Here are my affirmations for faith, love, peace and success:

YouTube Community PostsI Do Justice, I Love Kindness and I Walk Humbly with God

I seek the Lord and he hears me and delivers me from all of my fears.

Love flows to me in every moment from every direction.

With God working through me, nothing can stop me.

I know everything I seek can only be found in the present.

Every day in every way, I am getting better and better. And now, faith, hope and love abide, these three, and the greatest of these is love. The only thing that counts is faith grounded in love. I do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Like every day, miracles have lined up to greet me and blessings have called out my name. I humbly receive them all and I lack nothing.

I am present and I am paying attention to all the things that bring me joy. I enjoy every moment God gives me.

I choose courage over comfort. I choose to live. And to live abundantly.

I am disciplined. I am enthusiastic. I am confident. I am successful.

The Lord gives me health, the Lord gives me wealth, and the Lord gives me wisdom. He comforts me in times of distress and his love never fails. I am happy with myself, I am kind to myself, I show love to myself and others.

Dear Lord,

If it is in your will, I will be paid well to do meaningful work I love.

I will be holy, like you my Heavenly Father, are holy. I will be wise and innocent. I remember that it takes all kinds.

I put first things first.

I am always growing in my faith in you.

I embody compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience in my heart, mind and mouth. My speech is always gracious, seasoned with salt, and I know how I ought to answer everyone. 

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, I think about these things. I keep on doing the things that I have learned and received and heard and seen in Jesus, and the God of peace is with me.

Psalm 127.1 - Unless the Lord builds the house, those who build it labor in vain.

Proverbs 22.4 - The reward for humility and fear of the Lord is riches, honor, and life.

Brick Wall Dreams

I hope to meet someone who feels the same way about brick walls as I do. On the nights I would stare at the ceiling hearing my four roommates alternately arguing or passively aggressively ignoring each other, I would dream of brick walls. They would hold up the apartment I would one day call my own. 

The bedroom I dreamed in back in 2017 was the first room I didn’t have to share so this was dreaming big. (I’m one of 6, and I shared a bedroom with my sister back home until roommates through all 4 years of college.) A brick wall was the complete manifestation of the cool city girl hotness I aspired to, and new, deep down, was my human right. 

I came close with my first apartment, once $480 in rent could no longer keep me in a college basement home. The first thing I did was roll up on target and by yards of fake white brick wall to paper my new home with. I adored it, no matter how unevenly I applied it. And when it was time to leave and I ripped it down, I smiled. I was done living an “almost” kind of life.

From there, I lived in 13 different apartments as I traveled the world. Sometimes alone but often with others. I lived in Japanese apartments with paper walls and Malaysian high rises with jaw-dropping views. And finally, in the guest bedroom of a lovely home in Silver Lake, Los Angeles as I settled into what would become my new city.

When the lease ended, my apartment search was short. I gasped when I saw the brick walls in the photos, and when I walked into the apartment on a rainy day in LA (always a good omen) my heart sailed.

I knew I was home. 

I didn’t hang a single thing on the walls for the first 10 months. Marveling at the terracotta-colored bricks crumbling with history was enough. And, after much research, I couldn’t find a way to hang art without buying a drill, which was a level of construction work that seemed beyond me. 

And then, of course, I remembered I am a child of God. Nothing is beyond me. 

Within a week I had ordered and received a hammer drill, three-piece canvas set, and nails. My ladder was set up and my hands were vibrating as the drill set electric blue nails into the mortar. My eyes lit up behind my protective shades as the falling sand dusted my carpet.

I hung up the pieces one by one, desert scapes with lazy orange moons and shaded cacti. Night stars and lazy rivers. Mountains rising high behind fir trees.

The places of my future dreams decorating the wall of my old ones.

On the Road to Baltimore

I remember one night getting a ride from my classmate back to Baltimore. Campus was a University of Maryland shuttle, a metro ride on the red line, and Penn Line Marc train station away from where I lived with my family. 

I had missed the shuttle too many times to count. Had spent too many nights haunting the halls of Union Station, waiting for the 3 a.m. train to depart.  When I look back at all the times I opted into suffering because I was unwilling to step into the next chapter of my life (in this case, paying rent and taking ownership of my living situation) I mourn for the ways I’m doing it now and don’t realize it.

My classmate told me this was the last ride he was going to give me. He had found an apartment close to campus.

I lamented the reality I had created for myself. Graduate school had left me numb and cynical. Disillusioned with the systems I thought I could change. Thousands in debt, stress dreaming about math tests. 

What would you do, he asked. What would you want to do if you weren’t working in policy?

I sighed. Honestly, I would probably just do hair, I admitted. As if it were beneath me. 

He challenged me. “And why don’t you?”

I don’t think I had the words then, because I still didn’t have the understanding. I didn’t realize life was supposed to be lived on your own terms. That you cared for people to the point of doing right by them, not by letting them decide your choices..

I didn’t know I could never be happy researching policy memos and tracking legislation. Playing politics with healthcare and housing like and treating elections like championship matches.

I still didn’t know that I decide what I do. That if I did hair on the Internet, 200,000 internet strangers would say, “Yes girl, this thing that you love? We love it too.” 

No, I said. I left him in the car. I had put in too much time, too much money. (This was back when I thought money really mattered.)

The coward in me squirmed in the light of the truth. She still sometimes shies away from the unknown, wrapping herself in the comfort of the familiar. The safe. But if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s learning. Even if I don’t always graduate on time.

My 2021 YouTube Resolution

I fretted about changing my name for my YouTube channel. It used to be “Holdmelike”, random words from a random song I liked in my adolescence. But somehow I felt the turning point. Felt the pull to stake the ground, line the sand. 

How much do I really want to help? How much impact do I really want to make? And how can I do either without standing in my own identity? Without mining my truth?

Like most dilemmas that are really about fear, the moment I made the change, the mountain became a molehill. But the shift it caused is still rippling over the rest of my landscape. I’ve been questioning every possibility and idea that seemed to be snowcapped. 

I am no longer running from what I want. I’m out of the business of small dreams. 

I want this to be a successful YouTube channel. I want a million subscribers and a million more after that. I want the values of this channel and my life to transform the wider culture. I want people to feel brave, loved, strong, blessed, excited about how they will shine their light on the world.

I want them to come to this channel when they need the motivation and fortification from a community of like-minded people.

I feel the resistance to standing in this desire trying to pull me back to comfort. But I’m starting to get wise to its tricks. Now I know whatever I’ve been called to, I’ve been given the tools to make it happen. So let’s get to it, 2021.

Privileged in San Diego

I had the privilege of being paid to stay in a San Diego hostel a few New Year’s Eves ago. Here are some memories from that time and reflections on the privilege I had to create them. 

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In CVS, the man I had met at the hostel was encouraging me to buy Amy’s soup. “Look at the sodium,” he pointed out. He was my age. Cute. We had flirted a bit when we first met, and now we found ourselves here at the same time. Through persistent questioning I learned he didn’t have a home separate from the hostel. My flirting petered out. 

Moments before I had been waiting in line at the club across the street. Cold and sober. I was in San Diego alone, and I don’t drink alone. Maybe a shot to shake loose the nerves before a party, a little liquid courage to dazzle strangers with my practiced charm. But I was confident in my ability to make friends as a single traveler. In the face of the strobe lights and loud music and shrieking dancers this confidence quickly waned.

We walked back to the hostel together. I had the Amy’s and some snacks. I don’t remember what he had. I don’t remember much about him, now that I think about it. I ate my microwaved soup in the community room. Moonlight was playing. An older Black man expressed dismay at the kissing scenes. I gently argued against homosexuality as a choice. He humored me. 

I met my friend for brunch and we were seated after a 45 minute wait. She described the city’s Hep C outbreak as a result of all the human feces from the unhoused population. We had cocktails and fluffy Japanese-style pancakes. She took pictures of me for Instagram. 

I waited for the bus to the park and watched someone get loaded onto a stretcher. A year later, that friend told me some folks call 911 because they know it means they’ll have a warm bed for at least 24 hours. 

I’ve been looking at Mexico Airbnbs lately. A month there would be a third of my current rent. I comfort myself with fantasies of walking on Mexican beaches, the privilege of my savings and U.S. citizenship, as a cozy, oversized shawl. 

But I read yesterday that admitting your privilege is not enough. Apparently, you have to actively work against the systems that have empowered you at the expense of others. The glamour of my Mexican life flickers. Wait. I’M supposed to pay LA rent because US foreign policy intentionally destabilizes and sabotages foreign markets? Even though I’m a Black woman?? Because of the populations that should be held responsible for U.S. foreign policy, I really feel like we’re low on the list. I didn’t ask to be born in the U.S. And just because of my parent’s choices, I should have to sacrifice?

The quiet voice inside of me, that one that always knows better, whispers, “Of course not, Chimdi. No one should.”

The Big Chop

I last cut my hair this short the night before college graduation. I could pretend there is no greater significance, but lying to yourself is like taking a knife to your own gut. Here’s what I wrote when I asked myself to reflect on this haircut.  

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What did I graduate from? School, surely. The diploma proved that. The Facebook profile with friends I’ll never speak to again and pokes I wish I could take back, that’s at least supporting evidence. 

What was I leaving behind? Certainly that scared skinny girl who wanted to go to the parties but didn’t know how to get invited. Surely that cynical sophomore, that secret optimist, that easy flirt.

Surely that desperation. That clawing panic that things were going to fall apart at any moment. 

Definitely that girl straightening her hair with the YouTube videos, walking in late to class with her leave-out mostly blended thinking someone would notice, maybe smile approvingly. (They didn’t.)

Surely that man who, when asked how he liked your hair, said straight. DEFINITELY HIM.

And that woman walking by, secretly smiling when the boys called out and your crush said haughtily, They just want our girls. A woman proud to be possessed. Yeah, she can go.

Oh yes, that girl who didn’t realize God had already made her beautiful. Truly a jaw-dropper. Just stunning. She still hasn’t learned you can’t improve upon perfection.

Surely that woman who took running from her fears as chasing her dreams. Surely that girl who took easy comfort for genuine pleasure and kisses from strangers as the deepest affection.

Surely those cries in the night and sobs in the pillow. Well. Some of those stayed. 

But this girl sobs for good reasons too. This girl gets overwhelmed by the high notes in love songs and the wedding dresses in reality TV design competitions. By lazy curlicues of sage smoke and the musical performances in high school prom dramas. 

By the reality of her life and the blessings she’s surrounded by. 

This girl feels things now. She wishes money was all she needed to pay for everything else she needs to learn, but it will never be that simple again. She has fought the nauseating realization that she will always look back at earlier versions of herself and want to turn away. She understands growing is not that hard to stomach, no matter what her ego whispers. So she throws up the cap, and takes off the gown, picks up the keys and accelerates a little too fast. She’s embarrassed by the squealing tires but she brushes it off. The destination is herself and if she doesn’t leave now, she’ll never arrive.  

MONEY

I didn’t know how I would talk about money for today’s video. Once I did, I spent even longer deciding what I would cut out. I live with the irony that for someone with a YouTube channel named after herself, I spend a considerable amount of time convincing myself people will watch. One day I’ll tell the stories that really made me. But until I stop being scared of y’all, I’ll write a little here, a little now, and keep going until I can say them out loud. 

This is what I wrote to try to give some insight into my relationship to money. 

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I don’t remember every time we were evicted. But I remember the last one. I remember sitting among the barracks of our furniture. Waiting for him to come back to get the rest of it. The rest of us. I remember thinking, it doesn’t have to be like this. I’ll prove it.

I remember handing over my paychecks for the summer. The uniform of red and khaki but I didn’t have red and I hoped no one would notice. Only one person did. I felt exposed. I remember the bitterness in my mouth when I handed over the checks. Resentful in my adolescence. But the seed of kindness to know money means something different to those who don’t have it.

I remember overhearing the calls to relatives asking for money. The betrayal of a family that chose to stop supporting. I vowed to never let my family down. Not even knowing what that meant. 

I remember staring at the university invoice. Fear tearing a hole in my stomach. $2,453? Where was that going to come from?

I remember the visible relief when I told him I had applied for loans. The rope of money owed slacked just a bit. 

I remember holding back the frustrated tears as I transferred from my savings to pay for the house. Where was the money from a few months ago? He told me about bills like I didn’t have my own. Resentful in my young adulthood but the seed had sprouted. Money means something different when you never stop needing it. 

I remember withdrawing the maximum amount from the ATM and stuffing it in my coat pocket. My family only accepts cash for Christmas. She counted it out then handed it back. I just wanted to see how much you were able to give. Was my generosity ever in doubt? 

I smiled at the text I received when he received the Venmo notification. I don’t see bank tellers anymore. I used to wonder what they would think about my circumstances, if they ever asked. No one ever did. Woah! Nice one. I thanked him for sending the money home. The money means something different when you have more than you’ll ever need.

What Being a Black American in Cape Town Taught Me About Privilege

I promise it’s not hyperbole when I tell you I have never seen a city as beautiful as Cape Town, South Africa. Staggering cliffs. Roaring oceans. Vineyards that look carved from the Garden of Eden and canyons so vast it seemed they were invented so the sun would have a reason to set.

When I was in the airport lounge on my way back – because this is a story about privilege, so of course I had access to the lounge – a white man saw my bright blue box braids and my skin browned by weeks of adventure and came one second short of realizing I didn’t work there. He fixed his mouth to ask me a question.

Read more at Shut Up and Go.

What's magic, anyway?

I live in Los Angeles now so I saw a lot of people in real life that I had only seen on TV before. It was weird. First it was elating, and unbelievable, and exciting. And then it was just another human being talking.

I spent some of the time amused (these were comedy shows). I spent a good amount of the time questioning why I was there. I spent even more time trying to figure out how some people decide that their opinion is worth hearing and about the requisite bravery/deep starvation for attention that compels them to get up in front of strangers. I felt a kinship with these people because I too, write on the Internet and make videos because I think I have something worth saying. I can’t imagine someone meeting me on the street and being shellshocked because of it.

Being so close to these people felt very pedestrian. (As a carless person, I feel the irony of using that word negatively.) Yes, it felt like the “magic” of Hollywood was being erased. Instead, I saw this world for what it is.

We’re just gathered around the campfire, telling stories to each other. The campfire changes, now it’s a stage or a theater. The people speaking and listening live and die. The characters change. But the stories stay the same, as does our desire to hear and to tell them anew.

And always, without fail, the story concludes. If we’re lucky, satisfyingly, and we arise to go back to our day. Working, cleaning, building, traveling, but still holding those stories, tucked in the back of our mind as we go. I suppose there’s a magic in that, too.

Internet people matter to me

I’m dabbling with putting a little more “me” in my art. Talking about things that aren’t necessarily tailored to monetization. Videos that don’t actually serve any purpose, like music and dancing. Just art for its own sake. Once I’ve created it, it’s done.

Well, not quite done — the final step is seeing what reaction it creates (if any), and seeing what my reaction to that reaction says about me. Here are the few reactions I’m expecting and their implications.

No one cares. This is generally the reaction I expect when I upload YouTube videos that aren’t about dental hygiene or protective hairstyles. This would reaffirm that my audience doesn’t especially care to hear my “takes” on things, and that I should continue creating videos for me as the most important audience, since no one’s especially pressed.

Some people care. This would be a delightful surprise. I can see myself engaging back and forth with folks in the comment section. Getting those hits of dopamine when I see I have responses in my notifications. This would buoy me as I continue creating because the vacuum of Internet space would feel far less hostile.

A lot of people care. This would take me aback. This would make me question the value I’ve ascribed to myself and take that same eye toward other areas of my life. This would make me think deeply about the next piece of content I put out. I would probably begin to feel pressure that the people who hit Subscribe genuinely care about my work, and weren’t just mindlessly reacting to the prompt at the end of my videos.

In all these instances, I would still create and I would still share, but the joy of the process might change. Part of me wishes that I was strong enough that no matter the response, I could still create art that is true to myself. It’s humbling to realize that my connections to people online, folks I’ll never meet and never know, has power of me. Though I suppose recognizing this reality is the first step, and the next will be doing something about it.

How I Stopped Complaining

I used to include just a single affirmation, “Every day in every way, I am getting better and better,” in my morning routine. Over the years, this has blossomed into several paragraphs describing how I show up, multiple Bible verses about my faith, a few lines of poetry about my new city, and a slick 6-page slide deck vision board about my future. (I might be overdoing it.)

The combined affect of all this affirming and reflection is that I start every day grounded in my goals and go to bed each night understanding how closer I am.

A few key ideas from Greg McKeown’s philosophy of Essentialism have always been in the mix of my morning routine, but for reasons I will unpack on my own later, they’ve started to resonate with me more.

These are the “core truths” from the philosophy I’ve started to chew on:

“I choose to.“

“Only a few things really matter.“

“I can do anything but not everything.“

Actually, let’s unpack why these things are hitting extra hard right now. I think when you’ve been in the same place, whether physically, emotionally, professionally, or however else, things fall into patterns, rhythms, they take on a certain flow. When you suddenly change these circumstances, it’s like dropping a boulder into a lake. There’s a violent upending of everything that was once settled and these waves only calm with time.

It can feel chaotic being in the place between major change and the moment everything settles. I’m in that chaos now. That’s why belief systems that provide order and structure are incredibly attractive to me, and the simpler the better.

"I choose to” as a three word mantra has been a game-changer, especially combined with the recognition that only a few things really matter, anyway.

Now, whenever I think about doing something hard, something that will challenge me, something that pushes me out of my comfort zone or causes me to be vulnerable, instead of complaining, I ask myself why.

The answer is always the same. I’m making this extra effort because I believe the results will bring me closer to my goals. Goals that are aligned with the few things in life that I have decided really matter. No one is making me do it, and if I wanted to, I could quit. But I don’t. Because I’m an adult with agency, and everything choice I make is mine.

Moving to a New City is Easy

Lol just kidding. It’s terrible and hard.

BUT. There’s a reason the city you're in now isn’t doing it for you. And chances are you don’t feel like trying to make it work there anymore. Or maybe you just want to see new places, meet different people, see the real affects of culture and lifestyle on your joy and contentment.

I moved to Los Angeles because I love living in cities with mountains in the distance. I moved because I love the idea of a city of creatives, of dreamers. I moved because I love sunshine and I think I’m cute and I like the idea of being cute in the sunshine with other cute people. I moved because I think The Big One is going to happen any day now and I like being where the action is.

After a month I can confidently say I made the right choice. The city is huge so every day feels like an adventure. The city is iconic and walking down the street feels like walking through history. The city is teaming with people and I see the talented, the beautiful, the hardworking, the regular, the ambitious, the chill all sharing the same lanes of traffic. And now I know that LA traffic really is a killer in a way you can’t comprehend until you’ve been on a public bus for 60 minutes.

The hardest part of moving to a new city is realizing how much work living a life you love really takes. Every day you decide who you spend your time with. Where you go. What you eat. What you learn. How you grow. Some people don’t realize this is their cross to bear and let their lives go on autopilot. But once you understand you are firmly in the drivers’s seat, nestled in the cockpit, holding the reins, steering the ship, gripping the handle bars of this Bird scooter called life, anytime you DON’T choose to make this a life you’re proud of, you know who’s to blame.

On that note, people who don’t support electric scooters are classist climate change deniers who hate freedom and love fossil fuels. Don’t @ me.

I Jumped Off a Bridge (and You Can Too!)

Usually a leap of faith isn’t meant literally.

When I spent the weekend in Guatapé, Colombia I didn’t even realize I would be taking one. The experience was already better than I was expecting. The group of us, who had been traveling together for 11 months with Remote Year, rode on the top of vans down the breathtaking countryside, hiked up to see landscape views easily inspired by the Garden of Eden, and wandered through a town seemingly lost in time, all while eating delicious Colombian food and listening to the music played by locals.

These moments were all lovely and remarkable. But there was a familiar comfort in them. There were no stakes. Nothing was being asked of me except to lounge in a hammock, sip a beer, and take it all in. Well not until we came across the long yellow bridge, it’s lemon-tinted metal stretching across the river.

Read more on Shut Up and Go.

What Does International Allyship Look Like During Pride Month?

As a heterosexual Black woman, the identities I often use to examine a culture and its history as I travel are based on race, gender, and occasionally class. One lens I’m privileged to not have to consider as deeply is sexual orientation and presentation.

In general, traveling abroad opens your eyes in all the expected ways. You try new food. You test new languages. You explore new geographies. But after nine months of non-stop international travel (I could have had a whole baby in this time!), I have found that one particular aspect of travel rattles me the most. That is when you find out how the people of your temporary home treated those that look like you. And those that don’t.

Read more on Shut Up and Go.

3 Ways to Save Money When Living Abroad

There is no feeling like leaving familiar territory for the cities and countries you’ve only visited in your dreams. But regardless of whether you’re walking the streets of Tokyo, lounging on a beach in Ghana, or hiking the trails of Patagonia, you’ll need to make sure your bank account remains as healthy as your Instagram feed. I’m here to help. After months of living abroad, here are three things I do to save money that you should seriously try:

Read more on Shut Up and Go.

3 Ways to Not Die When Dating Internationally

We all know true love knows no bounds and recognizes no visa requirements. We also know that what you’re looking for when you’re lonely and swiping on Tinder and Bumble from your hostel or a random cafe where you can’t pronounce any of the menu items, could not even loosely be described as love. But for the sake of this article, let’s pretend that it is.

The warm embrace of a stranger is somehow even more appealing when you’re hundreds of miles from home, and the best part is that the two possible endings are either glorious (international love affair) or NBD (forgettable foreign fling). There is, of course, that third option: MURDER.

Read more on Shut Up and Go.

Geishas are Not Sex Workers: A Reflection on Travel in Japan

I saw the movie Memoirs of a Geisha a few plane rides ago. Wanting to learn something about the city and the culture I would soon be spending a month living in, Kyoto, Japan, I did what any reasonable person would do. I ignored books and articles and went straight to the movies.

If you haven’t seen it (and knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t recommend it), the film tells the story of a young girl being sold by her family to a geisha house where she learns from a young age how to entertain rich men in exchange for financial security. The main drive of the movie is her desire to be “sponsored” by a man who was kind to her as a child (ew) following her debut performance.  This debut is a means to showcase her talent and attract the highest bidder to her virginity. Like I said, ew.

Read more on Shut Up and Go.

Three Things I Learned from the Monks in Thailand

One of the delights of Chiang Mai, Thailand (and there are many), is that as you wander through the unmarked streets, smog lovingly stretching across the horizon, as you pass the countless temples, you might randomly cross paths with a monk. Adorned in orange, their hair cut close, monks blend in seamlessly with the city. Up until now, I had only seen monks through American TV and film. The experience of actually sitting down and having a full discussion with one moved me to rethink a number of assumptions I had placed on these people draped in saffron. Here are three things that stuck with me from our conversation. Read more on Shut Up and Go.