Y’all…

Sometimes we move through life so quickly that we forget to stop and recognize how far we’ve come.

The hard days.

The quiet prayers.

The moments where you kept going even when you didn’t feel strong.

That wasn’t for nothing.

There’s fruit on the other side of that.

Growth.

Strength.

Peace.

Clarity.

And it’s okay to enjoy it.

It’s okay to sit in a moment and say,

“Lord… thank You for bringing me through.”

Because you didn’t just go through it…

you grew through it.

And now you’re standing in a place you once needed.

So don’t rush past it.

Take it in.

Feel it.

Be grateful for it.

Because the fruit didn’t come easy…

but it came.

And that matters.

Live, Love, Grow Through It 🤎

Love, Yo-Yo

Some recipes are written down.
But the best ones are remembered at the kitchen table, passed down from one generation to the next, learned by watching someone cook instead of measuring every ingredient.

This dish is one of those memories…

Some recipes don’t just live in the kitchen.
They live in our bones.

Y’all…

My grandma always had a pot on the stove.

Most days… it was greens.

Not rushed.
Not measured.
Just slowly simmering… like time didn’t matter.

You could walk into the house and smell it before you even made it to the kitchen. That deep, savory smell that told you something was cooking, not just for the moment, but for whoever might walk through that door.

And somewhere nearby…

There was always cornbread.

In that trusted cast iron skillet, the one that had been used so many times it didn’t need instructions anymore. It came out looking like cake… golden on top, soft in the middle, with just enough crust around the edges to remind you it was made the right way.

That kitchen didn’t just feed people…

It held them.

Nobody had to ask if there was enough.

There always was.

Because meals like that weren’t just about food… they were about making sure everybody had a place at the table.

A scoop of greens.
A piece of cornbread.
Maybe something else on the side.

Simple… but it carried weight.

And the thing about it is…

Nobody stood there with measuring cups.

Nobody wrote it down.

You learned by watching.
By standing close enough to see how it looked, how it smelled, how it felt.

A little of this.
A little more of that.
Taste it. Adjust it.

That’s how those recipes stayed alive.

That’s what this pot of greens reminds me of.

Not just how to cook them…

But what they represent.

Patience.
Care.
Provision.
Love that didn’t need to be announced, it just showed up every day.

This is the kind of pot that stayed on the stove all day…

Not because it had to.

But because that’s how you built flavor.
That’s how you built comfort.
That’s how you made something that would hold people when they needed it.

And even now…

When I make greens in my own kitchen…

It’s never just about the recipe.

It’s about keeping something going.

Something that started long before me.

Something that still finds its way back to the table.

Because some meals…

Don’t just fill you up.

They bring you back.

If you’ve ever had a pot like this… you already know.

And if you haven’t… let me show you how to make one.
👉 Southern-Style Cajun Collard Greens recipe

And if you’ve ever known a kitchen like that…

then you already understand. 🤎

Every meal is a memory.
Every recipe is a legacy.

The table is where memories are served.

Live, Love, Eat

Love, Yo-Yo 🤎

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it really means to be intentional.

Not just in one area…
but in everything.

Because life has a way of moving fast if you let it.

Days turn into weeks.
Weeks turn into months.
And before you know it, you’ve been living on autopilot…

Just doing things out of habit.

And I realized…

That’s not the kind of life I want to live.

I want to be intentional.

Putting God First

It starts with God.

Being intentional about making space for Him…
not just when I need something,
but because I need Him.

Time in prayer.
Time in His Word.
Time to sit, be still, and listen.

Because when I start my day with God…
everything else flows differently.

My thoughts are clearer.
My responses are softer.
My spirit is more grounded.

And without that?

Everything else can feel off.

Being Intentional in Relationships

I’m learning that relationships require intention too.

Not just being around people…
but being present with them.

Listening.
Checking in.
Showing love in ways that matter.

Not just assuming people know…
but making sure they feel it.

Because real connection doesn’t happen by accident.

It’s built.

Friendships That Are Chosen, Not Forced

The same goes for friendships.

Being intentional about who I keep close.
Who I allow to have access to me.
Who I pour into… and who pours back.

Not every connection is meant to be deep.
Not every relationship is meant to last.

And that’s okay.

But the ones that are?

They deserve care.
They deserve presence.
They deserve intention.

Being Intentional With Myself

This is one I’m still learning.

Being intentional about how I treat myself.

Resting when I need it.
Taking care of my body.
Guarding my mind.
Speaking life over myself.

Not running myself into the ground trying to keep up with everything and everyone.

Because I matter too.

Intentional in the Everyday Moments

And then there are the small things.

The way I spend my time.
The way I speak.
The way I move through my day.

Choosing peace over chaos.
Choosing patience over frustration.
Choosing to slow down instead of rushing through everything.

Because those small choices?

They shape your life.

Why It Matters

Intentional living means you’re not just letting life happen to you…

You’re choosing how you show up in it.

With purpose.
With awareness.
With direction.

And it doesn’t mean you’ll get everything right.

But it does mean you’re paying attention.

You’re present.

You’re living with meaning.

Because when you’re intentional…

You don’t just exist.

You live with purpose.

Live, Love, Be Intentional 🤎
Love, Yo-Yo

There’s a different kind of freedom that comes when you stop allowing everything to disturb your peace.

Not because life suddenly gets quiet.
Not because problems disappear.

But because something inside of you settles.

You start to realize…

Everything doesn’t deserve your energy.
Everything doesn’t require a response.
Everything doesn’t have to pull you out of who you are.

And that right there?

It’s freeing.

Because for so long, we can live reacting to everything.

Every word.
Every situation.
Every emotion that rises up.

Always responding.
Always explaining.
Always carrying things that were never ours to hold.

But peace changes that.

Real peace.

The kind that doesn’t come from circumstances being perfect…
but from God being present.

The kind the Bible talks about…

“And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 4:7 (KJV)

That kind of peace doesn’t always make sense.

It shows up in situations where you should be anxious…
but you’re not.

Where you could react…
but you choose not to.

Where everything around you feels unsettled…
but somehow, you’re still steady.

That’s not you forcing calm.

That’s God covering you.

And when you begin to live from that place…

You don’t feel the need to entertain everything anymore.

You don’t respond to every misunderstanding.
You don’t carry every opinion.
You don’t allow every situation to pull you out of alignment.

You become more intentional.

More still.

More aware of what deserves your attention… and what doesn’t.

Because protecting your peace isn’t about avoiding life.

It’s about knowing where your strength comes from.

And choosing to stay rooted in that… no matter what’s happening around you.

Because when you allow nothing to disturb your peace…

You’re not ignoring reality.

You’re choosing to trust God in it.

And that kind of peace?

It will carry you through things you never thought you could walk through.

Quietly.
Steadily.
Faithfully.

Live, Love, Be at Peace 🤎
Love, Yo-Yo

Gratitude has a way of slowing everything down.

Not in a forced way.

Not in a “say thank you and move on” kind of way.

But in a quiet, settling kind of way.

The kind that makes you pause…

and actually feel what’s already in your hands.

Because if we’re honest, it’s easy to keep reaching.

Reaching for the next level.

The next blessing.

The next open door.

And there’s nothing wrong with that.

But somewhere along the way…

we can forget to sit with what God has already done.

Gratitude Fills What Pressure Empties

There’s a difference between living driven…

and living aware.

When everything is about what’s next,

your spirit can start to feel stretched.

Tired.

Restless.

Never quite settled.

But gratitude does something different.

It fills.

It fills the space where comparison tries to creep in.

It fills the places where pressure has been sitting too long.

It fills the quiet moments we usually rush past.

And suddenly… what once felt like “not enough”

starts to feel like more than you realized.

Not Everything Has to Change to Be Good

Sometimes we think fulfillment comes from change.

A new opportunity.

A different season.

A breakthrough moment.

But I’ve been learning…

Sometimes fulfillment comes from seeing.

Seeing what’s already working.

Seeing who’s already there.

Seeing how far God has already brought you.

Because when you really stop and look…

there’s evidence of His hand everywhere.

Gratitude Isn’t Loud… But It’s Deep

It doesn’t need attention.

It doesn’t need to be announced.

It just… settles in your spirit.

Like peace.

Like a quiet knowing that even if everything isn’t perfect,

there’s still something to be thankful for.

And that kind of gratitude?

It changes how you move.

You stop chasing everything.

You start choosing what matters.

A Gentle Reminder

You don’t have to wait for everything to line up perfectly

to feel fulfilled.

You don’t have to have it all figured out

to recognize God has been good.

Sometimes the shift happens when you simply say:

“Thank You… for what is.”

Not just for what’s coming.

From the Table

Gratitude reminds me of a table already set.

You might still be preparing parts of the meal…

but there’s already something there to receive.

And if you never stop to acknowledge what’s on the table,

you’ll always feel like you’re lacking…

even when you’re not.

Gratitude is fulfilling…

because it teaches your heart to recognize fullness

before life feels full.

And that kind of awareness?

That’s where peace lives.

Live, Love, Be Grateful🤎

Love, Yo-Yo

There’s something about Mary that doesn’t always get talked about in a real way.

We honor her.

We respect her.

But sometimes we don’t sit with what she actually had to carry.

Because what God gave her…

wasn’t light.

It was purpose.

And purpose doesn’t always feel like a blessing in the beginning.

Sometimes it feels like pressure.

Like confusion.

Like being chosen for something you didn’t fully understand.

Mary didn’t have all the answers.

She didn’t have a roadmap.

She didn’t have people around her who could fully explain what she was stepping into.

All she had…

was a word from God.

And a decision to trust it.

“Be it unto me…”

That kind of surrender is deep.

Because it means saying yes

before you understand how it’s all going to work out.

And if we’re honest…

Some of us know what it feels like to carry something we didn’t ask for.

A calling.

A responsibility.

A weight that feels bigger than us.

Something God placed in us

that not everybody understands.

And sometimes that kind of assignment can feel lonely.

Because everybody won’t see what God showed you.

Everybody won’t understand what you’re carrying.

But Mary’s story reminds us of something powerful:

If God placed it in you…

He will carry you through it.

Even when it feels heavy.

Even when it feels uncertain.

Even when it stretches you beyond what feels comfortable.

Because what you’re carrying isn’t random.

It’s intentional.

It has purpose.

It has timing.

It has meaning beyond what you can see right now.

Mary didn’t just carry a child…

She carried a promise.

And sometimes in life…

so do we.

So if you find yourself in a season where you’re holding something that feels bigger than you…

Don’t shrink back.

Don’t doubt it.

Don’t let confusion make you release what God gave you.

Because if He trusted you to carry it…

He will also give you the strength to bring it forth.

“Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.”

— Luke 1:38 (KJV)

Live, Love, Carry It Well 🤎

Love, Yo-Yo

I used to think raising my children was the hard part.

The sleepless nights.

The constant caring.

The making sure they were safe, fed, covered, and guided.

But nobody really prepares you for what comes after that…

The letting go.

Not the kind where you stop loving them…

but the kind where you have to step back and trust that what you poured into them will carry them.

And if I’m being honest…

I wasn’t exactly prepared for that.

I’ve written about this a little before,

but it’s been on my mind lately…

so you know I had to get it out.

I’m happy they’re growing.

I’m proud they’re building their own lives.

I thank God they’re stepping into adulthood.

But there’s a quiet space that comes with it.

A space where your role changes…

and you don’t always know what that new role looks like yet.

You’re still their parent….. their mother…

but you’re no longer the one making the decisions.

And that part… takes some getting used to.

When You Have to Let Them Choose

Another part nobody talks about?

Watching your children make decisions that don’t always make sense to you.

Financial choices.

Relationship choices.

Life decisions that you can already see the outcome of… because you’ve lived long enough to recognize the patterns.

And everything in you wants to step in and say,

“Baby… don’t do that.”

Not out of control.

Not out of pride.

But out of love.

Because you know.

You’ve walked it.

You’ve felt it.

You’ve learned it the hard way.

But there comes a point where you realize…

They have to learn some things for themselves.

And that’s not easy.

Because love will have you wanting to protect them from every mistake.

But growth doesn’t always come from being protected.

Sometimes it comes from experience.

Learning a New Kind of Love

I’m learning that motherhood in this season looks different.

It looks like praying more… and saying less.

Trusting God with them in ways I never had to before.

Letting go without disconnecting.

Loving without controlling.

It’s a quieter kind of love.

A deeper kind of trust.

And some days I get it right.

And some days… I’m still figuring it out.

The Part I Hold On To

What gives me peace is knowing this:

The same God who carried them when they were in my arms…

is still carrying them now.

Even in the decisions I don’t understand.

Even in the paths I wouldn’t choose for them.

God sees them.

And that helps me breathe a little easier.

Because if I’m honest…

Letting go isn’t about losing them.

It’s about trusting God with them in a new way.

Live, Love, Trust God 🤎

Love, Yo-Yo

Not just the big speeches or the carefully written sentences, but the everyday words we speak without thinking twice.

The words we say to our children.

The words we say to ourselves.

The words we speak when we’re frustrated, tired, hopeful, or grateful.

Words have a way of settling into places deeper than we realize.

A kind word can stay with someone for years.

So can a careless one.

I think about that sometimes when I’m moving through an ordinary day, cooking in the kitchen, talking with my kids, or having a conversation with someone who might be carrying more than I can see.

It reminds me that what we say matters.

Words can build.

They can encourage someone who feels like giving up.

They can remind a person of their worth.

They can bring light into a moment that feels heavy.

But words can also do the opposite.

They can discourage.

They can wound.

They can stay with someone long after the moment has passed.

That’s why I try to be mindful of them.

Not perfect, just mindful.

Because the truth is, our words often become the atmosphere people live in.

A home filled with patience and encouragement feels different from one filled with criticism and harshness.

A conversation filled with kindness leaves a different mark than one filled with careless remarks.

Even the words we speak over our own lives carry weight.

If we constantly tell ourselves we aren’t good enough, strong enough, or capable enough, those words begin to shape the way we see the world.

But when we speak life, hope, and truth, even on the hard days, something shifts.

Words have a way of planting seeds.

And over time, those seeds grow.

So today, I’m reminding myself of something simple.

Choose words that build.

Choose words that encourage.

Choose words that bring life into the spaces you walk into.

Because long after the moment passes, people will remember how your words made them feel.

And sometimes, the right words at the right time can change someone’s whole day.

Maybe even their whole life.

“Words plant seeds in the hearts of others. Choose ones that grow life.”

Words carry weight, use them to lift, not to break.” Live, Love, Speak Life 🤎

Love, Yo-Yo

I’ve been sitting with something lately…

Not questioning it.
Not trying to change it.
Just… understanding it.

The people in my life.
The ones who are really there.

And I realized something that brought me such peace… and gratitude.

If you can count the ones who truly love you on one hand…
You’re not lacking.

You’re covered.

Not Everyone Is Assigned to You

As I’ve grown, I’ve learned that not everybody is meant to hold space in your life.

Some people come to pass through.
Some come to teach.
Some come to reveal.

But a few…
just a few…

Are meant to remain.

And those are the ones you don’t have to question.

The Ones Who Stay

There’s a difference between people who are around you…
and people who are for you.

The ones who are for you don’t require constant connection.
There’s no pressure to check in just to prove anything.
You can pick up the phone like no time ever passed… and it’s still love.

They don’t question you.
They don’t make you feel like you have to explain who you are… or who you’re becoming.

They just… understand.

There’s a freedom in that.
A quiet kind of safety.

You can be yourself, fully, honestly, and without conditions.
No pressure to change.
No unspoken expectations to shrink, adjust, or perform just to fit their needs.

There’s a mutual respect there.
A balance that doesn’t have to be forced.

You complement one another… not by being the same,
but by allowing each other to be exactly who you are.

You see each other clearly…
and still choose each other.

You build each other up…
while honoring space, growth, and healthy boundaries.

There’s no competition.
No envy.
No silent comparison of “why not me.”

Just a genuine kind of love…
the kind that feels settled.

The kind that says, without needing to say much at all,

we both win.

📖 A Truth That Settled in My Spirit

There’s a scripture that says,

“Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.”
— Proverbs 27:17 (KJV)

And the older I get, the more I understand that kind of connection.

Not forced.
Not competitive.
Not surface.

But the kind that builds you…
and still lets you be yourself.

A Different Kind of Full

I’ve been thinking a lot lately…
about why I like the things I like.
What actually feels meaningful to me.

Why some people just… feel familiar.
Like there’s no work required to be understood.

And I realized…

It’s not about how many people are around you.

It’s about the ones who bring peace when they are.

The ones who don’t disrupt your spirit.
The ones who don’t make you feel like you have to perform.

Just being able to exist as you are…
and be received in that.

That’s a different kind of full.

Not loud.
Not crowded.

Just… right.

So if your circle feels small…
if you can name them without thinking…

Don’t question it.

Thank God for it.

Because everybody can’t hold you.
And everybody isn’t meant to.

Live. Love. Reflect.
From my table to yours,
Love, Yo-Yo

I was sitting at the table the other day,
the kind of quiet that settles in when everything slows down just enough…

soft light in the kitchen,
nothing pressing, nothing rushing.

Just a moment.

And I’ve come to realize…

there are moments that don’t look like much on the outside…

but if you sit with them long enough,
they start to say something.

I had one of those moments
with a simple cup of pistachio ice cream.

And somewhere in that quiet…

I noticed something.

It wasn’t overly sweet.
It didn’t hit all at once.
It didn’t try to stand out.

It was subtle.

And if I’m being honest…

we don’t always notice subtle things.

We’ve gotten so used to:

• bold flavors

• big reactions

• things that grab our attention immediately

That when something is quiet…

it’s easy to overlook it.

But that first spoonful made me pause.

The flavor was still there.

Smooth.
Rich.
Steady.

Just not loud about it.

And it made me think about how many things in life are the same way.

The quiet things.

The steady things.

The ones that don’t compete for attention…

but still carry value.

Not everything meaningful announces itself.

Some things are meant to be:

• noticed gently

• experienced slowly

• appreciated for what they are, not how loud they are

That little cup of ice cream reminded me…

that just because something isn’t loud…

doesn’t mean it isn’t important.

And maybe…

there’s a kind of peace that comes from choosing that.

Choosing things that are:

• calm

• grounded

• consistent

The kind of things that don’t overwhelm you…

but stay with you.

So yeah…

it was just a spoonful of ice cream.

But it reminded me of something I don’t want to forget.

Not everything that matters
is going to be loud.

And maybe the real beauty…

is learning how to notice the things that aren’t.

Every meal is a memory.
Every recipe is a legacy.
The table is where memories are served.

Live, Love, Notice
Love, Yo-Yo 🤎

This morning reminded me how important it is to slow down.

I woke up in the quiet hours before the house started moving, the kind of early where everything still feels peaceful and unhurried.

I sat up, planted my feet on the floor, and started the day the way I like to when I’m trying to center myself.

First, a warm cup of lemon water.
Then prayer.
A scripture.
And a moment to sit quietly and meditate on a word.

Sometimes those early moments are when I hear God the clearest.

After that, I came downstairs, opened my computer, poured myself a cup of tea, and soaked my feet while the morning slowly unfolded.

Nothing fancy.

Just a quiet moment to breathe.

And honestly… we don’t give ourselves enough of those moments.

In our busy lives, we get so wrapped up in work, family, responsibilities, and the constant movement of life that we slowly place ourselves at the very bottom of the list.

But the truth is simple.

If we never take time to refill our own cup, eventually we run empty.

Today is Wellness Wednesday for me, one of my intentional self-care days. A small pause in the middle of the week to check in with myself and make sure my mind, body, and spirit are being cared for, too.

Self-care doesn’t have to be complicated. Most of the time, it’s the simple habits that help restore balance and bring peace back into our day.

Here are twelve gentle reminders that help me to stay grounded.

1. Stay Hydrated

Something as simple as drinking more water can make a big difference in how your body feels. Hydration helps your energy, your focus, and even your mood.

Starting the morning with warm lemon water is one of my favorite ways to wake my body up.

2. Learn Something New

Trying something new keeps your mind active and inspired. It could be gardening, journaling, cooking a new recipe, or learning a creative skill you’ve always been curious about.

Growth keeps life interesting.

3. Feed Your Mind

Reading nourishes your thoughts. Even a few pages a day can open your mind, encourage your spirit, or bring new understanding.

Sometimes the right words can change the direction of your whole day.

4. Spend Quiet Time With God

Even a few minutes of prayer, reading scripture, or sitting quietly in His presence can center your heart and mind for the day.

Sometimes those quiet moments with God bring the clarity and peace we’ve been searching for.

5. Clear Your Space

A cluttered space can easily lead to a cluttered mind. Straightening up a small area of your home or workspace can instantly create a sense of calm.

Sometimes peace starts with clearing the table.

6. Move Your Body

Your body was created to move. A simple walk, stretching, or light exercise can lift your mood and refresh your energy.

Movement has a way of resetting both body and mind.

7. Prioritize Rest

Sleep is one of the most powerful forms of care we can give ourselves. Creating a peaceful bedtime routine helps your body recharge and restore.

8. Connect With Loved Ones

Time spent with the people you love strengthens your emotional well-being. A simple phone call, a quick visit, or a meaningful conversation reminds us that we’re not walking life alone.

Connection matters.

9. Practice Gratitude

Taking a moment each day to reflect on what you’re grateful for shifts your focus toward the good already present in your life.

Gratitude softens the heart and strengthens perspective.

10. Step Away From the Noise

Limiting screen time, especially before bed, allows your mind to rest from the constant flow of information and distraction.

A little distance from the noise can bring a lot of clarity.

11. Treat Yourself Kindly

Self-care doesn’t have to be extravagant. Sometimes it looks like soaking your feet, enjoying a quiet cup of tea, reading a good book, or simply sitting in stillness for a few minutes.

Small moments of care matter more than we realize.

12. Set Personal Milestones

Setting meaningful goals gives direction to your life. Watching yourself grow, even in small steps, builds confidence and purpose.

A Thought to Carry With You

“Taking care of yourself is one of the quiet ways we honor the life God has entrusted to us.”

Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do
is simply slow down long enough to breathe.

Take care of yourself today.

Live, Love, Be Well.

I know today is Monday, but I meant to share this yesterday.

Sunday has never just been a day to me.

It’s a feeling.

It’s the quiet knowing that no matter how the week unfolded, heavy or light, scattered or steady, there is a place my spirit will be refreshed again.

I grew up knowing that rhythm.

Sunday meant church clothes laid out.
Voices lifting together.
The familiar hum of sanctuary air.
And that deep, settling peace that comes when you sit in the presence of God.

There’s a kind of rest that only Sunday ever carried for me.

Not sleep rest.

Soul rest.

The kind that resets you without asking questions.

Even now, all these years later, my spirit still leans toward it.

Still expects it.
Still looks forward to it.

There’s an old gospel song by Darryl Coley that says it best,
“When Sunday comes, my troubles gone.”

And that’s what Sunday has always meant to me.

Return.

Refreshing.

Realignment.

A place where noise softens, and peace settles back into its rightful place.

Some people think of Sunday as an obligation.

I’ve always known it as refuge.

Not because life suddenly becomes perfect.

But because presence becomes tangible again.

There’s just something about Sunday.

Always has been.
Always will be.

Live, Love, Reflect.
Love, Yo-Yo 🤍

In honor of Black History Month, I’ve been thinking about the beauty we carry.

Our uniqueness.
Our rhythm.
The way we move, speak, gather, and remember.

The everyday kind.

There is something beautiful about us as a people.

It’s the way we laugh.

Full-bodied.
Head thrown back.
Shoulders shaking.
Laughter that fills a room and refuses to apologize for taking up space.

It’s the way we season food without measuring.

“Cook by feel,” we say.

And that feel isn’t accidental.

It’s inheritance.

It’s watching aunties tilt a pot and know when it’s ready.
It’s tasting with the back of a spoon and nodding.
It’s knowing when to turn the fire down without a timer.

That instinct?

That’s culture living in the hands.

It’s the way our reunions stretch into the night.

Lawn chairs in uneven circles.
Paper plates stacked high.
Children running barefoot.
Old stories retold like they’re new.

Somebody always singing.
Somebody always frying something.
Somebody always calling you by a nickname that only family can use.

That’s joy.

It’s the way we gather.

We don’t just attend.
We arrive.

With pans covered in foil.
With sweet tea sweating in gallon jugs.
With music that carries memory in its rhythm.

Our food is not just flavor.

It’s story.

Greens slow-cooked until tender.
Cornbread broken by hand.
Macaroni baked until the edges crisp.
Sweet potatoes mashed with cinnamon and memory.

We don’t just cook.

We remember out loud.

And our laughter?

It sounds like home.

There is beauty in the way we speak.
In the way we layer language.
In the way we make poetry out of ordinary sentences.

There is beauty in our rhythm,
in how our music carries both sorrow and celebration at the same time.

There is beauty in how we show up for each other.

How we gather around hospital beds.
How we cook when someone is grieving.
How at a repast, we laugh and cry in the same breath.
How we pass the hat quietly when help is needed.
How we say, “You good?” and actually mean it.

That tenderness?

That’s culture too.

We are vibrant.
We are layered.
We are expressive.
We are communal.
We are creative without trying.

And that beauty deserves preservation.

Not because we’re better.

But because we are unique.

And unique things are worth honoring.

So yes, honor the history.

But also honor the laughter.
Honor the food.
Honor the rhythm.
Honor the nicknames.
Honor the recipes that were never written down.
Honor the way we dance in kitchens while something simmers.

That is heritage too.

And preserving that?

That is stewardship.

Live, Love, Preserve
Love,
Yo-Yo 🖤

Some seasons don’t feel like home.

Not because God left you.
Not because you failed.
But because you’ve been planted somewhere unfamiliar.

A foreign season isn’t always about geography.
Sometimes it’s emotional.
Sometimes it’s relational.
Sometimes it’s professional.
Sometimes it’s spiritual.

It’s when the rhythms feel different.
The language feels different.
The support feels thinner.
And the comfort you once relied on isn’t there the way it used to be.

That’s where Ruth found herself.

Ruth: Faithful in Foreign Soil

Ruth left everything familiar.

Her homeland.
Her culture.
Her security.

And she made a decision that didn’t look strategic; it looked faithful.

“Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”
— Ruth 1:16 (KJV)

She chose covenant over comfort.

She chose loyalty over logic.

She chose faith over familiarity.

And then she had to work.

Not in a palace.
Not in recognition.
Not in applause.

But in fields.

“And she went, and came, and gleaned in the field after the reapers…”
— Ruth 2:3 (KJV)

She built quietly in a place that did not originate her.

That’s what a foreign season feels like.

You’re not where you started.
You’re not fully where you’re going.
And you’re doing honest work in between.

Faithfulness Doesn’t Always Feel Rewarded Immediately

There’s something about foreign seasons that stretches you.

You don’t have the same support.
You don’t have the same clarity.
You don’t always have confirmation.

But what you do have… is choice.

You can grow bitter.
You can grow loud.
You can grow resentful.

Or you can grow faithful.

Faithfulness looks like:

Showing up when it’s not glamorous.
Building when it’s not visible.
Staying soft when it would be easier to harden.
Keeping your integrity when nobody is clapping.

Ruth didn’t know she was stepping into lineage.

She didn’t know her name would be written into eternity.

She was just staying faithful.

Foreign Doesn’t Mean Forgotten

If you’re in a foreign season right now, emotionally, spiritually, professionally, hear this:

Foreign does not mean forgotten.

Foreign does not mean failure.

Foreign does not mean punishment.

Sometimes it means preparation.

Because what feels unfamiliar now may be positioning you for something generational later.

Ruth’s faithfulness led her into restoration.
Into covering.
Into legacy.

She entered as an outsider.

She left as an ancestor in the lineage of Christ.

That’s what faithfulness in foreign soil can do.

From the Table

Maybe your foreign season looks like building something no one understands yet.
Choosing peace over proximity.
Creating distance to protect your heart.
Starting again without announcement.
Working quietly while everyone else appears ahead.

Stay faithful anyway.

Because you don’t always see what God is weaving while you’re gleaning.

Sometimes the field is the doorway.
Sometimes the unfamiliar place becomes the foundation.
Sometimes the season that stretched you becomes the story that steadied you.

You are not lost.

You are planted.

And if you stay faithful in this foreign season, you may look back one day and realize…

It was never exile.

It was alignment.

Live, Love, Stay Faithful.
Love, Yo-Yo

Black History Month brings up the word survival.

And survival matters.

We survived systems.
We survived silence.
We survived misrepresentation.
We survived being the only one in certain rooms.
We survived being misunderstood more than we were known.

And that matters.

But I’ve been sitting with something deeper.

What if it wasn’t just survival?

What if it was resilience……. revealed, not manufactured?

Because the more I look at our history and our traits, the more I see strength within us.

Not strength for suffering.

But strength for endurance.

Let me say this clearly.

Injustice was never divine intention.
Slavery was not design.
Oppression was not destiny.

There were systems.
There were laws.
There were structures meant to limit, silence, and erase.

We do not honor God by pretending injustice didn’t happen.
And we do not honor our ancestors by minimizing what they endured.

Oppression shaped conditions.

But it did not create capacity.

Capacity was already there.

Our rhythm.
Our creativity.
Our humor.
Our emotional depth.
Our communal strength.
Our spiritual intensity.

Those are not accidental byproducts of pain.

They are evidence of resilience that preceded pressure.

I believe God equipped us as a people with the resilience needed to endure what He never ordained.

He was not surprised when the pressure came.
He did not author the injustice.
But He did not leave us unequipped for it.

When I say, “We were equipped with resilience,”
I do not mean built for chains.

I mean built with resilience that refuses erasure.

Resilience that bends without breaking.
Resilience that creates under constraint.
Resilience that sings in sorrow.
Resilience that gathers when fragmentation would be easier.

Built with the endurance to outlast what tried to define us.
Built with the creativity to make beauty in confined spaces.
Built with the grace to remain human in inhumane conditions.

That resilience was not born from oppression.

It was revealed by it.

Evil was real.

But it was never sovereign.

Oppression applied pressure.
But it never held creative authority.

It could wound.
But it could not redesign us.

That shifts the narrative.

From:
“We barely made it.”

To:
“We were not abandoned.”

From:
“We were shaped by oppression.”

To:
“We were sustained by resilience that preceded it.”

Suffering is part of the story.

But it is not the origin of who we are.

If all we did was survive, that would be powerful.

But we did more than survive.

We built.
We preserved.
We created beauty under pressure.
We turned scraps into sustenance.
We carried song in sorrow.
We gathered when it would have been easier to fracture.

That does not look accidental.

That looks like a people equipped with resilience strong enough to endure what they should never have had to face.

When I say I’m unapologetically Black, I don’t mean pride on a throne.

I mean stewardship.

I mean recognizing that what we carry, culturally, spiritually, emotionally, is not damage.

It is depth.

And depth requires stewardship.

If heaven holds every tribe and every tongue, not erased into sameness, but recognizable, then difference was never a mistake.

It was part of the picture from the beginning.

This month, I’m not only honoring what we survived.

I’m honoring the resilience we were equipped with.

Live, Love, Preserve
Love,
Yo-Yo 🖤

Before food was content, it was survival.

Before it was styled, pinned, optimized, and monetized, it was stretched. It was rationed. It was guarded. It was sacred.

Black history didn’t only happen in marches and microphones.

It happened in kitchens.

In cast iron.
In apron pockets.
In the quiet way, something small was made to feed many.

What we cooked wasn’t just dinner.

It was strategy.

Why We Cook the Way We Cook

We learned how to make something out of what we were given, and made it taste like everything.

We stretched.
We layered flavor.
We cooked low and slow.
We refused blandness.

Because sometimes, seasoning was the only thing we could control.

When you look at a Southern table, really look at it, there’s a pattern:

A baked macaroni pie, which many of us today call Southern baked mac and cheese.
A pot of greens.
A slow-braised meat.
Cornbread to catch what’s left behind.

That plate isn’t random.

Its architecture shaped by survival.

It was built with intention.

Read more

They’re meant to be kept.

Black history has always felt like that to me.

Not just the big moments we read about.
Not just the names in textbooks.
Not just one month on a calendar.

But the quiet things.

The everyday things.

The parts that lived in kitchens, living rooms, and church fellowship halls.

The parts that never made headlines,
but somehow shaped all of us anyway.

Growing up, nobody called it “preserving culture.”

Nobody said we were documenting anything.

We were just living.

Cooking what we had.
Stretching meals.
Gathering after church.
Showing up to reunions with foil pans and cake carriers.

Somebody always brought greens.
Somebody always brought sweet tea.
Somebody always said,
“Baby, go fix you a plate.”

And somehow… everybody got fed.

Not just food.

Fed with stories.
Fed with laughter.
Fed with the kind of love that didn’t need explaining.

Back then, it just felt normal.

Just dinner.
Just family.
Just another Sunday.

But now I see it differently.

Read more

Not something I escape to once in a while,
but something I live inside of daily.

My home.
My routines.
The quiet corners I protect.

Read more

I don’t always measure when I cook. Not because I don’t know how, but because some meals ask to be made by feel.

Over the years, I’ve learned to trust what my senses tell me in the kitchen. The smell of butter browning. The sound of a pot settling into a simmer. The quiet knowing that something is done.

Read more

Now and then, I like to reflect and look back, asking myself why this or that.
And recently I caught myself thinking, not because I don’t know, but because I do.

I know exactly why I write.
I’ve always known, long before I had language for it.

Growing up, my parents always bought me journals.
Not because I asked.
Not because it was trendy.
They were planting little seeds.

Seeds of reflection.
Seeds of expression.
Seeds of learning how to sit with my own thoughts.

I wrote everything in them.
Thoughts. Feelings. Little prayers. Big dreams.
Things I didn’t yet know how to say out loud.

There was one journal I remember so clearly.
On the cover, it said: “Don’t Quit.”

I didn’t know then how much I’d need that reminder later in life.
But it resonates now, in a way it never did back then.

Writing has always been the place
where I don’t have to perform.
Where I don’t have to explain myself.
Where I don’t have to be “on.”
It’s my safe space.

Boundaries gave me the freedom to be,
but writing is where I feel it.
It’s where I show up as my full, authentic self.

No noise.
No expectations.
Just me.

These days, it looks like a cup of coffee, or tea, a candle lit,
The fireplace is going because it’s January.
worship music playing low,
my thoughts moving faster than my hands can type.

It’s me.
My God.
My thoughts.
My pen and journal in hand.

There’s so much going on inside of me,
That it has to come out somewhere.

Writing is how I make sense of things.
How I breathe.
How I release.
How I show up fully myself,
and stay connected to who I really am underneath
all the roles and responsibilities.

I feel most free when I’m writing.

Not because I have all the answers,
but because I don’t need them to show up.
I can just be honest.
I can just be real.
I can just be me.

I express myself so much better through writing.

Writing has become more than a private practice; over time, it has become a way to tell my story with intention. That’s how my memoir, May the Life I Live Speak for Me, came to be. (You can click the link if you’re curious.)

It’s a continuation of what I’ve always done on these pages, reflecting on faith, family, food, and the quiet moments that shape a life. Some stories take time to form, but they all begin the same way… with honesty on the page.

And maybe that’s why I keep coming back to the page
because it’s the one place where I can just be.

Live, Love, Write
Love, Yo-Yo 🦋