Confessions From Harlem: I Don’t Know What I’m Looking For


Last week, I got 7 hours of sleep, and this week, well, I told my boss, “I need a break, be back on the 12th.” This past weekend, I found myself laying in bed in my parent’s home thinking. At some point every year, I tell myself that I will move past and further away from those bitches Self-doubt, Self-neglect, and their big ugly sister, Anxiety. I tell myself to put some action behind my #carefreeblackgirl “I just wanna have fun” thoughts, because living in fear is kind of getting boring. But most importantly, I tell myself I will learn the art of not giving any fucks, because these goals of mine are far from conventional, and well, it might require a few risks and few head turning stunts to move them in the direction of completion.

I’m usually a go getter, you know, after multiple lectures to myself, and possibly a grown woman hissy fit centered around how this goal could absolutely and positively not work. I usually let the excitement of something new consume me, and then I runaway with it, well, after I do the pros and cons list of implementing it. I’m usually down for the project, the trip, the purchase, even after consulting my bank account, who always without a doubt replies, “Yetti, boo, what you doing?”

But it seems like lately I’m not reaching that point after the initial hump of defeat. I’m not experiencing the excitement of possibilities, or the butterflies that come with a positive change. I am not waking up to a do list of pushing myself closer to that one goal, and I’m certainly not sitting on the edge of my seat trying to stop myself from spilling the beans. I’m not following through with birthday plans, or the annual girl getaway weekend I plan every year. I’m sort of kind of numb. So numb, that in attempt to snap out of it, I dusted off my the DSLR camera that I’ve been avoiding for the last 6 months and made a video about it.

After take after take, I realized something no almost 28-year-old wants to admit: I’m not sure of what I am looking for in life. Yes, I have goals. Yes, there are tasks, and trips, and experiences I have planned for myself. But I’m honestly not sure where I want these roads to lead. My therapist says it’s tied to my perfectionism and the fact that I’m never satisfied with the accomplishments that I make. A few friends roll their eyes and chuck it up to me being an overachiever and my impatience of letting life unfold. But I think it’s a combination of all of the above with the added notion that somewhere in the back of my head, I’m still trying to fit the mold of a perfect, successful, black woman.

But does anyone know what the fuck that woman looks like?

Because sometimes to me, she’s a woman who dresses well, has a hard outer shell, with a success that rivals Oprah. Or sometimes she’s a fit and toned entrepreneur battling against a social stigma, while still fighting to remain strong yet approachable in a technical field dominated by white men. Sometimes, she’s a woman that wears her emotions on her sleeves, and doesn’t give a fuck what the world has to say about her switching career lanes, her untamable stretch marks, and her ever expanding thigh meat. And sometimes she’s simply Beyonce. Unattainable “King B” Beyonce.

Either or, I’ve lost my mojo, I’m not sure where my path fits in this world, and I think this post is my odd way of saying I’m trying to figure it out.

Happy Saturday!



One Comment

  1. Laughed out loud at “and their big ugly sister, Anxiety.” Lmao. Can’t wait for next live out loud videos 😉

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