Rage is one of the hardest emotions to talk about. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often misunderstood. People hear “anger” and assume it’s just frustration turned up a notch. But rage? Rage is different. It’s not just feeling mad—it’s feeling out of control. It’s an all-consuming fire that burns from the inside out, leaving destruction in its wake. And the worst part? Most people don’t see it until it’s too late.

For those who struggle with rage, it’s not as simple as “just calm down” or “breathe through it.” If it were that easy, we wouldn’t be fighting against our own minds, trying to suppress something that feels bigger than us.

Where Does Rage Come From?

Rage isn’t just about the moment that sets it off—it’s about everything that came before it. It’s about:

• Years of feeling unheard or dismissed

• Unresolved pain that never got the chance to heal

• Betrayal, abandonment, rejection, and loss

• The frustration of being misunderstood

• The weight of carrying too much for too long

For some, rage builds up slowly—a lifetime of swallowing emotions, forcing a smile, and pretending everything is okay until one day, it just isn’t anymore. For others, it’s a quick ignition—one wrong word, one push too far, and suddenly, everything explodes.

But no matter how it manifests, one thing is true: rage is exhausting. It wears you down, makes you feel like a ticking time bomb, and leaves you questioning yourself. Why do I feel this way? Why can’t I control it? Why do I push people away?

Letting People In—The Hardest Part

When rage is a part of you, letting people in feels impossible. How do you explain something you barely understand yourself? How do you ask someone to stay when you’re afraid of hurting them—afraid of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, being too much?

So, you push people away. Not because you don’t care, but because you care too much. Because deep down, you don’t want to be the storm that wrecks them.

But isolation only makes it worse. Rage thrives in silence, in loneliness, in the absence of understanding. And the truth is, no one can fight it alone forever.

Coping with Rage—Even When It Feels Impossible

1. Acknowledge It Without Shame

Rage doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t mean you’re broken or beyond help. It means you have deep emotions that need an outlet. Instead of burying it, recognize it. Why are you angry? Where is it coming from? What are you truly feeling beneath the surface?

2. Find Safe Ways to Release It

Holding rage in is like shaking a bottle of soda—you can only contain it for so long before it explodes. Find healthy ways to let it out:

• Exercise

• Writing or journaling

• Screaming into a pillow or in an empty space

• Hitting a punching bag

• Creating art or music

3. Let People In—Even If It’s Hard

Not everyone will understand your rage, and that’s okay. You don’t need everyone to. But find someone—a friend, a therapist, a loved one—someone who will listen without judgment. Someone who won’t tell you to “just get over it” but will sit with you in it and remind you that you’re not alone.

4. Recognize the Triggers

What sets off your rage? Is it feeling disrespected? Feeling abandoned? Feeling powerless? Understanding your triggers won’t stop the rage, but it will help you prepare for it. It will help you take control before it takes control of you.

5. Forgive Yourself for the Past

If rage has caused damage in your life—hurt relationships, lost opportunities, regrets—you’re not alone. But carrying guilt won’t fix what’s already happened. What matters is what you do now. How you learn, how you grow, how you choose to move forward.

Rage Doesn’t Define You

It might feel like it does. It might feel like it’s the only thing people see. But you are more than your anger. You are more than the moments you regret. You are a person who feels deeply, who has been through things that most people don’t understand.

You are still worthy of love. You are still capable of healing. And you are not alone in this fight.

Letting people in is hard. But trying to carry it all alone? That’s even harder.

Friendships are like seasons—some last a lifetime, while others serve a purpose for a time and then fade away. And that’s okay. Outgrowing a friendship doesn’t mean you’re a bad person, nor does it mean the other person is. It just means that life has shifted, you’ve changed, they’ve changed, and what once fit perfectly no longer does.

But here’s the tricky part—how do you handle that? How do you navigate the discomfort of realizing a friendship no longer serves you without ghosting, causing unnecessary pain, or holding onto something that drains you?

Let’s talk about it.

Why Friendships Change

People grow in different directions, and sometimes, that means growing apart. It’s not always about drama or betrayal. Sometimes, it’s just:

• Different values and priorities – Maybe you’re focusing on personal growth, mental health, or a new chapter in life, and the connection that once felt strong no longer aligns.

• Energy shifts – Some friendships thrive on nostalgia, but when you strip away the past, there’s little left to sustain the present.

• Emotional imbalance – If a friendship starts to feel one-sided, draining, or toxic, it’s okay to recognize that and step away.

• Life circumstances – Distance, relationships, careers, or personal struggles can naturally create space between people.

Whatever the reason, acknowledging that a friendship has run its course doesn’t mean you didn’t appreciate it. It just means it’s time for a change.

The Right Way to Move On

There are healthy ways to let go of a friendship without unnecessary hurt or resentment. Here’s how:

1. Be Honest but Kind

If the friendship was meaningful, it deserves honesty. You don’t have to make it a big, dramatic conversation, but if the person reaches out or asks what’s wrong, consider having an open and kind discussion.

Example:

“I just want to be honest with you—I feel like we’ve grown in different directions, and I think we’re both in places where our friendship isn’t the same as it used to be. I appreciate the memories we have, and I’ll always wish you the best.”

2. Avoid Ghosting (Unless It’s Necessary)

Silently disappearing might feel easier, but it can leave the other person confused and hurt. If the friendship was important to you, give it closure. However, if the friendship was toxic or harmful, prioritizing your peace and walking away without explanation is completely valid.

3. Set Boundaries Respectfully

If you’re distancing yourself rather than cutting ties completely, set clear boundaries. Let them know what you’re comfortable with and be firm if they push back.

Example:

“I value our friendship, but I need some space to focus on myself right now. It’s nothing personal—I just need time to grow in my own way.”

4. Accept That Some People Won’t Understand

Not everyone will accept your decision with grace. Some may feel hurt, lash out, or try to guilt-trip you into staying. That’s a reflection of their emotions, not your character. You’re allowed to move on, even if they don’t agree.

5. Let Go with Gratitude, Not Resentment

Even if things ended on a sour note, try to remember the good. Every friendship teaches us something, even if it doesn’t last forever. Instead of focusing on why it didn’t work, appreciate the moments it did.

Moving Forward Without Guilt

It’s easy to feel guilty about walking away from a friendship, but here’s the truth—you’re not obligated to stay in any relationship that no longer feels right. Friendships should be a source of joy, not obligation. If staying connected drains you, makes you feel stuck, or holds you back from growing into the person you’re meant to be, it’s okay to let go.

Growth is not betrayal. Choosing yourself is not selfish. You can move on without malice, without anger—just with peace.

To Anyone Struggling with Letting Go:

It’s okay. It’s normal. It’s part of life. Not everyone is meant to walk with you forever, and that doesn’t take away from the value of the time they did.

Some friendships are for a season, some are for a lesson, and some are for a lifetime. Learning the difference is one of the hardest but most necessary parts of life.

Let go with love. Move forward with grace. And trust that the right people will always find their way to you.

Living as a Black, gay, sober Christian in this world often feels like walking through a maze with no clear exit—where every turn presents both resistance and revelation. Each part of my identity exists within a larger story, woven together by history, faith, struggle, and resilience. And yet, the world often sees these identities as contradictions, rather than a testament to the complexity of human existence.

Faith and Identity: A Constant Tension

Being Christian and gay often puts me in spaces where I feel I have to prove that I belong. For centuries, faith communities have been a place of refuge for Black people—offering hope in the midst of oppression, a sense of belonging, and a foundation for resilience. But for LGBTQ+ Black Christians, that same refuge can feel like a battleground. The very place that teaches love can sometimes be the first to reject.

There are those who believe being gay and Christian is impossible, that my existence itself is a contradiction. But I don’t see it that way. My faith isn’t about other people’s approval—it’s about my relationship with God. And through every trial, I’ve found that God’s grace is bigger than human judgment. I don’t need to choose between my faith and my identity. I am both, and God sees me fully.

Sobriety in a Culture of Escape

Choosing sobriety in a world that often uses substances to cope has been its own journey. Alcohol and drugs have long been marketed as ways to escape pain, to bond socially, to celebrate or numb hardship. But I found that escape isn’t freedom. Sobriety has given me a clarity that allows me to face the world, raw and unfiltered, without losing myself.

In Black and LGBTQ+ spaces, where trauma and struggle are all too common, substances can sometimes feel like a way to survive. But I’ve learned that my strength comes from presence, from feeling every joy and every sorrow with full awareness. It’s not always easy, but it’s worth it. I don’t need an altered state to be whole—I just need to be me.

Being Black in a World That Still Doesn’t See Us

Being Black in this world means carrying the weight of history—of ancestors who fought, of families who endured, of systems that still work against us. It means knowing that I will be judged before I even speak, that I must work twice as hard to be seen as equal, that safety isn’t always guaranteed. It’s the reality of existing in a world that profits from Black culture but often refuses to respect Black lives.

And within the LGBTQ+ community, racism still lingers. There is joy in queer Black spaces, but there is also the painful truth that even in spaces meant to be inclusive, whiteness is often centered. I’ve had to carve out spaces where I don’t feel like an outsider in my own community, where I don’t have to prove that I am worthy of love, respect, and belonging.

Where Do I Fit?

The truth is, I don’t always know where I fit. Some spaces welcome one part of me and reject another. Others claim to be inclusive but still make me feel like an exception, not the norm. But I’ve stopped looking for permission to exist. I no longer seek validation from those who can’t see my full humanity.

Instead, I’ve found my place in authenticity—in choosing to live without masks, without apology. My existence is not a contradiction. It is a testimony to God’s love, to resilience, to the power of being fully, unapologetically myself.

To those who feel like they don’t belong: You do. You always have. You are not alone. Keep walking, keep believing, and never let the world tell you that you are anything less than whole.

Some days, I feel like I’m just floating through life, like a passenger watching it all happen instead of actually living it. Like I’m a guest in my own day-to-day—showing up, going through the motions, but never really feeling present.

I wake up, do what I need to do, interact with people, smile when I have to, laugh when it’s expected—but deep down, there’s this sense of detachment. Like I’m standing on the outside looking in, watching myself move through the world without fully feeling it.

It’s not that anything is necessarily wrong. It’s just that nothing feels truly real, either. Like I’m playing a role in a script I didn’t write, following routines that don’t feel like mine. Conversations feel rehearsed. Moments pass by too quickly, and no matter how much I try to slow down and be in them, they slip through my fingers like sand.

I see other people living with passion, with purpose, with excitement for what’s next. And I wonder—do they ever feel like this? Do they ever feel like life is happening around them instead of to them? Or am I just missing something, some unspoken rule that makes everything make sense?

I try to shake the feeling, to ground myself, to remind myself that I am here, that this is my life. But sometimes, it’s hard to believe it. It’s like walking through a dream where everything is familiar but slightly off, where you recognize the faces but can’t quite reach them.

And maybe that’s the hardest part—knowing that I should feel connected, engaged, invested. Knowing that there’s so much beauty in the little things, but feeling like I’m just skimming the surface instead of truly experiencing it.

I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe it’s just a phase, a temporary fog that will eventually lift. Maybe I need to shake things up, change my routine, step outside of my own head for a while. Or maybe this is just part of the journey—learning how to find meaning when everything feels muted, learning how to reclaim the moments that feel like they’re slipping away.

Either way, I’m here. Even when I feel like a guest, even when I feel like I’m just going through the motions, I remind myself—I’m still here. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

The biggest revolution in Super Bowl history just happened on the stage tonight, and folk are calling it boring or trash because it went over their heads!

This is what you didn’t see.

Once again, the message is clear—Black people have always been here to entertain them so they aren’t bored. The moment the message shifts, the moment we start reclaiming the narrative, suddenly, it’s not entertaining enough.

They would rather have Lil Wayne on stage, high, rapping about excess and indulgence, because he has played a role in propping up Drake—the industry’s golden boy, the industry’s plant. The system uses figures like Drake to push an agenda that profits off the culture while diluting its true essence.

But what Kendrick just did? He didn’t need Wayne. That message couldn’t be delivered through someone who has aligned himself with them.

It started with the American flag—built out of Black people—a stark, visual reminder that this country was built on the backs of Black labor, Black suffering, Black resilience. That was the first statement, and if you missed it, then you already missed half the message.

Then came the deeper layers:

• The Dead Prez reference, “Bigger Than Hip-Hop”—a revolutionary anthem that most didn’t even catch. This is bigger than music, bigger than a rap beef, bigger than any single artist.

• “When I Hear Music, It Makes Me Dance”—a nod to how the industry pulls the strings, using music to keep people dancing instead of thinking. Puppet strings.

• Uncle Sam(uel L. Jackson) opening the show—“Uncle Sam” = U.S.A. He laid out the rules of the game. And the game has always been rigged.

• “Too many Black men on the corner under a streetlight? That’s too deep.” Translation: Black unity is a threat. So the system finds ways to disrupt it—criminalization, police harassment, curfews, anything to make gathering seem dangerous.

• The Squid Game reference—the rich profiting from the poor killing each other for entertainment. A mirror to the way the music industry fuels rap beefs, benefits from the violence, and watches as Black men destroy each other for profit.

• Dancers in red, white, and blue—literally dancing to the drums of the system. That’s what the industry does. Keeps us entertained. Keeps us distracted.

And then there was the PlayStation stage, designed like a prison yard.

A game. A system. A trap.

Kendrick also made a powerful statement about protecting Black women.

• He brought out SZA—a Black woman, fully clothed, letting her voice shine, not her body. A direct contrast to how the industry hypersexualizes Black women for profit.

• He acknowledged how the industry allows figures like Drake to prop up artists like Sexyy Red to taint the culture while actively devaluing Black women.

And the ultimate message:

America is ours, too.

The system has spent decades making Black people resent the country they built. Making us feel disconnected from it. Making us want to leave instead of reclaiming what is ours. But we built it. Kendrick wasn’t rejecting America—he was challenging the system that controls it. He was calling for pride, ownership, and revolution.

That’s why he ended with “They are not like us.”

Because the industry plants, the labels, the media—they are not us. They are not of the culture. They exploit it, divide it, and keep us in a cycle of self-destruction.

And then—Game Over. TV off.

We’ve been under their control. Time to wake up.

This was bigger than rap. This was a direct challenge to the machine that profits off of Black pain while controlling the narrative.

And yet, look at the comments. Look at the reactions.

• “It was boring.”

• “We just want to be entertained.”

• “Why can’t we just have fun?”

That’s exactly the problem.

The system has trained people to crave distraction over education. To choose entertainment over enlightenment. And now, when someone presents art with a purpose, it’s “boring.”

Kendrick is the only rapper in history to win a Pulitzer Prize. His art was never meant to be mindless entertainment—it was meant to challenge, to disrupt, to spark change.

And if you didn’t get it? That means the system is still working on you.

So ask yourself:

Are you still plugged into the game? Or are you ready for the revolution?

Have you ever felt like you didn’t belong—like no matter how much you tried, you just weren’t enough? Maybe it’s the silence in a group chat that makes you wonder if anyone really cares, or the feeling of being overlooked at work, school, or even in your own family. And beyond that loneliness, there’s another fear that creeps in: What if I never succeed? What if I try and still fail?

These feelings—of not being wanted and fearing failure—can be overwhelming. They whisper lies that tell us we’ll never be good enough, that we’ll never achieve what we dream of, and that we’re destined to remain unseen. But those are just that—lies. And while the feelings are real, they don’t define us.

The Weight of Feeling Unwanted

Feeling unwanted can come from many places—being ignored, rejected, or struggling to find people who truly see you. It can also come from our own inner critic, convincing us that we’re a burden or that we don’t matter as much as others.

But here’s the truth: Your worth isn’t based on how people treat you.

It’s easy to base our value on how included we feel, but the reality is that even the most loved people have moments of loneliness. People get busy, distracted, or caught up in their own struggles, and sometimes, they don’t realize how much we need them. That doesn’t mean we’re not wanted. It just means we’re human, and so are they.

The Fear of Never Being Successful

Success means something different to everyone. Maybe for you, it’s landing your dream job, publishing a book, making a difference in your community, or simply feeling at peace with yourself. But when we start comparing our progress to others, we fall into the trap of “What if I never make it?”

The fear of failure often comes from two things:

1. Comparing ourselves to unrealistic expectations – Social media makes it easy to believe that everyone else has their life together, but what we see is just a highlight reel.

2. Believing that mistakes define us – The most successful people have failed—sometimes over and over again. Failure isn’t the end; it’s part of the journey.

Overcoming the Fear and Finding Your Place

So how do we push through these feelings? How do we remind ourselves that we are wanted and capable of success?

1. Stop Seeking Validation from the Wrong Places

Your worth doesn’t come from how many people text you first, invite you out, or praise you at work. It comes from who you are. Invest in relationships that make you feel valued rather than chasing after approval.

2. Redefine Success on Your Terms

Success isn’t about perfection; it’s about progress. Instead of fearing failure, focus on the steps you can take. Small wins matter. They build confidence, and they prove to you that growth is happening—even when it doesn’t feel like it.

3. Remember That Feelings Aren’t Facts

Feeling unwanted doesn’t mean you are. Fearing failure doesn’t mean you will. Our emotions can be powerful, but they don’t always tell the truth. Recognize the difference between what you feel and what is real.

4. Find Purpose in the Present

Sometimes, we get so caught up in what we want to happen that we forget to see what’s already happening. What are the small ways you are already making an impact? Who are the people who do value you? What opportunities do you have today that you didn’t a year ago?

5. Keep Going—Even When It’s Hard

The best way to fight the fear of failure is to keep moving forward. Even if the progress is slow, even if the journey feels uncertain, even if you feel alone—keep going. Every small step brings you closer to the life you want.

You Are Enough, and You Are Capable

If you’re struggling with feeling unwanted or fearing you won’t succeed, know this: You are not alone. You are valued, and your journey isn’t over. Keep pushing forward. Keep believing in yourself. And most importantly, don’t let fear stop you from becoming who you are meant to be.

Would you like to talk more about what you’re feeling? You don’t have to go through it alone.

I recently rewatched Love, Simon, and once again, it hit me right in the heart. It’s one of those movies that feels so personal, even if my life doesn’t exactly mirror Simon’s. At its core, Love, Simon is a coming-of-age story about love, self-acceptance, and the terrifying yet liberating process of coming out. But beyond that, it’s a story about the universal desire to be seen, loved, and understood—something I deeply relate to.

Simon’s journey throughout the film is one of self-discovery. He navigates high school, friendships, family dynamics, and the fear of being exposed before he’s ready. He longs for connection, for someone who truly gets him. And when he finally finds it, it’s beautiful. Watching his story unfold, I can’t help but hope for my own version of that someday—for someone to see me, understand me, and love me just as I am.

There’s a scene toward the end of the movie that always stays with me: when Simon finally meets “Blue,” the anonymous classmate he’s been exchanging heartfelt messages with. The anticipation, the fear, and the relief when he’s met with acceptance—it’s a powerful moment. It reminds me that love is out there, that there’s someone for everyone, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

I won’t lie—sometimes it’s hard not to wonder when or if I’ll find that kind of love. The kind where you don’t have to explain yourself, where you don’t have to fear rejection, where someone just chooses you. The kind that feels effortless yet deep, where you know you’re safe to be yourself completely. I think we all want that, and Love, Simon is such a beautiful reminder that it’s possible.

Until that day comes, I remind myself that love isn’t just about romance—it’s in friendships, in family, in the small moments of kindness we receive from the people in our lives. But still, I hold on to the hope that someday, someone will see me the way Simon’s Blue sees him. Someone who will love me not despite who I am, but because of it.

Maybe my love story hasn’t been written yet, but Love, Simon gives me hope that one day, it will be.

It’s hard to open up and be vulnerable when you’re the person everyone turns to for their problems. When you’re the one who listens, supports, and reassures, it can feel like there’s no room for your own struggles, no space for your own voice. You get so used to being strong for others that asking for help—or even admitting you need it—feels foreign, almost impossible.

Lately, I’ve had so much on my mind, but I don’t know how to express it. It’s like the words are stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat, and I can’t get them out. I sit with all these feelings—confusion, stress, sadness—but instead of talking about it, I just shut down. I withdraw. I disappear.

I think a lot of people who are “the strong one” can relate to this. You don’t want to burden anyone, especially the same people who lean on you. You tell yourself, I’ll be fine or I’ll deal with it later, but later never really comes. Instead, the weight piles up, and you carry it alone because that’s what you’ve always done.

It’s a lonely feeling, not because you don’t have people who care, but because it’s hard to let yourself rely on them. Vulnerability feels risky when you’re used to being the one with the answers, the one who holds it together. But the truth is, everyone needs to be heard. Everyone deserves a safe space, even the “strong ones.”

I’m learning that disappearing isn’t the solution. Shutting down may feel like a way to protect myself, but it’s really just avoidance. I’m trying to remind myself that it’s okay to not have everything figured out, that it’s okay to not always be the rock for everyone else. I’m trying to let myself feel what I need to feel, even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncomfortable.

If you’re someone who feels this way too—someone who’s always there for others but struggles to let others be there for you—I see you. It’s hard. It’s heavy. But you don’t have to carry it all by yourself. Opening up doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. And sometimes, just letting someone in can lighten the load more than you realize.

I feel the pull, the quiet tide,

A whisper urging me to hide,

To fade into the silent air,

Unseen, untouched—beyond all care.

The world is loud, its edges sharp,

Each word a sting, each sound a harp

Plucking chords of worn-out strain,

A melody that hums of pain.

Oh, how the heart would drift away,

To clouds of gray or skies of gray,

To corners where no voices call,

Where nothing asks, and nothing falls.

But in the depths, a flicker glows,

A stubborn light that somehow knows

That though detachment feels like peace,

It steals the soul, it steals release.

So here I stand, though small, though frail,

Against the winds that scream, “You’ll fail.”

I hold my ground, I breathe, I stay,

And fight the urge to drift away.

For life is felt in scars and ties,

In hands that hold, in tear-stained eyes,

And though escape may charm my mind,

The strength I need, I’ll choose to find.

I will not vanish—though it’s hard,

I’ll face the days that leave me scarred.

For tethered here, I claim my name,

And dare to fight, and dare to remain.