The Return of the Lonely Black Girl

This is in part a confession: I’ve called myself lonely and I realized I haven’t been…

Always the lover. Always the friend. Always leaning on the moods and inclinations of others to determine my own. I was holding resentment for others when it was truly me who made the choice against self. I was sacrificing the time and energy I needed to decide for myself, for the sake of someone else’s comfort or desire. Being flexible and easygoing doesn’t work when it goes against your own needs. Even when loneliness beckons at the door, it will always be me that I need. Me, that I tend to over all else. 

This is in part an intention to move past the fear. Not just in my personal relationships, but in professional relationships as well. It is a return to ambition and freedom. It is a giving of permission to do just want I wanted.

I know now that the chaos of the past year requires, in me, a new kind of purposefulness. Last year, I spent as much time as I could in introspection, asking myself why. I couldn’t afford therapy and I didn’t have the courage to articulate to anyone else besides myself. So I sat in stillness, brokered by an international pandemic, interrogating my triggers and impulses, slowing down my muscle memory to its core imperative, helping me to root out what it was that has actually been driving me.

Shockingly the fear of being alone has driven so much of my decisions. Too many times have a remained silent, left something unchecked, gone with the safe choice, relinquished control, driving my head into the sand for fear. And of the handful of times where I hadn’t let fear stop me, it’s been because I was backed into a corner and given no other way out. This fear has eroded my confidence, my peace, and my power. I have been so lost and avoidant that I hardly knew what I wanted anymore.

I think of Issa, in Season 4 of Insecure, where she confesses her crossroads to her mother, having a feeling of having her hand in too many pots. Like Issa, my parents afforded me every opportunity they could: from piano recitals, to ballet rehearsals, to golf lessons. I even recall my dad sharing that he’d given me an androgynous name to offer me a leg up in the world, knowing that Black women so often struggle to have twice the talent and half the opportunity. Even still, I’ve had all of this exposure and relative success in everything I’ve done without really going after anything with intention and being a master of none. I’d been so lost in a maze of elder expectations and contemporary comparisons that I had no idea what I wanted.

So to the girl with her hand in too many pots, I moved on to asking myself, “What do you want? At first, I couldn’t answer. Or maybe I wouldn’t let myself feel that free. I choked on the idea of only having me to account for. Who would I be without a parent’s instruction, a friend’s examples, and a lover’s expectations?

This is (at last) a dedication. This is the rebirth of self. The rebirth of the lonely Black girl. It is a reminder that alone isn’t doom. It’s the discovery and pioneering of joy in isolation.

I am an island. Lush, green, and wondrous by design.