Soft Heart, Strong Spine
There’s a new woman walking around in my skin, and I quite like her. She doesn’t lose sleep over who approves of her, she happily exits any room that costs her peace, and she has zero interest in performing emotional gymnastics to keep anyone comfortable. She is not mean, bitter, or hard, she’s just done with chaos, confusion, and conversations that require a decoder ring. If it’s not clear, kind, or grounded, she’s not signing up.
For years, I’ve been labeled “too strong” or “she can handle her own,” as if strength disqualifies a woman from softness or support. The funny thing is, the stronger I’ve become, the easier I love, and the easier I release. I can care deeply and still walk away or shut the door gracefully when my peace is on the line. That’s not coldness; that’s emotional adulthood. I no longer see relationships as auditions where I’m trying to prove I’m worth choosing. I know my value. If someone can’t see it, that’s not a crisis; that’s a quiet redirection.
This isn’t about not wanting people in my life. It’s about refusing to shrink to keep my seat at a table that was never built for the fullness of who I am. I’m not squeezing myself into any box labeled “less,” “quieter,” or “easier to manage.” I’m choosing the wild luxury of wholeness over the discount version of myself that will make someone comfortable. Call it selfish if you want. I call it stewardship. I am finally curating my life like it’s the only one I have - because it is. And peace, I’ve decided, is my non-negotiable.
Nice to meet you….
Xoxo,
Lady Abena.
If Not Now, Then When?
We love to think we have time. Time to heal, time to forgive, time to start, time to change. “I’ll do it later” feels harmless, almost responsible, even. But hidden inside that little word later is a quiet, dangerous lie: that tomorrow is guaranteed, that our energy will be the same, that the door will still be open when we finally decide to walk through it. The truth? No one knows tomorrow. Life has a way of shifting suddenly, and the opportunities we keep postponing don’t always wait for us.
Procrastination doesn’t just delay tasks; it delays growth, healing, and purpose. We put off hard conversations and call it “timing.” We delay pursuing our dreams and call it “wisdom.” We ignore what God has been nudging us to do and call it “processing.” Meanwhile, days turn into months, and months quietly become years. The longer we wait, the heavier everything feels - the apology, the phone call, the book, the business, the habit, the prayer. Procrastination is a thief with good manners: it never screams, it just gently suggests, “Not today.”
If not now, then when? When you’re more tired? More afraid? More set in your ways? There will never be a perfect moment to become who you’re called to be. There is only this moment - imperfect, ordinary, but available. Start small, but start. Make the call. Open the document. Say the prayer. Set the boundary. Take the class. Your future is quietly being shaped by what you keep postponing. Tomorrow is a mystery; today is a gift. Treat it like one.
Xoxo,
Lady Abena.
Standing at the Graveside
Lately, I’ve been attending more funerals than I ever expected at this stage of my life. Each service, each graveside moment, has pressed a deep, quiet awareness into my heart: life is incredibly fragile, and everything we rush and hustle for will one day fall completely silent. In those moments, listening to eulogies, watching tears, feeling the weight of final goodbyes, I find myself thinking of Ecclesiastes, a book that has long intrigued me and that I return to several times a year.
Ecclesiastes speaks the language of the funeral home with startling honesty. “Meaningless, meaningless… chasing after the wind,” it says, as if echoing the feeling that rises when we realize how quickly a full life can be summed up in a few paragraphs on a program. The careers, the deadlines, the anxieties about status and success - none of them follow us into the ground. Standing there, I sense how fleeting our days are and how fragile the things we cling to really are. The book doesn’t say this to depress us, but to wake us up: to remind us that without God, all our striving is just smoke on a windy day.
Yet, strangely, Ecclesiastes doesn’t leave me in despair. It invites me to live more awake, more present, more anchored in what matters eternally. It whispers that every simple joy - a meal shared, honest work, a kind word, a quiet evening - is a gift from God, meaningful not because it will last forever on earth, but because it’s received with gratitude before Him. Funerals and Ecclesiastes together have become my teachers: they remind me that one day the hustle will end, the noise will fade, and only what was rooted in God’s love will truly remain. And with that awareness, I long to live the remaining days I’ve been given with more reverence, more tenderness, and a heart turned toward eternity.
So help me God….
Xoxo,
Lady Abena.