The year is 2014. I have just completed some national examinations—I will not say which, at the risk of y’all placing my age— and I am on a binge-watching spree to pass time over the long holidays. I just got back from the movie shop owned by one Edu, who I have a mad crush on. That boy is handsome in at least three major towns. You see, you can be handsome in your hometown but not so much in another town. But Edu? Edu is handsome in more than three towns. Bet! I am armed with my movie for the day. Listen youngins—before Netflix was an app on people’s phones, we went to the movie store and got pirated films on CDs. A whole experience. There’s a bunch of geezers who got theirs on VCR tapes. Lol! Those ones, they fought in the MauMau. Si ni mimi nakushow.
Anyway, back to the story—I do have a wandering mind.
The film of choice for the evening is Beyond the Lights. That’s where I meet Noni Jean, a singer who performs Nina Simone’s Blackbird, and I fall in love with the song. I am an old soul, and Nina speaks to my heart like no other singer can. At some point in the film, Noni attempts to take her life by jumping off a hotel balcony—until a dashing police officer catches her. He reassures her before pulling her off the ledge. He tells her, “I see you.” Boom. A cultural moment is born.
And for the first time, I feel seen and heard.
Some scriptwriter, miles and miles away, envisioned this pain that I felt, penned it down, passed it to a film director, who brought it to life—and many miles later, there I was, hearing the words I so desperately needed to hear. There was comfort in knowing that my struggles were not alien.
Fast forward to last year, 2024. During a therapy session, I confessed to my therapist—a playful slay-grandma who smiles like the sun in Teletubbies—that I was struggling with loneliness. You see, I have a thriving community. I am surrounded by love most days. And yet, it was not enough. The loneliness was eating me alive. After some back-and-forth, Ms. Therapist informed me that I was not lonely.
I was unhappy.
In that moment, I wondered—is this woman smoking? Girl! I just walked you through my thought process and how I came to this conclusion! She looked at me knowingly, smiled, and waited.
“Teresa,” she said, “you have been unhappy for a long time. I don’t think you even realize it.”
Then she asked me to go back in time and find where I was stuck. And unstick myself. I deserved happiness, she said. Then she referred me to a psychiatrist. So I took a break from therapy. One year later, my therapist’s words still haunt me. And I am only now realizing that she was right. Hehehe. She was not smoking.
I don’t know when the realization hit me. Maybe it was when a friend casually mentioned that he was “seriously judging” the people I am attracted to. Maybe it was one of those random shower thoughts that make you sit on the floor like you’re in an R&B music video. Maybe it was during those moments when I take time to brood and stare into the distance, lost in thought. But the epiphany was profound. It came like a shock wave, shook me to my core, and left me rooted to my seat. For a moment, my mind went blank. A chill washed over me. Energy slipped away from my body like a slow puncture. Funny enough, this always happens when I have an emotional breakthrough.
And then, it hit me:
I have measured out my life in coffee cups.
Lately, my musings have been reduced to a stream of sentimental drivel. Because of all the ‘reflecting’ I have been doing. But you see, that’s a good thing. Because something new has to be born. You all should try it too. Keep a journal, stare into the distance, start a cult, dethrone a sitting president #MustGo, pack everything you own and retreat into a deep forest for a year, meditate, breathe slowly. Stuff like that is good for the soul.
For the longest time, I have lived my life with the boring cadence of a military routine. My house is like a bunker—a place where I keep my things, my supplies. Sometimes, I decorate it with flowers I pick from the field. This place I call my “safe space” has been a prison. A self-imposed exile. In trying to shield myself from the world, I have hurt myself more than the world ever could. I have watched my life pass me by while I pretended to live it. Given out my affection in teaspoons, in drops. Seldom allowed joy to come in—but religiously did my gratitude meditations. Seldom let loose—but never missed my Sunday yoga at the park. Preached a lot about solitude—but spent most of my time by myself, not with myself. You see, these mental health self-care activities we so eagerly take on to “heal” ourselves? Sometimes—not all the time—they are just crutches we use to avoid doing the real work. Until one day, you look up and realize that life has passed you by while you were out there chasing monsters.
Until recently, I hadn’t even been using my own words to describe myself. The way I spoke about my body, my identity, my essence—those were words handed to me by others. Or borrowed from someone else’s perception of me. One of my favorite pieces of writing, Black Liturgies, reminded me: Find the words for yourself. Find prayers for your body. And so now, I am experiencing me. I am looking in the mirror and naming what I see—in my own words. I am taking more pictures. I am writing more openly. No more gangsta lines. My best friend John says I gotta find my voice and use it. I am doing just that. I am speaking up more. I am letting my friends know when my social battery is dead and I just want to sit quietly in the corner—or go home. I am telling the barista that is not my correct order, and I would not like the muffin they are trying to upsell. I am telling my friend, who has not been putting in the work in our friendship, that the depth of our bond is moot. I am telling my mother that I love her, but it will take us time to have a healthy relationship. I am patient with myself. I am not running away when the conversations get emotional. I am saying yes to outings. So y’all better be calling me outside—the fun bus just picked me up!
Leaving the comfort of my bunker has not been easy. On most days, it feels like Brashear walking those 12 steps in Men of Honor. If you don’t remember the film—siwezi kukusaidia btw. But every day, I do it.
Every day, I show up.
Every day looks different. I am tearing down the walls I have built. For my sake. My well-being. Back in the day, I sang Blackbird for an awfully long time, much to my mother’s chagrin. Every morning, I woke up with that song on my lips.The lyrics were my life.
But right now?
Right now, my life is Nina Simone’s Feeling Good.
That is something.