But what is my value, really?

During a call with a potential client last week, I started to question myself. He had some legitimate questions about how I advise my clients and how I could help him reach his goals. But at some point during our brief chat, I started to question the value that I bring to my work.

I’ve felt this many times as a writer, but since writing is such a solitary activity, it kind of didn’t matter. I mean, I can write whatever I want—no one necessarily has to read it. If, at the end of the day, I’m writing for myself, then the value I bring to my work is measured by the level of entertained I am.

But I can’t help but think it’s different when you’re hyperaware of your external audience.

In my business, people pay me to advise them on building their businesses based on experience I have in investing in similar businesses. In writing, people pay me in their time to entertain them, to give them solace and a sense that they’re not alone.

Those are both heavy burdens to bear…

…If I choose to continue to see them that way.

Luckily, both before and after this conversation with that potential client, I spoke with my therapist and my life coach. (Yes, I have, in essence, two therapists in addition to Jesus because I need a lot of help becoming the person I want to be.) In a rare turn of events, they actually said the same thing, almost verbatim:

“The value you bring to your work is you.”

Which left me soothed and also scratching my head.

It is great to know that I don’t have to be someone else to serve my clients well or to make great art, but what are people getting when they get me?

I’m still not entirely sure if the answer to that, but it’s coming to me. I think it has something to do with the level of comfort I aim to have with myself: very high. People feel safe around those who are comfortable with themselves. Secure people can act as anchors for those around them. This is what I seek to be both as a writer and a financial services consultant.

My value is in being most authentically myself, which gives people the space to be authentically themselves. And that is priceless.

Celebrations & Revelations

I finished entering edits into my manuscript last Thursday. I saved the file as a PDF and emailed it to two literary agents who’d contacted me over the summer.

And then I celebrated.

I bought myself a nice lunch out on Thursday, at Magnolia Kitchen & Bar in Dupont Circle, where I had grilled salmon, quinoa risotto, and asparagus, along with a class of bubbly.

The celebrations continued Friday night, where I had dinner at Campono, a casual Italian place across from the Kennedy Center. Only a massive margherita pizza and a glass of Montepulciano could encapsulate my joyous mood. At the Kennedy Center, I enjoyed the National Symphony Orchestra’s celebration of Nat King Cole’s 100^th birthday, along with singers BeBe Winans and Eric Benet (who, I could feel, every Black person in the room looked upon with shade, as he is the one who had the gall to cheat on the most beautiful woman who ever lived, Halle Berry).

On Saturday, I did my devotional, and spent some time journaling. My life coach has been working on getting me to believe that there’s nothing wrong with me—which has been difficult for me to think, not to mention say. But on Saturday morning, I spent some time thinking about who the Bible says I am: a child of God, ransomed by Jesus the Savior. And I concluded that if only the blood of Jesus—God incarnate—was worth enough to pay for me, then I must be worthy and deserving of love. Then there must be nothing wrong with me. Hallelujah, the celebration continued!

Saturday afternoon, I had brunch with one of my good friends in town from NYC, Christine, at The Delegate. I had a huge plate of French toast, and a side of chicken sausage, for protein, as well as a mimosa. And Saturday night, the party continued at the Affairs of State gala, co-chaired by one of my good friends, Rachael. It was a chance to put on a cocktail dress, do some networking, and dance while taking advantage of the open bar.

And of course, I happen to run into a guy I dated briefly before I met my spouse.

At first, I panicked. I’m not a big fan of this guy—he called me an impostor to my face (well, in an email). To me, he represented the feeling that I am not enough. So, when I saw him, these feelings first came to the surface.

But then I stopped and thought about what I’d read earlier, this very true statement about me: If I was worth Jesus’ blood, then I am worthy of love.

On top of that, I’d finished writing my memoir. I started my own business a few months ago, and things are picking up. I am very happily married to a wonderful, intelligent, confident, secure man.

And so, I was able to exchange pleasantries with this person for the first time in over a decade. We wished each other well; I don’t know if he meant it, but I did.

I couldn’t think of a better way to cap off a celebration of one of the greatest achievements of my life—letting go hating someone because I, deep down, believed he was right about me. And now I choose to believe the truth: There is nothing wrong with me.

It’s My Birthday!: The Excitement, the Fear

It’s my birthday!

Actually, tomorrow is my birthday, but for the sake of this post, let’s just say it’s today!

I didn’t write a birthday post last year, but it was a pretty significant year—my Jesus year. No, it’s not a religious thing at all, it’s just that Jesus was murdered and turned the whole thing on its head when he was 33, so I believe there is a certain power in being that age.

My primary goal or focus for my Jesus year was to get some clarity—Jesus clearly knew what His purpose was, and He fulfilled it all at that relatively tender age. I knew I wouldn’t stumble upon my purpose and completely fulfill it, but I wanted some hint and to get the ball rolling in that direction.

I found that life tends to roll you in the directions you need to go in.

About a month after my birthday, I was invited to join the board of VONA, an organization that holds a special place in my heart as my first summer writing workshop, but is also a safe space for me and numerous writers of color. I knew it would be challenging, but I didn’t know how challenging or what kind of challenges. I’ve learned so much about how to maintain an organization’s finances as a part-time CFO and I gained a new confidence in my abilities. I joined a team after working in solitude for over two years. I had structured tasks that had to be completed by a certain time. Basically, I had a job; a volunteer one, but a job none the less.

Over the fall and winter, my spouse and I discussed the career ruts we’d found ourselves in. I wasn’t happy writing exclusively once the first draft of my memoir was done, and doing so much work for VONA made me see how much I missed doing right-brain work. My spouse wanted a new challenge and to have some clarity on his mobility. So, we started seeing a life coach. As woo-woo as the process was, it was helpful to clear the cobwebs: I could finally admit to myself and others what I wanted—to work with women and people of color who were starting their own private investment funds. So, I started my own business, from stinking scratch. My spouse got a new job as a partner at a law firm.

This summer, during my residency at Banff, I learned that I was essentially done with my memoir. Not just done with a draft, but done with the whole thing until an agent or editor tells me otherwise. What a relief.

So, you might say, in my Jesus year, I did stumble upon my purpose and at least start fulfilling it.

On my birthday, I’m usually filled with a combination of excitement and a tiny bit of fear: excitement because it’s a new year and a whole host of things to mature me even further are about to come, but that’s also what makes me a little afraid.

But if there’s anything my Jesus year taught me, it’s that clearing away the fears helps you move forward into a more honest, and happier, version of yourself. That’s all I can ask for.

47 Days of Sobriety Ahead

Happy Mardi Gras, all!

I was thinking this week about what I might give up for Lent, the 40 days (minus Sundays) before Easter. (Sundays are considered their own little resurrection day, even during the period, so fasting only has to happen the 40 days. And I’m guessing it’s 40 days to reflect the number of days Jesus was tempted in the wilderness by Satan before Jesus formally started his ministry…if I’m remembering that correctly.)

I’m not Catholic, so Lent isn’t a “requirement” for me, but I like to do it anyway. For the past couple of years, I haven’t given up anything, though, because I’ve been buffeted by the passing of time so much that Lent’s arrival always came as a surprise (it’s not the same day every year, like Christmas).

But this year, I’m 33—there’s something about this year that makes this Lenten season all the more important to me.

Jesus was 33 when he was crucified. So basically, he was the age I currently am, causing a ruckus by telling people to love each other and to pay their taxes [the only thing Jesus said that I take issue with] and by respecting women as humans and by being generally a nonviolent revolutionary (minus that whole turning tables over in the temple. But even that was because he was offended that they were selling things where women and Gentiles were trying to pray. Jesus was the original feminist/woke one.). And roughly 45 days from now he was killed because of it.

If you’re a consistent reader of this blog, you’re no stranger to my career-related existential crisis that began when I was 30, when I left my NYC finance job. As a result, I sometimes find it hard to believe that someone who would in today’s terms be defined as a Millennial spent three years changing the course of human history, the magnitude of which upset people so badly that he was executed for it. I can only ask, What on earth am I doing with my life?

I’m not God incarnate, as Jesus was, so I’m not putting that level of pressure on myself. But it is remarkable to think that someone my age was out there changing things.

I sometimes feel powerless at all the horrible going on in the world. I feel powerless to change the way I am perceived by society, white men in particular. And so, to cope with these feelings, I do things like lift weights (the heavier the better), go to spin class, write, go to therapy. But I also indulge, mostly in wine and cocktails.

So, this year, I am giving up alcohol for Lent, in recognition that I lean on it a bit too much for a feeling of peace, or something close to it.

I gave up alcohol for Lent ten years ago, in 2009. I was 23, had just started a new job, and felt that I was on the cusp of a new type of life. It was really hard not drinking for 40 days; my friends and I went out a lot in our 20s. But it was during that period that I met my spouse, who’d also given up alcohol for Lent. It really was the start a new era for me.

I can’t say that I feel that way now, but I want to. I want to make the shift from writing back to full-time work. My spouse and I are interested in becoming parents at some point in the near future. I’m still working on my book. I’m still on the ground of the pending upslope, if that makes sense, and I want to be prepared for the ride.

So tonight, I’ll have a nice cocktail, then that’ll be it. It will more challenging this time than it was at 23 because now I attend writerly functions, including AWP, which involves lots of parties and free drinks. But I’ll stand my ground, rooting myself in sacrifice, honoring the one I’m trying to be like, the one who turned the world upside down at tender age of 33.

What are you thankful for this year?

It’s that time of year again, folks!

Thanksgiving is on Thursday, which means it’s that time of year to think about all of the things I have taken for granted and actually thank the Lord for them. So here goes:

I am thankful for:

• My spouse, who, despite my being one of the most difficult people I’ve ever encountered, insists upon loving me anyway. I am thankful for his calm demeanor; even though I’m frequently annoyed that nothing ruffles his feathers, I thank God for his disposition. That serenity has gotten us through a lot in 6.5 years of marriage.
• My family. Even though I live far away and sometimes feel a little disconnected, they always find some kind of way to make me laugh.
• My writing community. I can’t tell you how much going to conferences and meeting all of these amazing people over the past two years has meant to me (actually, I have told you, here, here, here, here, here, and here).
• My writing teachers, who I think of as a step above my community overall; the women (and one man! I have my first male writing teacher now!) who taught my workshops shaped my writing in ways I could not have even imagined. I hope to thank them formally in my book one day soon: Blaise Kearsely, Kelly Caldwell, Michele Filgate, Rebecca Makkai, Jac Jemc, Stacy Pershall, Laura Goode (who was for pitching, not writing, but gave me a boost anyway), Bill O’Sullivan, Reyna Grande, Anne Helen Petersen, Lisa Page, Julie Buntin, Dana Johnson, and Emily Raboteau.
• My church and my church fam, both in NYC and DC. National Community Church and Hillsong NYC have played immeasurable roles in my development as a Christian and a human, and I am eternally grateful.
• My friends, from networking acquaintances to ride-or-die broads who’ve known me for years and years and years. Without them, I could not make a good life decision.
• Jesus, without whom I would have zippo peace, joy, wisdom, or hope. Even though that last one flags a lot these days, He is quick to remind me that He is all that I need, even when it feels that the world is ending.

Take a minute to think about what you’re grateful for this week. It really helps lifts the spirits!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

What I’m Thankful For

Thanksgiving is on Thursday, so there’s no better time to contemplate the things we’re grateful for. Here’s my list. (Be sure to take some time out to thank your family and friends for supporting you and wishing you well this week!)

I’m thankful for Jesus, without whom I would be much more lost and anxious than I am.

I’m thankful for my mom, without whom I would have no life.

I’m thankful for Georgetown, without which I would have no spouse. Jk. I’m thankful for Georgetown because it proved to me that the world is larger than I ever thought it could be, then showed me that it was smaller than I thought it was.

I’m thankful for my spouse, who is loving and supportive, even when I’m not.

I’m thankful for my home, which has given me plenty of headaches in the past 3 months, but has made me feel comfortable.

I’m thankful for the opportunity to do the thing I always dreamed of doing, which is writing whatever I want as my job.

I’m thankful for nonfiction essays, which challenge me to think outside of myself and consider the world and people around me.

I’m thankful for Blaise Kearsley and Michele Filgate, who changed my life by encouraging me to submit my first essay and by teaching me to make them better, respectively.

I’m thankful for my family, who is letting me tell some of our business in a book.

I’m thankful for my friends, who entertain me and remind me of who I am when I doubt my abilities.

I’m thankful for Washington, DC, the city where I have felt the strongest sense of belonging since I first stepped on its ground at age 16.

I’m thankful for my terrible work experience in New York, without which I would not have the low tolerance for gaslighting and workplace bullying that I have now.

I’m thankful for my dad, without whom I would have no life and no stories of resilience and perseverance to tell.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Father’s Day, Jesus!

For today’s post, I will lead you to an essay I wrote and published on Medium. Please click to read! Father’s Day has always been a tough nugget for me, and, truth be told, the one holiday that’s passed since my father passed away in late 2015 was a little easier. We’ll see how I do this year.

But, on Sunday, I head to Philadelphia for the Voices of Our Nation summer writing workshop, about which I am THRILLED. If you don’t see a blog post from me next week, it’s because I’m overwhelmed and delighted by the goings-on of the workshop. Have a great week, and Happy Father’s Day, dads!

How I Survived My College Reunion

Sometime last year, after reading sensationalized, click-bait style essays on Thought Catalog and XOJane, I drafted my own, which I titled, “Going to Georgetown ruined my relationship with my family.” Which isn’t true.

—

This past weekend was my 10-year college reunion. Since I now live in DC, I took the bus or a Lyft to the tent parties held on campus to see people I hadn’t seen in that many years, or more. I was anxious to the point of abdominal bloating, which is really not helpful when you want to show off all the time you’ve spent holding minute-long planks over the past couple of years.

And those who know me even an iota know that I did not enjoy my time at Georgetown while I was there (the first or the second time). Undergrad was, by far, the hardest four years of my life, due to a bunch of factors, but mostly academic rigor that I wasn’t used to and socioeconomic weirdness.

The moment I stepped onto campus in August 2003, I knew that I was different from damn near everyone else there. I was poor. I was raised by my mom with little contact from my dad by the time I went to college. I would have to work while I was in school. I would not travel for spring break. I shopped at the Gap, not BCBG, and I only bought things on clearance because I couldn’t afford even sale prices. On top of that, I was Black.

The combination of everything I listed in the previous paragraph made me feel like the elephant in every single room I entered (though not physically: white girls still complimented me on how skinny I was, something that had been happening to me since eighth grade, and something that Black girls virtually never did or do). I was uncomfortable to a magnitude I didn’t know was possible for four years straight.

BUT.

I would do it all over again. Every single anxiety-ridden, self-questioning moment.

Why?

Because I was finally outside of my comfort zone, in a place where I had figure out who I was and where I wanted to belong because no one was there to tell me.

I was put off by the preppy lifestyle because I didn’t have the money to sustain it and it felt inauthentic, even in those who lived it every day of their lives. It seemed that most of them were hiding something; nothing crazy, most likely just dissatisfaction or unhappiness of some kind, neither of which I wanted. They were also not attracted to me, likely because we had so little in common.

I didn’t really fit in with many of the Black students in my class, either, though I’d been struggling with that since elementary school. In college, I was too conservative and not militant enough and had put my ‘hood roots safely behind me in my personal history book. Rather than aiming to be as “black” as possible, I decided to do and believe what felt right to me, and that definitely caused some friction.

I found that I fit in with the people I’d always fit in with: the misfits. The theater kids, the international students who were venturing to America for the first time, the Christians who drank and partied and loved Jesus with all their hearts, the girls who had never had boyfriends, the boys who were trying to figure out if they liked girls or not, the literary bunch, the Library kids.

But the kids I wasn’t friends with influenced me powerfully. From them, I learned about Earl Grey tea, the Parisian department store Printemps, art history, and how to become an investor. Obviously, these new things were the ones that stood out most when I went home to North Carolina. Asking for a cup of Twinings Earl Grey in a house that only has Lipton can be awkward, as with any growing pain.

Georgetown helped expand my world, literally when it afforded me the opportunity to study abroad in the UK, and figuratively. It made me aware that I am a global citizen, not just one of my city, state, and country. When I thought I was being quartered, I was really just being stretched so I could reach beyond boundaries of differences with empathy. I am who I am, and I am a better version of who I am, because of Georgetown, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

I was anxious that I would be seen as a Wall Street failure who got an MBA, but left the industry and had time to write a book since she’s kept by her corporate lawyer husband. But more than one of my classmates told me that I was “impressive” for having written a book. They said that they were proud that I was in their class, representing them well. I was blown away by their positivity and encouragement. I know I’m not supposed to need validation, but, hey, I’m a Millennial and I need a bone thrown sometimes. It made me feel good to know that I had done something that even I wasn’t sure I could do, and that my classmates respected me for it. I just hope not to let them, or more importantly, myself, down as my editing and publishing journey resumes.

 

There’s no place like home.

—

But, for the next two weeks, I’m on break. I’m letting my memoir breathe, as we writers say; that is, I’m allowing myself some mental distance from my manuscript so I’ll be able to edit it with a more objective eye. I’ll still be writing, but I’m going to catch up on reading and journaling, and try to do as much of nothing as I can. We’ll see about that.

We Are All Horrible Human Beings

Last night, Rustin and I boarded the Metro after house hunting. We were discussing the house and trying to decide if we wanted to make an offer. It was a serious discussion, but we felt patient and lighthearted, and were having fun talking about it.

When we arrived at Union Station, an old homeless man got on the train, followed by several teenaged boys. The homeless man, who appeared to be either mentally ill or under the influence of something (maybe both), plopped into a seat with a clear trashbag full of clothes, leading me to believe he’d just left the hospital or shelter. The boys gathered in the seats around him, and one of them hovered over him, provoking him to hit him. The homeless man yelled so loudly for them to leave him alone that the whole train (which is usually pretty quiet in DC, one thing I love) went dead silent; earsplittingly silent aside from the screams of this homeless man to be left alone.

Since the whole train was looking at him, I thought the one boy standing over the man would get embarrassed and sit down. Instead, he taunted him more, even threatening the man’s life. The man pushed past him to sit in another seat, but the boy followed him, still mumbling provocations. Then, the boy punched the old homeless man in the head and nose until he bled. One of his friends took the man’s bag and opened it so all of his belongs fell on the floor of the train.

The other passengers huddled at the far end of the train, away from the crazy. We were supposed to get off at the next stop, and when we did, we called the cops to report what had just happened. The other passengers rushed into the next train car, and when I motioned with my hands for them to call the cops, too, none of them even looked my way.

As we walked, I told Rustin that it reminded me of a situation I was in once in high school. One of the kids who everyone knew was in Special Ed was sitting next to me on the bus home. One of the huge kids found it a good idea to start making fun of him and started punching him in the head as hard as he could. The boy was sitting right next to me, blow after blow falling on him, and I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to be associated with the “special” kid. I didn’t want the bully to say, “What? You like him or something?” So, I put my own piddling, insignificant social status above that kid’s safety.

I will never forget that moment because it showed me how horrible a human being I am. If any of us would allow that to happen to someone who is unable to defend themselves, we are all horrible.

When we got home last night, I remembered that it is Holy Week, the week in which Jesus was betrayed by one of his closest friends then executed, ultimately as penance for the sins of all humankind. I started praying and, as I did, my heart broke into a bagillion pieces. It broke for the old homeless man who could not defend himself. It broke for the boy beating him. It broke for the friends of the boy beating the man. It broke for the people who ran to the next train car at the next stop.

I wondered, how could we as a population have failed so many people? We’ve failed our poor. We’ve failed our youth. We failed ourselves, holding our own safety above that of another human being who is worth just as much as we are.

How could we as a society have let that boy get so calloused that he thought nothing of beating up a homeless person? Does he have nothing else to live for that he was so okay with going to jail, where he must know he will be treated unjustly as a young Black man?

How could we as a society have left that homeless man alone? He could have been killed and his blood would have been on all of our hands because we left him alone. Even if we didn’t jump on the boy who was beating him, there is so much strength in numbers that the man was safer with us there than in our absence. And we left him.

I repented for not doing anything more, for once again, holding my own safety more highly than another’s. I was again the 14 year-old-girl on the school bus, all the same at age 31. I pray that I actually become a better person instead of just talking about it.

There are no easy answers, and I know that I’m being hard on myself. I should—we all should. That’s the only way the world will change. That’s the only way the world will change, when we call out unacceptable behavior, including our own omissions.