Esthetic Principles

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When I was younger, I thought strength meant pushing through.

Pushing through the disappointment.

Pushing through the exhaustion.

Pushing through the heartbreak.

Pushing through the stress.

And sometimes there is value in perseverance.

But there is also wisdom in knowing when to stop, sit down, and acknowledge that something hurts.

Real strength is not pretending everything is fine.

Real strength is being honest enough to admit when you need care, support, rest, or a little extra tenderness from yourself.

There is nothing weak about that.

In fact, I think it takes tremendous courage.

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There are seasons in a woman's life when she becomes so focused on caring for others that she slowly disappears from her own story.

She knows everyone's favorite meal.

She remembers everyone's birthday.

She knows who needs encouragement, who needs help, and who needs a phone call.

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But somewhere along the way she forgets what brings her joy.

If that sounds familiar, I want you to spend some time with yourself this week.

Not your responsibilities.

Not your obligations.

Yourself.

Remember what makes you laugh. Remember what makes you curious. Remember what makes you feel alive.

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Lately I've found myself missing the preparations for Spring Spa House.

Not the facials.

Not the foot soaks.

Not even the linens.

I miss the ritual of getting ready for women to arrive.

I miss standing in my kitchen deciding what nourishing meal I would prepare. I miss setting out teacups and wondering which blend would meet someone exactly where she was. I miss fluffing pillows, folding towels, lighting candles, and creating a space that quietly said, "You can put your armor down here."

Every Saturday felt a little like preparing for company and a little like preparing for a sacred ceremony.

Women would arrive carrying all sorts of things.

Deadlines.

Caregiving responsibilities.

Career pressures.

Heartbreak.

Uncertainty.

Exhaustion.

And for a few hours, they could simply be.

No performance.

No proving.

No producing.

Just breathing.

I think that's what I miss most.

Creating a space where a woman didn't have to earn her rest.

As I've been reflecting on those Saturdays, I've realized that writing gives me a similar feeling.

When I sit down to write, I am still creating a space.

Instead of preparing a room, I'm preparing a page.

Instead of welcoming women through a front door, I'm welcoming them into a conversation.

Instead of offering tea, I am offering a thought, a memory, a question, or a story.

The intention is the same.

To remind women that they are worthy of care.

To remind women that slowing down is not laziness.

To remind women that their inner lives deserve attention too.

I've been sharing more of those reflections on my Substack lately, and in many ways it feels like an extension of Spring Spa House.

A different room.

The same invitation.

Come in.

Have a seat.

Stay awhile.

You don't have to rush through this space either.

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Black women are often taught how to persevere.

Very few of us are taught how to retreat.

How to leave the emails unanswered.

How to ignore the laundry.

How to postpone the obligations.

How to spend a day doing nothing more important than enjoying our own lives.

This isn't an adventure trip.

This is a retreat in the truest sense of the word.

A deliberate withdrawal from stress.

A temporary resignation from responsibility.

A brief and beautiful disappearance from the demands of everyday life.

And perhaps that's exactly what you've been needing.

Relax. Relate. Release.

Bio will take you there.

I wish more women understood that there is a difference between being admired and being well.

People may admire your accomplishments. They may compliment your career, your business, your home, your wardrobe, or the way you seem to have everything together.

What they cannot see is whether your spirit is tired.

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They cannot see whether you've been carrying burdens in silence.

They cannot see whether you've forgotten how to rest.

At the end of the day, none of those accomplishments can comfort you the way peace can.

Don't spend so much time building a beautiful life that you forget to build a beautiful relationship with yourself.

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One thing age has taught me is that your body will eventually tell the truth your mouth refuses to speak.

You can smile and say you're fine.

You can tell everyone you've got it under control, and you can convince yourself that you'll rest later, but your body keeps the score. It remembers the sleepless nights, the stress, the skipped meals, the worry, the grief, and the years spent putting yourself last.

Pay attention to what your body is telling you. It isn't trying to make life difficult; it's asking for your attention and your care. Listen while the whisper is still a whisper.

You cannot continue to pour from a cup that has been empty for years.

There comes a time when a woman must stop asking herself how much more she can carry and start asking herself what she needs.

The world will take as much as you are willing to give it. It is your responsibility to make sure there is enough left for you.

Take care of yourself. Not next month. Not after the next promotion. Not when things settle down.

Now.

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In that same speech class with Professor Gladys Nance, our final assignment was to deliver a three-minute speech about ourselves.

Most people spoke about who they were.

I spoke about who I might become.

Being the dramatic and imaginative person that I was, I decided to deliver my speech "as if."

As if I had already won the Nobel Peace Prize.

As if I had become a writer whose words mattered.

As if the essays I had written had helped people see one another more clearly.

I don't remember every detail of the speech now. Time has softened some of the edges. But I remember the central theme.

I was fascinated by humanity.

I was fascinated by the way people decide who is worthy of kindness.

I was fascinated by what it meant to move through the world as a Black girl from Alabama, carrying identities that often made other people underestimate you before you ever opened your mouth.

I was interested in race.

I was interested in belonging.

I was interested in the invisible hierarchies we create and the ways people chase acceptance, approval, status, and proximity to power.

Most of all, I was interested in people.

Looking back, I realize that speech wasn't fiction at all.

It was a glimpse.

Long before I called myself a writer, I was writing.

Long before I understood wellness, I was studying what happens when people are denied dignity, rest, compassion, and the freedom to be fully themselves.

And perhaps that's why writing still feels so sacred to me today.

Writing gives us permission to examine our lives.

To ask harder questions.

To tell the truth.

To leave a record that we were here.

The young woman standing in Professor Nance's classroom could not have imagined all the places life would take her. But she knew one thing with certainty:

Words matter.

They always have.

I've been sharing more of those words over on Substack lately. If you've ever dreamed of writing your story, or if you've spent your life quietly observing the world around you, I hope you'll join me there.

Sometimes the life you're meant to live first appears in your imagination.

Years later, you discover you were writing your own prophecy.

Sweetheart, I know you're busy.

I know there are people depending on you. I know there are bills to pay, meetings to attend, calls to return, and responsibilities that seem to multiply overnight. I know that sometimes it feels as though everyone gets a piece of you before you've had a chance to give anything to yourself.

But I want you to hear me when I say this.

You cannot continue to pour from a cup that has been empty for years.

There comes a time when a woman must stop asking herself how much more she can carry and start asking herself what she needs.

The world will take as much as you are willing to give it. It is your responsibility to make sure there is enough left for you.

Take care of yourself. Not next month. Not after the next promotion. Not when things settle down.

Now.

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