One year ago, today, I started this blog. A whole year. 365 days. 52 weeks, 26 paychecks. And I am still here. I used to dream of having my voice heard by strangers. And look at me. The girl with stage fright–the girl who hates attention–is speaking out. I haven’t posted as often as I would have liked to but self forgiveness is the key to moving forward to a better future. I have spent this past year finding my voice and what is that I am passionate about speaking on. In the beginning this blog was about me sharing my story in hopes that others would find the same burning strength that I do through words.
But, if you’ve followed me on this journey, you’ll see that Finding Fenix has been more than just my story. There have been book reviews, author Q and A’s, political views, shared experiences, and topics about what it means to be a black woman in America. Originally, when I was starting my blog, I wanted to call it Phoenix Tears. At the time, I was (and still am) writing a memoir of what would have been the same title. I wanted to promote myself. What better way to become known than a blog? It hasn’t been that simple.
I decided that Phoenix Tears was a little depressing and not catchy enough. I needed a gimmick so that people would remember me. Thus, Finding Fenix was born. And, to my surprise, this last year really has been about me finding myself all over again. Finding Fenix could not have been a more perfect title for my blog.
I am incredibly proud of myself for stepping out of my comfort zone and taking the first steps to put myself out there. I am humbled that 534 people took the time to view my site and read my content. This number might be small now, but this is just the beginning. I want to expand Finding Fenix. I want to brand it.
There will be more content, and more consistent posting from this day forward. Ambition without a plan is just a dream. I’m awake, now. I have so much more to say and I want to share it with all of you.
Thank you for flying on this journey with me. Flame on.
When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.
– Maya Angelou
I’m sure we’ve all heard the term “actions speak louder than words.” And in most cases, this is true. But there have been times in my life where someone’s words showed me who they really were. That old saying “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me…”—not true. Words can hurt—but ONLY if we allow them to have power over us. I have learned this the hard way. Too many times, I gave second, third, and 15th chances to someone who couldn’t stand by their word or spoke any sort of negativity towards me. I held onto “friendships” or the “family” that I thought I needed because that’s how I thought things had to be. I was too afraid to be alone but even more afraid of losing the people who I would die for—even knowing that they wouldn’t die for me. What sense does that make? None.
It has taken me a long time to accept the fact that we as human beings are supposed to make mistakes. Some of us learn from them, some of us don’t. It has also taken me a long time to figure out that everyone has a different definition of friendship. Some of us take the word more seriously, but there are also those of us who throw it around with ease and consider everyone a friend. Many years of being bullied, lied to, and taken advantage of have shown me that everyone is not my friend. To be a friend to me is to love, to support, to reach out, to be the light between oceans in the darkness even if I can’t see the light yet. A friend is supposed to be family. For me, a friend isn’t someone I make jokes with–I can laugh with anyone. But a friend is someone I trust–and because of my past there are few people I trust. To know me is to love me and I don’t see the point in opening up my heart to everyone I meet.
I have–or had– people in my life who I love with all my heart but there aren’t at my stage in life yet so they can’t understand or even empathize my pain or the talk about the things I believe to be important. I don’t fault them for that–that’s life. I tried for sometime to continue reaching out to them but we just don’t click. I wish that we could make the friendship work because I believe that somewhere inside of them they feel the same way. But life just sucks sometimes. It’s the way it works. There have just been to many “I’ll call yous” or “let’s get together sometimes.” Too many let downs. Too many chances at fostering a relationship that might not even mean as much to the other party.
The same goes for my family. I have always said that blood makes you related but it does NOT make you a FAMILY. As I’ve said before, friends can be family. When I was younger, I had a family. We were close. We did everything for each other. But as we’ve gotten older and with my Grandparents being gone–we’ve faded away. I was mentally depressed and physically sick over the fact that I was alone. Because the image of what a family is was destroyed after my Grandparents passed away. I kept trying to reach out to my relatives. But no one ever came to my rescue. It took me too many chances to figure out that I was wasting my energy hoping and wishing for something that just wouldn’t be.
I’m not saying not to trust people or not to have friends. I’m not saying that at all. But what I am saying is that we have to be careful with who we give our energy to. Energy is everything. Energy is how we get out of bed and face the world each day. When you work as much as I do, you don’t have energy to waste. Everything in life is a choice. You just have to decide for yourself which path is right for you. For me, keeping my circle small has been a blessing in disguise. And all this time I thought it was a curse.
There are plenty of kids who grow up in the world without knowing one or both of their biological parents—for whatever reason. I didn’t grow up in the system like most of these kids but I could have easily ended up like one of them. If it were not for my grandparents, I’m not sure where I would be. I’m not confident that I could say I would be the person I am today. There were a lot of times where I wanted to make bad decisions (to fit in really) but I didn’t because I was scared to death of what my Grandparents would think about it, what they would do, and how I would be punished.
When I was really young, I didn’t know anything else but my grandparents. I mean, I knew that it wasn’t “normal” to not live with your “real” mom and dad but I still didn’t see what was so special about living with my grandparents. I can remember so many times where I cried alone in my bedroom about not having my mom around. And many more times I cried for the father I could barely remember. The father I knew more through family anecdotes than through actual human interaction. Being a kid is hard enough and having to navigate my way through conversations proved more to be awkward and difficult. I was always having to explain that “my mom died when I was two” or that “I don’t know my real dad.” As the years went on it got to be too much the more I began to understand the process of death, grief, and loss. Eventually Mama and Pop Pop (my Grandparents) became Mom and Dad. I can’t remember exactly when I started calling them Mom and Dad. But I remember that it was seamless, natural. It didn’t feel like a lie. It made it easier to talk to people about them. No one ever asked about my “real” parents unless I slipped and said Grandma or Granddad. Those slips didn’t happen often. I was free.
My mother died at the young age of 26 due to breast cancer. My father walked out of my life leaving behind empty promises. On several occasions. So my Grandparents raised me. Fed me. Bathed me. Walked me to school. Whooped my behind when I needed it. Nursed me when I was sick. I won’t lie—there were times I took advantage of the fact that they thought of me as an extension of their deceased daughter. They spoiled me. My Granddad introduced me to people as his “Heart.” His eyes would do this sparkly thing and he would grin so hard his dentures would slide around in his mouth. My Grandmother—she clothed me with Grace and kissed my forehead. She cooked for me and braided my hair. She gave me advice. I was her baby.
I can’t imagine what it was like for my Grandparents to raise me. How it felt to look into the face of their youngest child every day long after she passed away. I can’t properly describe the abundance of mixed emotions they had to have felt. Perhaps they felt that I was their second chance. Maybe sometimes they thought I would never live up to the legacy my mother left. Maybe even sometimes—though they would never admit it—I was a burden. They were in their Golden Years still raising kids. I’m a coward and never got the chance to ask them.
Deep in my heart, I know the answers to my own questions, though. They loved me so fiercely that it didn’t matter if I wasn’t perfect. They loved my Mother so much that they promised her—on her deathbed—that they would raise me the same way they raised her. Their love for me was so inhumanly enormous that they didn’t get tired of chasing after me. Their bones hurt, and they were chronically ill; but their Love outshined any physical pain they felt in their bodies.
They were more than grandparents—they were my parents. Mom and Dad. My Heart and Soul. They did everything they could for me. And I know now—years later—how much it must have hurt them to not be able to give me world because my Mother was gone. Not many people can say that they have experienced unconditional love. I have. And I can honestly say that it is a lasting and solid flood of emotions.