I am still recovering.

There's a massive stone wall, with a moat, and a tiny drawbridge encasing my heart. You know, the kind in fairytales where the knight in shining armor has to go rescue the princess.

Except this isn't a fairytale. And my knight can grow weary. I'm screwing this up.

I could hear the sniffles in the room across the hall, a whimper, and the sound of pain. I knew there were tears, and I debated whether to intervene.

It was bed time and six-year-old's have a special way of finagling their way from under those covers for just one last thing. But, the tug at my heart knew this was something worth pulling my second heartbeat back into my room. I called out for him, "Abram...come here."

And he shuffled in, shoulders heavy, the weight of the world a child didn't deserve to have. I asked him what was wrong. He sighed, tiny gasps of air between tears. No answer.

I prodded, "you can tell me."

​He couldn't get the words out, and then inaudible sounds and he sank to the floor.

I'm sitting on an offer I've been waiting five years to hear.

At first I'd written this long sappy post detailing how I'd gotten to this point, but I know you all too well. You don't want to hear it, at least not today.

When I came to Florida, my heart was set on moving up within the station. At the time I was hired on as a reporter/fill-in anchor. I'd prayed that opportunities would come up that would give me a chance to step into a full-time anchor role. They did. I was passed over every single time.

At this point, between divorce, custody battles, financial difficulties, everything had fallen apart, and now my job too. To say I was frustrated, would be an understatement. I'd moved 1,300 miles away to watch my life crash and burn before my eyes.

At work.

​I could feel the heat rising in my chest, to my face, if I was any lighter. the rose color would flush across my cheeks, exposing the vulnerability I felt in that moment.

I held back tears.

For far too long, my wheels have been spinning in my career. I know, my life looks glamorous to most, success has seemed continuous, and certainly I have made moves that some would envy. But, secretly I've stalled, in positions that ultimately, I do not love, and where my gifts have not fully flourished as I know they can. I've felt perpetual anxiety...how come they do not see me?

Again, I'd been passed up.

Friday night, I'm talking to my friend Jazmin Bailey. We both work grueling morning hours, a 3:00 am call time at our jobs in news, but we were set on attending an event to empower us both after shift. We made the trek about 40 minutes away to Disney for a Black Enterprise: Women of Power conference, and had a blast.

During our ride Jazmin shared with me God's dealing with her on obedience and trust, and his wanting to bless her. She kept bringing up the amount  $100 and how he showed it to her several different ways. Literally, mid sentence, a friend randomly cash apps me $100. I tell her, and we got a good faith laugh out of that. Meanwhile, deep down I'd been having my own struggles with trusting God and whether he would really provide financially, as well as other ways. I said a prayer for my friend, who I was more than gracious sent the money, and moved on.

Fast forward to later in the night, and after being up about 23 hours...on the way home, I fell asleep while driving, one block from my subdivision. It was sudden, and quite frankly, terrifying. 

I walked out of Black Panther feeling the power of the ancestors pulsating through my veins. It was a reminder of our resiliency, our greatness, our POWER.

However, I couldn't help but feel the pang of sadness, when the narratives got too close to my own reality, as a black woman, as an American. The feeling that we don't belong, and are not wanted. The longing for a home untouched by oppressors.

It happened when we first got into the car, my 8-year-old, still hyped from the film, asked in amazement, "is that place real?" And I didn't want to break her heart, because mine had already been broken a couple years prior.

I remember what it felt like to be on government assistance, walking in bleak offices with raggedy chairs. The faces staring up at me, sometimes from behind plex-glass, weren't always friendly.

"Next," a woman would yell from behind the glass. I had a name, but did it really matter? Just another black girl using the system. Those workers always looked tired, their attitude reflected that. Conversations short. They wanted my info. They wanted to be done.

Honestly, I have an amazingly smart, responsible daughter.

This week I have been deathly tired, I mean TIRED, on top of that I've had a daily headache, and feel like that eclipse might have screwed with me. Anyone else?

Anyway, my 8-year-old came home Wednesday, cleaned up her room, did her homework without my telling her. I left Abram asleep on the couch and went to my room for a bit, next thing I know, she's walked him up the stairs, put him in the bed, closed the garage, turned off all the lights, plus brought me Advil and a drink (at my request). She'll also run Abram's bathwater, no problem, and is just great overall help. And this isn't a one day thing, she's consistently this way.

I could not have asked for a more mature, kind child. She just has a big heart and has made my transitioning to being alone with them so much easier.