. She took photos so that there would be memories of this process. After she braided my hair into sections and the pattern was done, we moved toward cornrowing my hair to protect it.

Since I have had permed/processed hair almost all my life, growing out a permanent, chemically enhanced state takes longer than one can imagine. With that being said, in some sections, my ends would not plait completely to the end or stay braided. So, my cousin cornrowed each section, leaving the back out, but rubberbanded them to protect the ends.

Starter microlocs cornrowed protective state. Photo Credit: Akua Montgomery and Tremaine L. Loadholt
Starter microlocs cornrowed protective state. Photo Credit: Akua Montgomery and Tremaine L. Loadholt

And with the entire process completed and positioned, it is now my job to leave my hair alone for the next 6 weeks (or possibly more) to allow it to loc and take on its own look.

This is the part that is causing so much anxiety within me. I am eager to get to the fully microlocked stage; to flaunt my hair and lean into the beauty it possesses in a natural state.

But this is a process. This is a journey. There are paths that must be followed, adhered to, walked accordingly, and I am here for all of this!

Get it in a protective hairstyle and do not! Do not! Do not touch it until it’s washed and re-twisted. — Miss Kay Cee

2022, you have tried to knock me down, but I won’t stay down

I refused to allow this year to defeat me. From the very beginning, it has been one form of grief to another and another and another, and toward the end of this year, Jernee’s health began failing. At 14 years of age, this is to be expected.

We are now dealing with the decline of her kidneys, and I am moving through this loss as best as I can — the loss of a healthy, young, and in mostly good health dog. That part of our lives together is leaving — nearly gone, but I refuse to allow 2022 to take away the joyous occasions waiting in the wings for us.

We have many more memories to make — she still has a good amount of energy. And with my hair in starter locs, graying to perfection, and altered to the state I have envisioned for it for years, I am more confident in myself. I believe this will help me deal with the changes in Jernee, with my career, and whatever else God will pitch my way.

The finished product the next morning, Monday, December 12, 2022. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
The finished product the next morning, Monday, December 12, 2022. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

I decided not to let fear, loyalty, history, and complacency get the best of me toward the end of this year. And as time passes, I will continue to break out and break through some cruel happenings because . . . I am resilient, and I want so much for myself and for others, too.

Marking this event daily on my calendar as each day ends gives me so much joy. A smile crosses my face as I “X” out each day to signify another day’s end with starter locs that will eventually become microlocs.

The transition will probably not be a smooth one, but I am ready

This transition may not end up being all shits and giggles — laughs and happiness, but I am ready to endure it all. The gritty, the ugly stages, the OMG! what is my hair doing stages, and the OKAY! now, we’re getting somewhere stage.

I want to see what my hair can do. I also want to see what I will do as my hair sashays into a new phase.

Some people name their hair. I think this is a solid idea and can further build a connection between me and my hair as well . . . let’s be honest, we will both evolve during this process.

I will bring you along to share my story. This is the first installment of four articles devoted to my microlocs journey.

Ajá and I welcome you as we move from 2022 into the new year of 2023.

Originally published in An Injustice via Medium.

I Have Learned to Celebrate Who I Am

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An audio free verse poem

Photo by Rafael Sanfilippo on Unsplash
I Have Learned to Celebrate Who I Am

I am content in my skin — took
me some time to be able to
say this without flinching, but I
have finally arrived.

I love how my hips sway
uncontrollably to the sounds of
the music of my people.
I have fallen in love with
my sense of style, my overall
sassiness, and my lack of fear
regarding speaking my mind.

I am strong in my stature and
my thoughts and I am grateful
for my ancestors before me;
they did not think twice about
who they were and what they
offered this nation.

I am carved from unbreakable stone,
washed by overflowing healing waters,
and motivated by a tongue that can cut
you down to size if a debate is invited.

I am not an “Angry Black Woman,” I
simply get angry when you don’t
understand me or worse — you won’t
take the time to understand me.

I have centuries of pain loaded
onto my shoulders — the cross I bear
you will never be able to carry.
It is made for me and my strength.
I am walking the path designed for
where I have to go.

I have learned to celebrate who I am;
every facet, every curve, every minuscule
thought that crosses my mind — all of it.
And with this celebration of self, comes
celebration of my ancestry.

And there is a sense of pride in this
fact that can never be, won’t ever be
negated.

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

Checking In After Hours (Part V)

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Photo by Artem Labunsky on Unsplash

Flash Fiction: Arresting Tess

Topher Brocklin stood there, weary-eyed and unfocused on the serious issue building before him. Had he seen Tess or Daphne earlier at all? Did either of them clock in? He scratched his oily head as if to unearth the answer.

“Well, officer … I — I can’t says I have.”

“You can’t say or you don’t know, Topher. Topher Brocklin? Those are two different things, you know?”

“I mean … I don’t recall. I can’t remember.”

Tamara huffed out an exasperated sigh and just shook her head. The officers stood there, flummoxed by the situation unfolding right before them. And the strange old man cried.

Just as the first tear fell, the shadow reappeared.

Officers Bends and Dibbs direct Topher Brocklin to the motel’s lobby. With what could be Tess’s hair sample bagged and tagged, they needed to know where she lives. Topher shuffles his Oompa Loompa’d body back to the lobby hurriedly. The intensity of what could be a harsh issue for the motel settled in his system unwantedly. Officer Dibbs has the first words since they exited the family’s room.

“We gon’ run this to the lab — have the forensics team flush this out. Run it through the database and see if we get any hits. We need a sample of Tess’s hair — DNA purposes and all.”

Topher searches for his address book and lunges toward the desk phone.

“I think I should be the one to call her . . . I mean — I think . . . this could end up being a lot for her. She ain’t the brightest of the three, but I can’t imagine how torn up something like this would make her.”

Officers Dibbs and Bends stare at each other intently. Both think the same thing, but only one will say it. Bends begins . . .

“Now, Topher, if Tess is the one that’s got herself into this mess, how you reckon us confronting her with the possibility of committing this crime is going to be too much for her? If she’s our gal — I highly doubt that.”

“Tess couldn’t do something like this. Had it been Daphne’s hair, I’d probably lean toward an ‘Oh, I can see that,’ but Tess?! She is quieter than a church mouse — lives with her aunt, Hazel, and their three cats, attends Sunday service religiously — both of’em, and has never missed a day of work. I just . . . this ain’t her.”

Officers Dibbs and Bends get the green light from the lab — Tess Lynne Windermere is in their criminal database — but from fifteen years ago. An arson, second-degree charge from back in her high school days. A sample of Tess’s hair isn’t necessary now — they have their proof. The two officers zip over to Tess’s house to make the arrest.

Tamara and Dale say their goodbyes to Topher and they head up the road to find another place to rest for the duration of the night. It is 3:00 AM, and the children have been asleep in their car for the last two hours. The family has had their fill and wants to be done with this town and the creepiness within it.

Dibbs bangs on the door of Tess’s home. Outside are three squad cars, including theirs, and four other officers. Each of them stands armed and dangerous, yet scared shitless after hearing about the story and the weird shadow.

Tess’s Aunt Hazel is the first to wake up. She slips on her robe, slides her feet into her slippers, and shuffles quickly to the door. Tess isn’t too far behind her.

“Who is it?! This time of mornin’, ain’t nobody out but trouble or the devil or both. Ain’t nothing godly comin’ at my door at this time! Who is it?!”

Officers Dibbs and Bends shout in unison . . .

“This is the Bloomfield Police, ma’am. Open the door! We’re here for Tess Windermere!”

Aunt Hazel turns her head sheepishly toward her impish niece, sucks her teeth, and unbolts the door.

Dibbs flashes a shiny pair of handcuffs before her eyes as soon as the door opens. He fancies himself a wrangler of sorts with the small contraptions and is eager to slap them on Tess’s wrists. Bends announces the Miranda rights to the air as if he’s singing them as a celebration. Officer Dibbs clamps the handcuffs onto Tess’s hands and smiles sinisterly in her direction.

“You are under arrest for the murder of one Magda Kowalski. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

Tess looks around the room, stares into her aunt’s eyes — sighs heavily — cries into the thick air, “I knew you were comin’. I just didn’t know when.”

Officer Beau Dibbs and Officer Clive Bends escort Tess away from her home, each hanging on to one of her arms, the handcuffs clinging in sync with their footsteps.

The three of them headed toward the arresting officers’ squad car, and the entourage readied themselves to follow behind them.

Bends gently guides Tess into the backseat, checks the handcuffs one more time, and closes the door.

As he turns away from Tess, she winks at the shadow sitting next to her and smiles.

Originally published in Hinged.Press via Medium.

This completes the Checking In After Hours series. Need to catch up? Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV.Thank you for reading.

Meeting Family for the First Time

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Musical Selection: Kindred the Family Soul|All My People

I’ve known them for over two years and have never seen them

Photo of my plants: Dora, Jupiter, and our newcomer, Lyric. Photo collage credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Photo of my plants: Dora, Jupiter, and our newcomer, Lyric. Photo collage credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

On Saturday, December 03, 2022, I had the lovely opportunity to meet part of my work family. Yes, I said, “family.” I mean it. I’ve shared some harsh and intense days in radiology scheduling with these individuals.

We have a hard job — one that attempts to pummel us daily, but we all band together to provide support, guidance, understanding, and love to each other. I spend the bulk of my weekdays with them virtually (we work from home) and some of my Saturdays. These are my people. My family.

I have no shame in saying it. None at all.

Our direct supervisor has been trying to plan an outing for us to meet for what seems like forever, but this time, it happened. And I could not be happier.

BBQ can bring people together

One day, amidst a crazy scheduling day of the week, we all received an email including a poll on where we’d like to go and a selection of dates for when we’d like to meet.

Most of us chose yesterday and a city that is halfway between Winston-Salem and Charlotte, North Carolina. Our supervisor mentioned the barbeque spot, The Smoke Pit, and we were “all in for the win!”

This was my first outing to a restaurant to sit down and eat since before the pandemic began.

I was anxious. I was terrified. I almost backed out. But I am glad I did not.

My plate of food. Burned ends, fried okra, macaroni-n-cheese, and cornbread. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
My plate of food. Burned ends, fried okra, macaroni-n-cheese, and cornbread. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

When I arrived, only one of my team members was there. She was still sitting in her truck. I had questioned the restaurant staff about our party and no one had been inside or seated yet.

Anxiety continued to mount.

I knew everyone was on the way, but try telling that to my nerves. I decided not to pace in front of the establishment and walked over to my team member’s truck.

She had stated in our group’s text message she had already been there parked in the car lot. She was easy to spot.

We went in, grabbed a table, and waited for everyone else to arrive.

There is nothing like good food to usher in a good time. As you can see, the meal I had was not only picture-worthy, but it was satisfying as well.

Barbecue can do that. It has the power to bring people together.

Original abstract artwork by Lindilu Q, she’s also on Instagram. Photo collage by Tremaine L. Loadholt
Original abstract artwork by Lindilu Q, she’s also on Instagram. Photo collage by Tremaine L. Loadholt

Sharing smiles, games, and enjoying each other’s presence

Aside from the delicious food, there was a numbers game that included original paintings by one of my co-workers as gifts.

We did about three rounds of this game, and I took four different paintings home. I am going to give two of them to my mother (not pictured above).

We shared stories that involved incidents at work, how we feel about our new phone system, and missing supervisors and co-workers who have left us for other opportunities.

Our presence in this space drew attention from other customers, but we did not care. We had not seen each other or had congregated on this level in over two years, and having a blast was on the agenda.

A definite blast was had.

I conquered my fear, and it was worth it

For a little over two years, I had not sat down in a restaurant among other patrons to eat and enjoy a meal or conversation with anyone. I have placed orders with various eateries I love, selected the option for delivery or pickup, and casually went about my life.

I had a small meeting with one of my co-workers at a favorite coffee spot of mine nearly three months ago. Besides us, there were probably four to five other people in that small space. I also met up with Sherry Kappel for lunch at a spot that served patrons (and their dogs) outside a few months back as well. Neither was as overwhelming as this event nor did they send my nerves into overdrive.

This experience was a leap into something I now know I can do — I faced my fear of heading back into the “wild.”

And being with a group of people who I laugh, cry, and vent with every single workday was more than worth it.

Our supervisor not only paid for the holiday meet-up but also gave each of us a Croton houseplant (I’ve named mine “Lyric”), Christmas candy, and positive affirmations (at least 30 of them in a decorative jar). She showered us with love, just as she does every single day.

Sometimes family doesn’t have to have the same blood coursing through their veins as you. Sometimes family is who you choose and who chooses you.

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt

Kindred the Family Soul, All My People

Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.