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The day already felt heavy—parenting logistics, frayed edges, and no Sunday reset—so we start where real life starts: tired and still showing up. From there, we move into the sharp stuff making so many of us ache right now: Don Lemon’s arrest for “witnessing,” Nicki Minaj’s homophobic attacks, and the public prize of siding with power. The throughline is bigger than celebrity drama. It’s the old playbook of authoritarianism: punish dissenters, criminalize documentation, and loudly reward betrayal so everyone else gets the message.

We connect the headlines to the body. When you trade your people for clout, the invoice lands in your nervous system—anxiety, shame, and a hollow “win” that cannot hold. That’s why we talk about PMDD, gratitude, and high-vibration practices as more than self-help; they’re survival tools that keep us regulated enough to tell the truth without burning out. We walk through how platforms amplify bullying, why witness work matters even when it’s risky, and what it means to protect journalists and storytellers who hold a mirror to power.

Then we imagine something better. Drawing from a decolonized faith and years of anti-racism work, we sketch a grace-shaped society where repair is real, accountability isn’t performative, and community is the safety net that systems refuse to provide. White folks must do the work with white folks; Black communities deserve to center care, joy, and mutual aid. The most practical takeaway lands close to home: name where you’re self-abandoning, set the boundary that brings you back, and let your people keep you honest.

If this conversation steadied you or sparked a boundary you’re ready to set, share it with a friend who needs the reminder, hit follow, and leave a quick review so others can find our community. Your voice keeps this space alive—what line are you drawing today?

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Your eyes told the truth, and then the headlines told you they didn’t. That whiplash has a name—DARVO—and once you see how deny, attack, and reverse victim and offender operate, it becomes impossible to unsee the pattern in both intimate relationships and public life. We connect the dots between personal narcissistic abuse and national narrative control, exploring how gaslighting erodes trust in your senses, scrambles your nervous system, and turns outrage into exhaustion.

I share hard-earned survivor tools to navigate this moment with clarity and care. We unpack the Minneapolis case as a live example of how stories get spun within hours, then zoom out to the larger system that punishes truth tellers, manages its image, and conditions the public to accept the unacceptable. Instead of feeding the doom machine, we build a plan: set an information diet, refuse trauma loops, block freely, and pick one role—caller, donor, organizer, caregiver, or witness—so your energy touches real people. We talk about why sleep is resistance, how a regulated body is harder to manipulate, and we practice a simple grounding reset you can use today: feet on the floor, long exhale, and the affirmation “We are here and safe enough in this moment.”

This conversation is a warm hug of solidarity for Black and brown women carrying too much for too long, and an invitation to stay awake without burning out. If this spoke to you, share it with a friend who’s been doom scrolling into despair, subscribe for more hope-oriented storytelling, and leave a review so others can find their way here. What boundary will you set this week to stay engaged without being consumed?

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The camera rolls, a woman dies, and then the story tries to kill her again. We talk about Renee Good’s killing and the speed with which power moves to rename a victim a threat, turning language into a shield for violence. As Black women, we know this pattern by heart. The harm happens, then the management of the harm—press briefings, headlines, talking points—asks us to doubt our eyes. We refuse that bargain. We grieve without confusion, and we get practical about what comes next.

I share why the DOJ’s non-action reads as posture, not neutrality, and how labels like domestic terrorism blur law on purpose. We look at the long history of “law and order” as a tool to justify surveillance, force, and public fear, and we name the cost of that blur: fewer checks on state power and more room for abuse. For white listeners, this is a mirror as much as a map. Organizing is not a slogan; it’s sustained work—roles, logistics, fundraising, safety teams, and local pressure where you actually live. Study what Black organizers have built for generations and put your numbers to use.

We also draw a hard line around energy and care. Doom scrolling is wrecking our nervous systems, so we set simple rules: choose two reliable sources, read once, log off. We talk through roles beyond protests—mutual aid, childcare, food banks, mental health support, and raising children who refuse dehumanization. If you do march, plan like it matters: buddies, meeting points, charged phones, shared locations, exits. If you don’t, support those who do. Most of all, we hold memory. They will try to erase what we saw and who Renee was. Don’t let them.

If this lands heavy on your chest, you’re not broken—you’re human. Stay informed but not consumed. Stay connected so fear can’t isolate you. And if a Black woman you love is carrying too much, send this her way. Subscribe, share with a friend who needs clarity and care today, and leave a review with the role you’re choosing this week.

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