I wrote this as a love letter to my own exhaustion, to the version of me who kept showing up even when no one noticed. It came from that moment when you’ve given your all, and someone still asks for more, when the love starts to feel like a transaction, and you start wondering if you’re only valued when you’re giving. It’s about the weight of black tax, of being the fixer, the eldest daughter, the silent backbone, and still being told to wait your turn.
But it’s also about the shift, the one that comes when you finally say: enough. When you choose yourself, not because you stopped loving others, but because you remembered you’re allowed to love yourself, too. I wrote this for the girl in me who wanted more, the mother in me who refuses to pass down lack, and the woman in me who’s building something she’s never seen before. This is the end of self-sacrifice and the beginning of overflow.
They say the hustle pays,
but sometimes all it pays is exhaustion.
I used to believe stability meant clocking in,
wearing my corporate badge like armor,
designing gardens I’d never walk in,
under fluorescent lights
that never felt like sunlight.
I love what I do,
designing, shaping places with plants.
But what of my own garden?
The one I keep neglecting,
too drained after 10-hour shifts,
boxed in by walls and a blinking screen,
erased from site visits
where only supervisors or lighter-skinned folks
get to taste Diani sun.
I’m left behind, again.
I’m not even angry,
just done.
Done waiting for recognition.
Done being told to wait a year for a raise,
while my cost of living, my mother, my son,
they can’t wait.
I dream of running.
Not away, but towards,
towards my gift shop,
built from late nights and leftover hope.
I remember the thrill:
traveling, delivering joy,
discovering beauty,
feeling alive,
not this routine
that kills me in coffee-fueled captivity.
Today my mother asked for money again,
and I swear my soul screamed.
It wasn’t just the ask,
it was the echo of all the asks before it.
It was knowing I sent something last week,
enough to cover a month’s expenses, snacks, shoes,
all accounted for.
But now it’s like no one remembers.
And I’m expected to stretch again,
break again,
play the fixer,
the daughter-who-always-comes-through, again.
Even when I’ve said, “There’s nothing left,”
they see the surface
and assume I’m still floating.
She said it was for tuition,
but I’d already sent it.
What stung wasn’t the need,
but the forgetting of my “no,”
the invisible boundary
that keeps getting stepped over
because I wear resilience too well.
Because my son still doesn’t have shoes to go out in.
When I say, “I don’t have it right now,”
the air goes quiet.
No “I understand,” no “take care”,
just the ghost of a message marked seen.
Sometimes a cold “ok” slips through,
as if my worth dropped with my wallet.
It hurts
how love feels conditional
when the money runs out.
They mean well,
but love wrapped in entitlement is still a burden.
This is black tax.
This is poverty’s shadow,
a weight passed down like hand-me-down clothes
that never quite fit
but you wear anyway
because there’s no other choice.
They say respect your elders,
but how do I respect being drained?
How do I honor love
that feels like obligation?
I love my mother,
but I can’t be the bank, the plan, the solution
every time.
I’m a daughter, yes,
but I’m also a mother now.
And my son’s future
can’t be the sacrifice that funds my past.
I’m not ungrateful.
I remember the porridge in chipped mugs,
the quiet sacrifices.
But I also remember
asking for shoes and hearing,
“We’ll see next month.”
I remember being told to dream within reason.
I remember the fear
when I said I wanted more.
But I want my son to ask for the moon,
and I say,
“Sure, what phase?”
I want abundance to be our new normal,
not just survival,
not just coping.
Because I am not my job.
Not the exhausted yes-girl in meetings
where the loudest get bonuses,
while the rest of us carry the weight.
I am not a body
meant for 10 hours behind a desk,
3 more in traffic,
then home with nothing left
to give my child but my absence.
I remember my graduation,
no party, no celebration.
They said they couldn’t afford it.
But for chama, the party money is always there.
The minute we’re paid,
their needs come first,
no one ever asks how I am.
Now my son has no shoes for church,
but I’m still the solution
for everything else.
They call me strong,
because I keep showing up,
because I say yes even when I’m breaking,
because I give
and the only thanks is silence.
But strength isn’t the absence of exhaustion.
It’s breaking quietly,
crying in locked bathrooms,
wishing someone would ask,
“How are you, really?”
I’m tired of being the backup plan
for everyone but myself.
Tired of holding things together
while my dreams crumble.
It ends with me.
It must.
I can’t keep surviving jobs
that leave me empty.
Can’t keep trading dreams
for paychecks gone by the 15th.
I don’t want my son to think
lack is normal,
sacrifice is expected,
that women must pour until they vanish.
I want him to know overflow.
I want to be home,
not just a voice at night.
I want to witness his milestones,
not hear them in passing.
I want more,
for both of us.
I picture him here.
Running down the house,
filling my space with crumbs and questions.
I want to be there when he shouts, “Mama, look!”
Be the hand helping with homework,
the voice that says, “You can be anything.”
Not in theory,
in truth.
In presence.
He is my why.
And I will build this life
so he knows freedom is his birthright.
I’ll teach him money doesn’t only come from pain.
That purpose can build wealth,
and joy can be part of the journey.
There’s a little girl in me
who dreamed in watercolor,
unapologetic, radiant.
She never saw cubicles.
She wanted to paint, to plant, to create.
She’s been quiet for years,
shrinking in survival.
But lately,
I’ve started choosing for her.
Giving her back her crayons.
And this time,
I’m not trading her sparkle for approval.
I used to wait,
for a friend,
a partner,
a grant,
an investor.
But no one’s coming.
Everyone’s saving themselves.
So I will save me.
I’ll learn:
marketing, pricing, design.
Buy the printer.
Get the shop.
Market like hell
until nights are filled with packaging,
not regret.
Let them say I changed,
became unavailable,
selfish.
I’m not giving up on them,
I’m giving from overflow.
No more bleeding to be seen.
This dream is not a hobby.
It’s my legacy.
I want workshops,
a studio,
a team of Black women building beauty.
Soft mornings.
Financial ease.
Freedom to choose.
Even in chaos,
the universe listens when I breathe.
When I let go,
miracles slip in,
the lorry that came just in time,
the job I didn’t beg for.
There’s magic in surrender.
Even when I’m tired,
my spirit whispers,
“Hold on. Watch.”
And life meets me
at the edge of my faith.
Yes, sales dip.
Yes, customers ghost.
But I’ve seen what I can do.
I’ve delivered across cities.
Wrapped gifts with my soul.
I am the brand.
And I’m all in.
I won’t stay in systems
where my light is dimmed,
my ideas stolen,
my harvest eaten
while I get crumbs.
I’m tired of “just wait one more year.”
The rent doesn’t wait.
Bills don’t wait.
Black tax doesn’t wait.
My son’s shoes can’t wait.
And my dreams have waited long enough.
I’m not asking for too much.
I just want a life that feels like mine.
To wake without dread.
Sleep without guilt.
Spend my hours in creation.
Hug my son without rushing.
I’m done overgiving.
Done funding their lives
while mine pauses.
This time, I choose me.
My business.
My son.
My art.
My freedom.
I want to create in peace.
Grow plants.
Dance in sunlight.
Ship love in every box.
Laugh again.
And yes,
I want money.
Not for greed.
For grace.
To buy what I want.
Rest when I need.
Tell my son, “Dream as big as the sky,
I’ll back you up.”
I want him to see
you can build from scratch.
Rise.
Create a life you don’t escape from.
I thought I was lazy.
Or ungrateful.
But my soul was just allergic to cages.
I miss myself,
the girl who dreamed out loud.
Who designed with poetry.
Built magic with her hands.
Delivered joy, door to door.
She’s still here,
tired, maybe,
but alive.
And I’m listening to her now,
not the voice that says “stay,”
or “at least it’s stable,”
or “who will catch you if you fall?”
Because I will.
I will support me.
Invest in me.
Build the empire.
Craft joy.
Wrap magic.
Grow.
One day they’ll say,
“She had a nice job,why did she leave?”
They won’t know
that “nice” was killing me.
They won’t see the rent panic,
the payroll tears,
the joy worn like a uniform.
They won’t know
how many denied raises felt like theft.
How praise without promotion
cuts deeper than silence.
They won’t know
I stayed too long
because I feared losing everything.
But I know.
And I’m done.
The real risk
is waking up 10 years from now
still micromanaged,
still gaslit,
still begging for a raise
that was never mine.
I’m walking away from crumbs.
Toward the feast.
Even if I build it from scratch.
Even if all I have is my name,
my son,
and my stubborn refusal
to settle.
This is my season of overflow.
Of owning my hours.
Of being present, paid, and peaceful.
Of making art, love, and money
without permission.
This time,
I buy myself the flowers.
Raise my son the way I dreamed to be raised.
And make the little girl in me
proud.
I see it,
a studio with golden light,
plants on the sill,
orders across the globe.
My name on packages.
My art in hands I’ll never meet.
Adriel’s laughter echoing off the balcony,
his feet dancing on floors I paid for.
Candles lit.
Music humming.
Money flowing as I sleep.
And peace,
not as vacation,
but as home.
This time,
I choose me.
And I’m not turning back.
Some days I still second-guess, still stretch myself thin, still wish someone would check in and ask how I’m really doing. But what I do know is this: I’m done waiting for applause, permission, or perfect timing. If choosing myself means people see me differently, then so be it. If saying no makes me seem cold, that’s fine. I’d rather be whole than be liked for the version of me that kept bleeding to be enough.
I’m learning to give from abundance, not obligation. I’m learning to honor my son’s future without sacrificing my own. And I know now, I am not wrong for wanting more. I am not selfish for dreaming of freedom. I am not dramatic for finally saying, “I can’t keep doing this.” I am simply rising. And this time, it’s for real. No plan B. No turning back. Just me, my son, my gifts, and this sacred decision to build a life I don’t need to recover from.
