This article is very raw and honest about my experience with mental health. I want to say this up front as a trigger warning.

I wrote a poem called Crescendo, which is on my Substack. Definitely check it out when you can.As much as I love poetry, sometimes it doesn’t go as deep as an article like this. The poem is expressive in my ups and downs, but this will be different. I’m putting myself out there because just maybe this will reach far and wide and help someone else.

Crescendo Poem

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I’ll start from the beginning.

In 2018/2019, I struggled a great deal. Unfortunately, I married blindly. The man I chose to love me, serve me, and protect me lied and created an entire relationship in another state outside of me. I was devastated and embarrassed—so many emotions.

As a result, it triggered my mental breakdown, formally explained as a nervous breakdown. What happened to me, I wasn’t prepared for.

I was so scared and uncertain of everything. I felt like I had no one to turn to, and this was all new to me. In the past, I had panic and anxiety attacks, and they were serious—but this was encompassing those and so much more.

I was working at the time in a front desk position. I would hide in the corner to cry and didn’t know why. I would feel overwhelming sadness. My mom was the only one I could turn to during this time.

I had racing thoughts, rapid speech like I couldn’t stop talking, and then I would suddenly crash emotionally. I developed fears of going outside, getting out of my car for work. I cried every day without understanding what was happening to me.

I had emotional triggers. If something negative happened—whether with my son or a close friend who was supporting me in every way he could—I would go straight into panic mode and have a full attack.

I had severe insomnia. Sometimes I didn’t want to sleep out of fear of how I might feel in the morning. Other times, I was doing the most—including excessive online shopping.

I also developed a fear of talking on the phone. That’s still something I deal with when I’m not feeling well, but it’s more manageable now.

In 2019, my mother went with me to a psychologist so I could finally release everything that was going on. That session lasted about an hour, and I was so thankful for her support.

At a separate appointment, I completed a psych intake. I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, major depressive disorder, and generalized anxiety.

I broke down and cried again.

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One of the things I had always been committed to was taking care of myself and never having to take medication for the rest of my life. That diagnosis changed my life forever.

I was referred to a psychiatrist in the same practice. My mom came with me again. She has Bipolar I, and I didn’t know I could be predisposed to this condition. That realization brought on another wave of emotions.

The doctor explained that my treatment could be similar to hers because of genetics. It was interesting—and overwhelming at the same time.

I eventually transitioned to another practice when that doctor left, and I stayed with my care team for about three and a half years.

I’ve gone through so many ups and downs, but one of the hardest parts was acceptance.

Acceptance of any health condition—mental or physical—can be incredibly difficult.

I was angry with my mom. I felt like she knew this was a possibility and didn’t tell me. Even though she supported me, I felt like something had been omitted, and that hurt.

I’m not someone who likes to cry, so experiencing it constantly without control was devastating.

I had to accept that I needed medication—what I now call my “agents”—in order to have a stable, healthy quality of life.

I struggled.

I also had to build the right care team, which wasn’t always easy.

Over time, I got better. I still struggle with fully forgiving my mom, but I’m working through that. Maybe she had her reasons. What I do know is that I approach mental health very differently with my own children, and that has been a major part of my healing and acceptance.

Me in 2019

I have a reason to keep going—to be here for my family and my children. I need to be healthy for that.

Another pivotal time in my life was when I got pregnant with my second son. My medications had to change, and I wasn’t managed properly. It was terrifying.

At the same time, I lost my job and was preparing to get married again—to that same close friend who stood by me during one of the darkest times in my life.

It was another incredibly difficult season, but also a full-circle moment rooted in love, support, and truth.

I’m a woman of faith, and through all of this, I thank God for carrying me through and pulling me out of those moments.

Today, I still have ups and downs. Even with my agents, depending on what’s happening in my life, the lows can linger.

But I can say this: because of my agents, it’s not as severe as it once was.

It does affect my marriage at times. My husband wants to be supportive, and it’s hard for him to see me hurting. But he also praises me—for pushing through, for taking care of myself, for showing up for our family.

I’m open about what I need in those moments. I take my time. I practice being kind to myself.

There’s always an underlying urgency to feel better, but I try to keep that in check.

My eldest son understands that sometimes I just don’t feel well, and that we may need to slow things down.

I go for walks. I talk to a close friend. I use my tools. I stay consistent with therapy.

And I keep going.

I truly hope my story helps someone. I mean that with all my heart.

If you’ve been diagnosed—or if you’re struggling and don’t understand why—lean on your support system. As hard as it is (and I know it is), do your best to find a solid care team.

You do not have to feel bad all the time. You can take control of your life.

You are special. You are beautiful. And we need you here.

I am thankful for my resilience, my persistence, and my will to be better.

But trust me—I haven’t always felt this way.

Some days, I still don’t feel good or good enough for the life I have or the one I’m building.

But the truth is—I am.

And as a woman of faith, I am committed to growing, healing, and doing the work so God can meet me where I am.

I wish you all blessings, more love, and all the light in the world.

Peace.

If this story found you,

held you,

or reminded you that you are not alone—

stay a while.

Read, reflect, return to yourself.

And if you feel led to pour back into the space that poured into you,

you can support my work here.

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helps me keep writing,

keep sharing,

keep reaching.

With gratitude and intention—

thank you for being here.

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There are seasons where survival hums louder than joy—where memory, music, and emotion collide into something both heavy and healing. This piece lives in that space. It is rhythm and rupture, blues and breath, a testimony of carrying, releasing, and becoming.

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The record spins on repeat

In and out looping in the same

Tired line

(sing)

Love Lives, Love dies

I still go on alright

My harmonica heart beat

And strained guitar strings pull

Melodies out of my arteries

Reminiscent catastrophe

Marbleized dreams plunge

Into open streams as mermaids

Create scaly fins

Screaming hero babies

That mocks the serenity of the sea

My rocking chair rocks steady

On my flanges as I tickle the idea of relief

I see hope in my blues

I drown in Niagara Falls

Tears and water raft my emotions

And build Sonnets like Shakespeare

That way my words

Are everlasting

Boxed in a padlocked safe labeled

Survive, against, fears, endlessly

Words cut like solid traps

And decorate, disfigured

Distorted laundry two years dirty,

5 years destroyed

And 5 days late to clean

Sterile stains burn holes

In my manipulated love tank

House hold blues drums beats

On my misery and comforts my security

In the midst of instability

I stand on a foundation

To preserve my sanity

Stop the pulse identify, brand me,

Call me the woman

With a co-modified soul

And house hold blues wrote the tune

For success

I’m stressed and so blessed

And I spit from a torn womb

As crying screams ignite the flame

To predict selected peace

Their judgmental eyes gaze on me

As if my existence is to be monopolized

By their acceptance

I dwell not in ignorance

But intellectual knowledge

That dares to call my energy

Friends now foes

I can look you in the eye

And tell you love is in my heart

I wish you the best in God’s name

Cause the thoughts of anger, resentment

Your breech speech with tainted words of hate

Were the same that entangled together

To create, creative babies

I’m not perfection but human

With the right to carry my dreams

In my knapsack

And strip the universe

With every syllable I write

So I tare out my voice box

And use it as my boom box

To bump loudly

So serine kisses me sweet

I’m bitter with joy

And so over whelmed with soul

Today I laugh

And tomorrow

I’ll cry, baptize my fears

In endless elations

Of Gods Future plan

And smile that house hold blues,

Introduced the melody

To my pursuit

Of happiness.

-Naima Yetunde Hammonds

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What line stayed with you? What did you feel reading this?

Let me know if you would like to read more poems from this book collection.

Leave a comment, share your reflection, or simply sit with it for a moment—I’d love to hear how it resonates with you.

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There’s a subtle sting in noticing that invitations don’t come your way—not because of who you are, but because of your life circumstances. You’re married, have kids, or are a single mom, and suddenly certain gatherings, brunches, or weekend plans feel like they exist in a world just out of reach.

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It’s not always intentional. Friends may assume you’re “too busy” or that you wouldn’t want to join. But that doesn’t make the feeling any less real: the quiet realization that your current life stage somehow excludes you from spaces that once felt welcoming.

Being left out can spark all kinds of emotions—loneliness, frustration, even a sense of invisibility. You may start to question yourself: Am I no longer fun? Am I too much work for others to include? But the truth is, this isn’t about your worth—it’s about perception and logistics. Life changes, but human connection still matters.

The challenge is finding ways to stay included without sacrificing your priorities. For me, that means actively seeking social circles where I feel welcomed and included. It takes time, but organized meetups, networking events, and intentional connections are a starting point—and right now, that’s where I’m beginning.

Being excluded from certain events doesn’t diminish your value or the vibrancy you bring to life. Your presence matters—in your family, your community, and in friendships that see you for who you are. Life may shift your social landscape, but it doesn’t erase your place in it.

Takeaway: Feeling left out isn’t a reflection of your worth—it’s an opportunity to create meaningful connections on your own terms. I’m starting by attending spaces where inclusion is intentional… what about you?

💬 Let’s talk in the comments: Have you ever felt left out because of your life stage? How are you finding—or creating—spaces where you feel seen and valued?

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There’s a moment in every creative’s life when you realize that the version of yourself you’ve been carrying no longer fits. It’s subtle at first—an internal tug, a quiet question that echoes through your routine: Am I living, or am I just maintaining?

For me, that question became louder as I tried to balance motherhood, career, and the part of me that still longed to create—to write, perform, and connect through my words. Somewhere between school drop-offs, work meetings, and endless to-do lists, my creative voice grew faint. I convinced myself that “this is just the season I’m in.” But deep down, I missed me.

That’s when I began to feel the shift.

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The shift doesn’t happen all at once. It builds in small ways—a spark of inspiration that interrupts your day, a journal entry that feels more like a release than a task, a reminder that your gifts didn’t leave you, they’ve just been waiting for you to return.

For years, I poured myself into family and work, and while I found fulfillment in both, I started to realize that I had been neglecting the part of me that makes everything else feel aligned—the creator, the storyteller, the woman who finds healing and connection through words.

When I stopped fighting the shift and started leaning into it, I noticed something beautiful. My balance didn’t come from doing less—it came from being present in whatever I was doing. When I write, I’m not thinking about what’s next. When I’m with my family, I’m grounded in those moments. And when I’m working, I bring my whole, creative self into the room.

The shift taught me that balance isn’t about perfection or rigid scheduling—it’s about permission. Permission to pause. Permission to rediscover what lights you up. Permission to redefine what success looks like on your own terms.

I’m also deeply grateful to have found a space like Substack—one that encourages me to show up, reflect, and share my voice without pressure, just presence. Having that kind of space reminds me that consistency isn’t about perfection, it’s about returning… again and again.

I’m still learning, still adjusting, but I know this: every time I honor my creative voice, I feel closer to who I’m meant to be.

If you’re feeling that internal pull too—that quiet knowing that something needs to change—trust it. It’s your shift calling you home.

🌿 I’d love to hear from you—what does the shift look like in your life right now? Feel free to share in the comments or reply. And if this piece resonated with you, consider subscribing so we can continue this journey together.

☕ If my writing speaks to you and you’d like to support, you can always “buy me a coffee.” It’s a small gesture that helps me continue creating and sharing from the heart.

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, who is based in the UK, asked out of curiosity about what our experience is like here in America.

When I first read the question, my immediate reaction was: No way. I’d need to write an entire book to answer this. But at her suggestion, here is my response—offered as an article.

I struggled with where to begin.

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Part of me wanted to start with what it was like being raised by my own mother. Before anything else, I want to point out that I believe being a Black woman raising a girl in America is much different than raising a boy. The stressors are different. The fears are different for boys than they are for girls. Yet the threat toward our Blackness—toward our bodies—remains the same.

Where My Identity Began

I’ll begin with a bit of history.

As a young girl—a young Black girl—I came from a culturally rich family. My mother’s parents were from the Southern states of Mississippi and Tennessee. My father’s parents were from Panama and Cuba, with family spanning parts of the West Indies.

I start here because identity was established early for me.

I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. My mother worked in corporate America, and my father was a musician and dancer of traditional African music. My mother wanted me to understand my history—Black American history.

From an early age, I learned about Black musicians who pioneered genres and styles that shaped American culture. My exposure began with rhythm and blues. My grandfather, who was born into a family of sharecroppers in Mississippi, loved the blues. Through him I learned so much.

But understanding where he came from also meant understanding that he came from a lineage of people who were once enslaved. I do not know every detail of my family history in that regard, but I know enough to understand the weight of it. I carry that same understanding through my grandmother’s roots in Tennessee.

Racism in the South was deeply rooted and embedded into the very fabric of how this country developed. Racism in Northern states may look different than it does in Southern states, but the truth is—it is still racism.

Over time it evolved into systemic racism after slavery was abolished. That evolution did not erase the infection of what America was built upon. You can see it everywhere: childcare, healthcare, education, the justice system. The list goes on.

What My Mother Taught Me

Despite all of this, my mother made sure I understood something else.

She wanted me to know that I was loved.

She reminded me that I was intelligent, beautiful, kind, and generous. She encouraged me never to lose sight of my fierce determination and to understand that I am a light.

She also reminded me that I deserved the same opportunities as white girls and women.

That understanding came alongside lessons about the Civil Rights Movement and the women’s suffrage movement. She wanted me to feel the power that comes with using your voice for good and remembering who you are.

Girls and women in this country often compare themselves to one another. Regardless of ethnicity, there is a silent competition among women—unspoken expectations about who we should be.

For Black women, that silent understanding can sometimes feel especially loud. It can be difficult to wrestle with.

Yet my upbringing was rich—in love, culture, and education—and it shaped my identity as a woman.

Raising Black Boys

Now I am a mother raising Black boys who will one day become men.

That experience is different.

As their mother, I want them to be clear about who they are. I want them to know they are treasured, loved, intelligent, fearless, strong, and capable. I remind them that they deserve the same opportunities as white boys and men.

I introduce them to historical context—our history, our leaders, our pioneers. I want them to know that the world can still be their oyster.

But I also teach them how to navigate the world they live in.

I teach them respect. I teach them how to advocate for themselves. And I teach them that sometimes something as simple as saying “yes sir” and “no ma’am” could save their lives.

What do I mean by that?

Black men in America are often automatically seen as targets. They are viewed as threatening or dangerous because of narratives that have evolved over generations—narratives that say they should be feared.

Or hunted.

Or put back “in their place,” which historically has never been equal.

This is the hard truth about how America often sees our Black men.

So the conversations I have with my sons—starting as early as five years old—are different from the conversations many mothers have with their children.

I make sure my sons understand the value of knowledge. I want them to have well-rounded experiences that will help shape them into strong men as they grow.

The Weight a Mother Carries

To be a Black working mother raising sons means that every second they are away from me, a part of me hopes I will not receive a bad call.

I pray we will never become a news article.

I pray my sons will never become a hashtag.

That is my reality.

The times have changed in many ways, yet in many ways they have not.

I now live in the Southern United States. The history of the Jim Crow South—and the deeper history of slavery before it—still lingers here.

When my teenage son walks outside the door—standing at 5’8 with the still-innocent face of a young man—the world does not see everything I see.

They do not see his loving family behind him.

They do not see the future ahead of him.

They do not see that he is a straight-A student with big dreams, a young man who wants to represent his family well, or a young man of faith.

Often, all they see is a Black boy who is 5’8.

And sometimes, that alone is enough to trigger prejudice—and whatever may follow.

So prayers must be heavy.

Safety conversations must be rehearsed.

Understanding one’s rights must be rehearsed.

And those lessons must begin early.

Home as Sanctuary

Unfortunately, we do not always get to experience simple moments the same way others might.

Playing freely at the playground. Traveling somewhere new. Learning to drive and feeling nothing but excitement.

For a Black boy, freedom can be complicated.

So I make sure my sons know that home is their safe place to land.

Here they can explore.

Here they can dream.

Here they can simply be themselves.

And when they step out into the world, they carry both truths with them: the freedom to be who they are, and the awareness needed to move safely through the world around them.

Mothering as a Black woman in America is a balance between love and vigilance. We nurture dreams while teaching survival. We pour confidence into our children while preparing them for a world that may question their worth. It is a responsibility carried with deep pride, fierce protection, and unwavering faith that the generations we are raising will continue pushing this country closer to the promise it has yet to fully fulfill.

If something here made you pause, smile, or rethink, I’d love to hear about it. Your comments are the heartbeat of this publication.

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My birthday falls on the heels of a new month—one of my favorites. February has always held something sacred for me. It is not only my birthday month, but it is also Black History Month. A time to honor legacy. A time to remember who we are and whose shoulders we stand on.

And then comes March.

Women’s History Month.

The month I get to celebrate being a woman. Being me.

That is powerful stuff.

I always try to use my platform during these months to connect, to reflect, to celebrate our Sheroes. But today, I want to pause and honor the unsung ones.

The mothers.

The women who are working tirelessly toward greatness—whether that is earning another credential, pivoting into a new career, launching a business, or simply refusing to give up on a dream that still whispers their name. Married or unmarried. Supported or figuring it out as they go.

I see you.

I remember being pregnant with my eldest son while I was in graduate school. So much was happening inside of me. I was transforming in more ways than one. Growing academically. Growing spiritually. Growing physically.

I was literally growing a human while pursuing a degree.

I stayed the course.

I carried my baby to full term while attending classes. I had a C-section and returned to the classroom two weeks later. Two weeks.

In May of 2011, I walked across the stage holding my five-month-old son in my arms.

That remains one of the proudest moments of my life.

Not just because I completed a two-year program. Not just because I earned a graduate degree. But because it felt like I was graduating in two ways. I was stepping into a new level of womanhood and motherhood at the same time.

It felt like I was charting my own path in history.

On my mother’s side of the family, I am the only one who has obtained a graduate-level degree. And I did it while pregnant. I did it while nurturing life. I did it while holding a healthy baby on graduation day.

I did it by the grace and strength of God.

But I am not the only one.

I am not alone.

There are countless women who deserve space to say:

Yes, I am proud of myself.

Yes, I did that.

Yes, I kept going.

Women who are changing the trajectory of their children’s lives. Women who are shifting generational patterns. Women who are building legacy in real time—often quietly, often without applause.

They are change makers. Organizers. Visionaries. Prayer warriors. Builders.

They are tired some days—but they are faithful.

They are stretched—but they are steady.

They are women.

We create.

We produce.

We reform and we restore.

We invent and we grow.

And history is not only written in textbooks.

Sometimes it is written in late-night study sessions.

In business plans drafted at kitchen tables.

In babies rocked between assignments.

In prayers whispered before interviews.

This month, I celebrate us.

The visible.

The invisible.

The unsung Sheroes.

And if you are one of them, I hope you take a moment today to say it out loud:

I am proud of myself.

“Your story is your power; share it unapologetically.”-Maya Angelou

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This child came through you… but they do not belong to you.

Nothing prepares you for the weight and the wonder of holding a life that trusts you completely. Nothing explains how love can feel both like an anchor and a release.

I remember understanding, almost all at once, that my role was never to own them. It was to guide them.

Because our children come from us, but they arrive already carrying something within them. Their own voice. Their own path. Their own becoming.

They are not blank slates waiting for our instructions. They are whole human beings unfolding in real time.

And as parents, we walk a delicate line.

We want to protect them. To shape their future. To make sure they are safe, successful, and spared from unnecessary pain.

But there is a difference between guiding a child… and controlling who they become.

Too much control can silence the very thing that makes them who they are.

Too much fear can make us hold on tighter than love ever asked us to.

Our role is not to write their story.

Our role is to remind them that their voice matters as they write it themselves.

It’s in the quiet moments they are watching us that they learn the most.

They learn how to respond to difficulty.

How to love.

How to stand in their truth.

Not from our instructions… but from our example.

What we model becomes what they believe is possible.

We become their foundation.

Not a cage. Not a script.

A foundation.

A place they can return to when the world feels heavy.

A place that reminds them they are loved without condition.

And maybe one of the hardest parts of parenting…

is allowing them to fall.

Allowing them to make choices we wouldn’t make.

Allowing them to learn lessons we cannot learn for them.

Because growth requires space.

And strength is born in the moments they discover they can rise on their own.

Success won’t always look the way we imagined.

It may not come with titles or applause.

Sometimes success is simply this—

a child who grows into someone who knows who they are.

Someone who walks with integrity.

Someone who feels at home within themselves.

Parenthood is not about creating a life in our image.

It’s about nurturing a life brave enough to become its own.

We are not the authors.

We are the guides.

The steady presence.

The safe place.

And when they finally step fully into who they were always meant to be,

we will know—

our love did not control them.

It freed them.

If you’re a parent, or someone who has guided a child, I’d love to know—what has parenthood taught you about love, trust, and letting go?

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Before we begin, I want to acknowledge something sacred.

For many, Sunday is a day of worship. A day of surrender. A day where we lift our hands, bow our heads, and declare faith over our lives. It is the day we say God is good. That we are covered. That we are kept.

But what happens when your mind does not feel kept?

What happens when you believe in God, call on God, cry out to God — and still feel yourself spiraling?

Mental illness is rarely spoken about in sanctuaries with the same reverence as physical illness. We pray away fevers. We lay hands on broken bones. But when the mind fractures, we often whisper. Or worse — we hide.

Crescendo is not just a poem. It is a testimony of what it feels like when your inner world swells louder and louder until it drowns out your sense of self. It is about depression. Anxiety. Agoraphobia. The fear of losing your mind while still trying to hold on to your faith.

This poem is an excerpt from my published book, Pure: A Book of Poetry, a collection that explores the depths of identity, survival, faith, and the sacred act of becoming.

This is holy too.

Because surviving your mind is also a form of worship.

Inevitably Swooped off my feet 

A leaf in a windstorm

Rooted once as a tree

Ripped to plummet

I--a mere piece in a tsunami

This the essence of a life

I buried scripted poems in my

Veins 

Hoping they would write me

A new lifeline 

Called out to

God with painful cries

And disappearing diamonds in my eyes

I once glistened while my smiles lit up

Like The sun now somber and dismayed

Uneasy unsure.

The brink of a new version of self

Unsure or ready to relinquish her

Reaching ions for the sanctity of my sanity

The overwhelming brain transfers of

The fear of actually going insane

Waiting for the main to tame the maintain

Slipping essence of her 

Like water slips through rocks 

Naima, the woman of strength

And power

The woman of hope and positivity

Falling into the suction of depression

The upheavals of anxiousness flowing

Over my body like tidal waves

Push and pull, push and pull

The waters aggressive like hurricanes 

Washed up ashore no rest on assurance 

This is what it feels like to die

The person you once knew dies

Slip and fall, struggling to gain footing 

There is no ground to step on

Last long, the sad song on repeat

Fall, fall deep into the consciousness 

Of unconscious wanting to be free 

Free like a jaybird in beauty of blue 

Wisps with wings from tree to tree 

Leaf to leaf, twig to twig

Twinging at the sound of my own voice 

Shaking as if to have

Parkinson's or that of a junky

Coming down in cold sweats

The sound of cackling and crashing verbs 

And words from tones of others

Erupting emotions rising like the

Height of mountains

Busy streets passing the eardrums 

Like trucks In a car crash 

Or screeching sound of

Nails on a blackboard

Reacting to the point of seclusion

Agoraphobia

Pushed feelings that froze

My steps to set

Foot on the pavement

Forget 10 toes down

Keep me safe in the comfort of familiar territory

Home.

Home became the prison I hid,

In prison in my own

Mind running, running

Vigorously out of time.

Passion drowned in the depths of the sea

Slipping from my grasp.

Edgy depression keeping

All senses submerged in a dark hole

Numb the outcry fell on deaf ears

Hands of care swept off my back

Nothing but the feeling of the wind

Air wasn’t strong enough to dry tears on the inside 

Tears fell often,

Collecting in a puddle beneath

My bed large enough to bathe in

Hoping the bath would replenish my soul

Dying and being conformed

I felt the voice inside me as loud as God

Bellowed out wanting to hear again

Accept, accept the new you my daughter 

Defenseless and fearful

Seconds, minutes from dying

This is the onslaught of a never-ending spiral 

Doing your best to find the grip of an invisible rail 

Spinning, spiraling out of control no explanation 

For the tremors and tripping, panic, the static

The inability to hear past the brink of shaking

The body reacts like being triggered

By electric shock

Locked into a State of 

Unbelievable fear keep me grounded 

Lifted up,

Up so high the stakes are high

Boom the bottom hits like bricks

Stick to the flows that remind You of home.

Lost a long way from home. 

Accept what, how can I...

I have to remember to survive 

The lift was that of a crescendo.

By: Naima Yetunde (Ince) Hammonds 

This poem lives among many others inside Pure: A Book of Poetry, a collection born from survival.

If you have ever fought to keep your mind while holding on to your faith, Pure: A Book of Poetry is for you.

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There is something sacred about being spoken of with care in rooms you have never entered.

Rooms where your name arrives before you do.
Rooms where your presence is built in your absence.
Rooms where someone chooses to honor you without needing you to witness it.

You don’t hear it happen.
You don’t see the moment your name leaves their mouth.
You don’t see the way they straighten their posture when they say, “You should work with her.”
Or the way they interrupt doubt with certainty.
Or the way they defend you without ever reporting back for credit.

But you feel it.

You feel it in opportunities that arrive unexpectedly.
In invitations that seem to find you without explanation.
In doors that open quietly, as if they were always meant to.

That is not luck.
That is love working on your behalf.

It took me time to understand that real friendship is not always loud.
It is not always performative.
It does not always announce itself.

Sometimes, real friendship is silent advocacy.

It is someone saying your name with reverence in a room full of possibility.
It is someone protecting your character when you are not present to protect it yourself.
It is someone remembering your dreams when you feel too tired to repeat them aloud.

There are people who will clap for you in front of you.

And there are people who will build stages for you behind you.

The latter will change your life.

Because there is no ego in it.
No need for applause.
No need to be seen as the reason.

Just belief.

Pure belief.

I have learned that the people who speak well of you in rooms you are not in are mirrors of how deeply they respect you. They carry your name with responsibility. They do not shrink you. They do not dilute you. They do not present you as smaller than you are to make themselves feel bigger.


They expand you.

They tell the truth about your light even when you cannot see it clearly yourself.

These are the people who understand that your success is not separate from them.
They understand that your rising does not threaten their own.

They understand that love is not competition.

It is collaboration.

And I have also learned this truth:
You may never know all the rooms where your name has been spoken with care.

You may never know who defended you.
Who recommended you.
Who protected your reputation.
Who whispered, “She is incredible,” when doubt entered the air.

But their words still find their way back to you.

In blessings.
In alignment.
In momentum.

So today, I want to honor those people.

The ones who speak well of us in rooms we are not in.
The ones who carry our names with gentleness.
The ones who make space for us before we arrive.

And I want to be that person too.

The one who says someone’s name with love.
The one who reminds the room of their brilliance.
The one who opens doors without announcing that I held the handle.

Because this is how we change each other’s lives.

Not always in front of each other.

But often, beautifully, behind each other’s backs.

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If someone came to mind while reading this, share this with them. Let them know their voice matters—even in rooms you may never see.

And if you’ve ever had someone speak your name with love in your absence, you already understand:

That is a rare and beautiful kind of protection.

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Picked up the broken

Pieces and etched them

In like attachments To my crown

Giving definition to the fact

That I am and forever will be a gem

Tears fell like pearls

Dried on cheeks as

A reminder even my tears

Are beautiful Redefining the woman, I am

And pulling from the depths of my soul

That I am the definition of special

Special like the light in the sky from Midnight stars

Special like the birth of newborn child

Special like the beauty of the wonders of the world

Special like any edifice you would marvel after

Wanting my voice to

Echo instead of fade in the distance

Realizing my desire to live

Outweighed my feelings to die

This won’t beat me

Tilting the devils attempt to defeat

All that was and all that ever will be

Giving a stand-up fight

Toe-to-toe like Creed

There is no giving in

There is no other way

But to face this and overcome it

Strong like the mother who Bared a child Had a c-section

And marched back into the classroom

To complete her masters

Strong like the woman

Who battled the court system

Systematic abuse and the abuse

Of a worthless man and won

Strong like the woman who Endured the rejection of

Love from a worthless Husband who left My laundry out

For others to try on a piece

Of my clothing as if I ain’t human

Strong like the definition of the many

Ancestors that taught me to march on

Keep my head high and never turn a blind eye

Strong like the woman who battled

Depression and anxiety

And conquered her ability to sustain her mental health

The fight to be the best mother

The best woman

The best partner

The best friend

The person I could ever be

I am that woman, I am that strong

So when I ever forget it,

I stare Myself square in the eye And say

You are one

KICK ASS BITCH

By: Naima Yetunde (Ince) Hammonds

If this spoke to something in you, leave a ❤️ or comment “I am her.”

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As adults, our lives get full. You might be single with a demanding career. You might have a family and a career. Maybe you’re a single mother juggling work, parenting, and about six other invisible jobs. Life is busy — for all of us. But here’s the truth: just like everything else that matters, friendships require effort.

What “Ghosting” in Friendships Looks Like

Ghosting in friendship isn’t always loud or dramatic — often, it’s quiet. It can look like:

• You’re the only one initiating hangouts or phone calls.

• They agree to plans, but cancel and never follow up to reschedule.

• They consistently avoid responding in a timely way without explanation.

• You’re always the one checking in, but they never check on you.

For busy women, especially moms and “boss babes,” I get it — sometimes phone time is all you can give instead of in-person time. But the effort still has to be mutual.

Why This Hurts More Than We Admit

Friendship isn’t just “extra” — it’s a source of support, joy, and connection that we need for our mental and emotional well-being. When one person stops showing up, it leaves the other feeling undervalued, rejected, or even disposable.

“A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.” Maya Angelou

The Bottom Line

Stop saying you value someone if your actions constantly put them last. Connection takes intentionality. It’s not about daily texts or weekly brunches — it’s about making sure your friend knows they matter to you.

Sometimes we can’t be as present as we’d like, but there’s a huge difference between being busy and being dismissive. One leaves the door open; the other silently closes it.

“A laugh that lingers, a smile that radiates, a timeless bond.”-Naima Yetunde Hammonds

Call to Action:

Think about the friendships you care about. When was the last time you reached out — just because? It might be time to send that text, make that call, or schedule that coffee date. Small efforts go a long way in keeping the connection alive.

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Visual art "Trapped in Glass” By: Maria Tavarez

Find me…

The hues flirt

With each other

As they curve to

Intertwine

Kind of like new love

Firstly coy-

Always seems by design

The ushering

Of soft responses

Giddiness hand

Grazes and laced fingers

Back, back

Forth and forth

Effortlessly

Stroking the

Sides of the mind

That just is

Tripped on

This broken

Record

In time

Moving slowly

Cautiously

Trapped

Confined

In this space

Color enhance

Lucidity

Instantly

Wrapped

In your

Depth beyond measure

Your endless

Trust falls

Pushed into

A renewed truth

A peace so serene

Infinite truth

And wonder

Moving creative

Synergy beyond

The base of this

Trapped glass

Poem By-Naima Yetunde Hammonds

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I have been struggling

To write a Black Poem

It’s Black History Month

And we NEED a poem

We are being strangled

By the system in a way

That has us all being

Dragged while trying

To grab the ground

Beneath us...Rripping

Bleeding fingernails

I been trying to write a Black poem

Not the kind of reiteration of

Slavery and plight of the years

Of injustice, OUR civil rights,

Every day, hour, minute, second

Of us just breathing

Feeling the rush of blood

To the spaces in our bodies

Where fear lives

I’ve been wrestling

With writing a Black poem

Not the kind that

Just grazes these

Huge thoughts

Of why it’s oh so

Important for you to

Address the homie

As…Well…That’s

My Nigga,

Like, Not say,

Nigga-Nigga, but the

N-word has been

This cultural

Adaptation

To reverse the oppression

Of the actual “ER”

So yeah… That’s my Nigga

I’ve been tussling

With writing a Black poem

Like all these real current events

Ain’t just about being human

They’re about what it’s always

Been about

America’s disdain

And avoidance and when it comes

To Black people

The stealing of not just

Our bodies,

Our heritage

Our cultural tattoos

Our tongues

Our FAITH

It’s the deep rooted knowing

That your enlarged ego

And overtly huge

Orange brain

Is positioned

To dismantle

Disregard

And fuel your damn White

Systemic Privelge and

Carry all your little minions

With you

I’ve been fighting

To write a BLACK POEM

Doesn’t just highlight

Snapple facts

Rather,

Immerse YOU

Into the uncomfortable

Place of

What it may have meant

For George Floyd to

Have his breath escaped

By the hands of law enforcement

While he wailed for his mother

On live stream, TV, for the world

The murderer covered in blue serves

No damn consequence and therefore

There is no justice in a system

That fails to be equal

Or the sudden gut wrenching

Unimaginable pain it causes

When protection and hate intersect

We do not FORGET their names,

But this is not That Poem so I digress

I’ve been grappling

To write a BLACK Poem

When the horror stories

Of child birth for black women

Rush in like a flood

Being ignored about the way our bodies

Transform

Complications that might arise

The unknowing and uncertain

Life or/and death

The missing void of Janell Smith 2026, Kira Johnson 2016,

10 years between and it’s still the same shit

Sure there are more

Medicine is also not equal

On site care is not equal

The love of children

Does NOT extend to

Our babies

Being black

The melanin alone is a walking target

White privilege…Supremacy

Strongly believes THEY are the superior race

Man, I Just want to write

A BLACK Poem

A Black History Poem

Well I am my Black history

The past

The present

The future

I am Black History because my ancestors

Sacrifice was-

Painful

Scaring

With an ATTEMPT to discard

Like garage

I am Black History because I am

Still living, serving and giving

To society in a fucking big way

I am Black History and this is OUR month

And this is The Black Poem

-Naima Yetunde Hammonds

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And before anyone claps for that sentence, I need to say the quiet part out loud:

I’m exhausted.

Not the “I need a nap” tired.

The kind of tired that settles into your bones. The kind that makes you forget what rest even feels like.

I’m married. I’m loved. I’m not alone.

And still—we are stretched thin.

We divide the days, the bills, the responsibilities. We share the load as best we can. But life keeps asking for more than we have. More energy. More patience. More money. More time. More of me.

I wake up already calculating:

Who needs what today?

What deadlines are waiting?

What emotional fires need tending?

What version of myself has to show up—and who doesn’t get to?

There’s this myth that marriage automatically means ease. That partnership erases overwhelm. That two people can always outrun the weight of the world together.

But sometimes the world is just… heavy.

Sometimes you can love your partner deeply and still feel lonely in the work of surviving. Sometimes you’re both tired at the same time, staring at each other across the kitchen like, I don’t know how to fix this either.

And as a mother, the exhaustion hits differently.

Because even when you’re depleted, the asking never stops.

“Mom.”

“Mommy.”

“Ma.”

There is no sick day from being needed.

I don’t want a medal for doing it all.

I want softness.

I want margins.

I want a life where rest isn’t something I earn after collapse.

Some days I mourn the version of myself who had space to dream without checking the clock. Other days, I marvel at my resilience and wonder how I’m still standing.

Both things can be true.

This isn’t a complaint—it’s a confession.

A reminder that being strong doesn’t mean being okay.

That love doesn’t cancel burnout.

That exhaustion doesn’t mean failure.

If you’re a mother reading this and nodding quietly, know this: you’re not weak for feeling worn down. You’re human in a system that asks too much and gives too little back.

I’m still showing up.

Still loving fiercely.

Still doing what needs to be done.

But I’m learning to say it plainly now—

I’m tired.

And I deserve rest, too.

If this put words to something you’ve been holding in your body, let it move.

Share it. Save it. Send it to someone who needs permission to rest.

We weren’t meant to carry everything alone.

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The real revolution is women who refuse to participate in each other’s destruction.

There is a quiet violence in how women are taught to look at one another.

To scan the room.

To measure.

To compare.

To whisper instead of witness.

We are conditioned to believe that another woman’s shine somehow dims our own. That her success threatens our survival. That softness is weakness. That kindness is currency we can’t afford to spend too freely.

But that story is old.

And tired.

And it’s costing us more than we admit.

Women supporting women is not a slogan. It’s a practice. A discipline. A daily choice to resist envy when it would be easier to indulge it. To uplift instead of undercut. To speak a woman’s name in rooms she hasn’t entered yet—with respect, not resentment.

It looks like refusing gossip, even when it’s entertaining.

It looks like curiosity instead of cruelty.

It looks like saying, “I see you,” instead of “Why her?”

We don’t lose anything by being generous with our praise.

We don’t become smaller by celebrating another woman’s growth.

There is no prize for being the sharpest tongue in the room.

What we do lose—when we gossip, when we tear each other down, when we lead with jealousy—is trust. Community. The possibility of something deeper than competition.

Uplift doesn’t mean blind loyalty.

It doesn’t mean ignoring harm or avoiding accountability.

It means choosing integrity over insecurity.

It means understanding that there is room.

For your voice.

For her voice.

For all of us.

And maybe the real revolution is this:

Women who refuse to participate in each other’s destruction.

Women who build tables instead of watching who gets a seat.

Women who understand that support is not weakness—it’s power, multiplied.

We don’t have to like everyone.

But we can choose not to be mean.

We can choose not to be small.

We can choose each other.

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I’ve been thinking about love the way it actually shows up—not the cinematic version, not the one wrapped in certainty or spectacle, but the kind that lives in the everyday.

Love, this week, feels quieter than I expected.

Less about grand gestures and more about steady presence.

More listening than speaking.

More patience than passion—though the passion is still there, simmering beneath the surface.

I’m learning that love isn’t always about being understood immediately.

Sometimes it’s about staying curious.

Sometimes it’s about letting someone see you mid-thought, mid-growth, mid-becoming.

Love doesn’t ask us to be finished.

It asks us to be honest.

There is a tenderness in choosing someone again after seeing their flaws up close.

There is courage in allowing yourself to be chosen without shrinking, performing, or overexplaining.

There is intimacy in the ordinary moments—the shared silence, the inside jokes, the check-ins that say I’m still here.

This week, I’m honoring the love that feels rooted.

The love that doesn’t rush me.

The love that makes room for who I am and who I’m becoming.

Love isn’t perfect.

It’s practiced.

It’s a decision made daily, sometimes quietly, sometimes clumsily—but sincerely.

And maybe that’s the love worth building.

The kind that feels like home, not because it’s easy, but because it’s safe enough to tell the truth.

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Starting something new is always a little scary. But I’ve realized that beginnings are also full of possibility. This why I created Naima’s Den-a space for writing, reflection and slow, meaningful conversation.

For years, I tried to fit my creativity into systems that demanded constant output and explanation. I learned the hard way that my voice does best when it has room to breathe. Now, I want to create a space where that’s possible-for me and, for anyone who finds themselves needing the same.

I want to bring together people who value reflection over performance, curiosity over certainty, and conversation that lingers instead of rushing to answers. A community where you can read quietly, think deeply, and respond when something truly stirs you.

What will you find here?

• Poems, essays and reflections in progress

• Thoughts on life, culture, creativity, and growth

• Conversations that welcome questions, not just answers

• A space to pause, reflect, and feel a little less alone

I’m thrilled you found your way here. Stay awhile, explore, and subscribe if you want to keep this space close.