Happy Tuesday, y’all. If you’ve been around The Mediocre Black Woman for a while, you know I don’t talk politics too often here. And that’s intentional. Because truthfully? Just being born Black is political enough. I created this space as a soft landing spot—for us to breathe, to laugh, to stretch out, and just be without all the noise.
So if your bandwidth is low today and you’re not up for a shake-up, that’s okay. This is your invitation to gently bow out, no hard feelings. This space is meant to be restful first.
But for those of you still here—come on in. Pull up a chair. As my grandma says, we’re about to have a little come-to-Jesus moment.
The past couple of months, I’ve been going down these deep rabbit holes—my friends and family know this about me. I’ll tug on one little thread of curiosity, and next thing you know, I’m knee-deep in a dozen documentaries and hundred-year-old headlines.
Most recently, I’ve been watching stories about our people—Black artists, Black activists, everyday Black folks just trying to make a way. And one thought just kept circling in my mind:
The people who came before us never really stood a chance.
And still, they kept going.
Through adversity, through confusion, through pain—and yes, even through dysfunction. The kind that too many of us recognize. The kind we sometimes inherit. The kind that was inflicted on them by systems, by violence, by the weight of survival itself.
This world took from them. Took their creativity, their genius, their bodies, their time—while silencing their truth and turning their pain into a spectacle. So it’s no wonder so many of our people turned to things that hurt them or the people around them just to cope.
And still. We’re here. That alone is nothing short of a miracle.
I read something from Yayi Joyce on Substack that really stuck with me. She wrote:
Whew. “Be the living prayer.” “The living altar.” That still gives me chills.
Because it’s true. Yes, the world is still hard. Yes, we’re still carrying a lot.But we also have more room than our people ever did—to slow down. To nourish ourselves. To break old patterns.
Last year, I had to let go of some habits that were feeding a version of me I no longer claim. That version wasn’t rooted in truth—it was rooted in survival. And keeping that version alive felt like a slap in the face to the ancestors who’ve been holding me up this whole time.
Let me say it plain: Taking care of yourself is legacy.
If you’ve ever felt unworthy, unloved, or alone—let me be the one to tell you: That was never the truth. That was never you. You are worthy. You are loved. You are held. Just by being born.
So if you’re lacking courage, you can borrow some of mine. If you’re tired, you can lean on this message. If you slip into old habits, come back to this post. Let it revive you. Let it root you again.
Being yourself is not always easy—but it is always worth it. We’re breaking patterns. We’re healing lineages. We are the living altar. We are the living prayer.
Take care of yourself this week. Really take care. Rest well. Nourish deeply. Reflect gently. And if you need a little love or fire? I’m sending it strait to you.
With love,Goddess Thea
