by Ifie Natasha

There is this ability we have. The ability to die over and over while trying desperately to look alive. Putting on makeup and cute clothes to feel beautiful. Convincing ourselves that we have to keep going or life will drown us with no remorse. We wake up early and sleep late. We're the backbone to the skyscraper visions of our husbands. We're the bearer of gifts called new life. The ability to undergo units of pain and still put on high heels and tight clothing. We bleed and endure pain while being the hero in everyday life yet no one is saving us. Call me dramatic, but all I am trying to say is that women are the ish.

Last night, I was thinking about everything that I needed to do today. I had just finished cleaning the house, washing the dishes and folding laundry at about 10:30 pm. I crawled into bed to do work on my computer while simultaneously planning a day that hadn't even shown its face yet. Within 30 minutes, my husband walked through the door with a smile on his face. I wanted so badly to have prepared something for him to be happy with. A snack, an ambiance, some lingerie. But I was so tired and focused on the tasks ahead that I just managed to say "hey baby". I thought about a woman I know. A woman that told me that she creates a welcoming atmosphere for her husband when he gets home. She gets off her phone, has dinner prepared, and greets him with a smile and sultry voice. She's intentional about making sure her husband loves coming home. I thought about her, and shook my head. I've tried. I've tried to be that woman. And now that we've added a growing, sassy infant to the mix, some days it's a wonder that I'm able to greet my husband with a smile. With the help of God, I'm even able to cook and provide him with love making most days.
This isn't a pity party. It's a confession of reality and struggle. Answering a million questions a day and having to think for everyone else around you. To the point where you find yourself asking for help just to think for yourself. Being a full time wife, full time mother and then finding a way to be a full time me. Somehow finding balance in loving my family to life and loving myself the same. No, you shouldn't have to choose but some days I do. I remember one day asking a friend, "who takes care of the woman that's taking care of everyone else?" Her answer: "Jesus". Laughable, but so true. This also isn't a comparison party. I'm not here to talk about what I do vs what my husband does. I'm simply speaking for the women that relate. The women that also struggle with being full time everything all day, everyday. I find myself stressed sometimes simply because I want so badly to focus on my career or my personal development but I have to wrestle with what takes priority. Yes, it's super cute in the pictures, and it's a blessing to have a family. It's also a reality that you never really know what you're signing up for until you're in it. And at that point you either thrive or you run. And running is not an option. So you thug it out and unintentionally become a superhero. The problem with that, is that we don't consider that superheroes need sleep. Or the chance to recharge. Or the right to focus on yourself for a day. Or a week. So we keep going and going and going until we find ourselves incapable of moving forward. Mentally, physically, spiritually and emotionally tired yet still trying to maintain a fresh face. We cover up the bags under our eyes instead of finding time to rest. We cry in the shower so that no one sees our tears. We walk with a limp in private so we don't get asked questions. And even when we're at 13%, needing to be plugged in to a power source, we function as if we're at 1000%. We function on autopilot.

I wouldn't ever trade being a woman, or a wife, or a mother. But I will admit that it is hard trying to maintain all three while keeping sanity and happiness within arms reach. I'm not here to take away from the journey of the husband, the father, the sister or the friend. I'm just here to speak on my life and the struggle to thrive in every area. Women, stop putting yourselves last. At the very least, rest. Let God take the burdens that you have decided to carry yourself. Ask Him for help. Ask others. Take care of yourself. And consider that a dying superhero isn't capable of saving anyone.

Ifie Natasha is a Writer, poet, wife & Mother! She loves people, storytelling, God, Lauryn Hill and romantic comedies. She is a modern day hippie revolutionary on a journey to living life in the most abundant way possible. She believe in life transformation, crazy hair colors, and the freedom to be whoever you were created to be! She lives in Atlanta with her husband and beautiful baby girl.

by Lola Mitchell

My husband has seen my hair in various styles over the years. Some of them he has liked, some not so much. He has followed me to the beauty supply store and lamented the amount of time box-braids take to get done. I would calmly explain my reasoning for so many hair products and the necessity of a few hours to wash condition and re-braid my hair, just to put it under a wig. To be fair, I, too, was frustrated with the amount of time my hair took to wash, style, deep condition and more, until I learned the best methods to detangle my hair.

Many years ago, I saw an interview with Halle Berry. In this interview, Halle explained the reasons why she went with a new hairstyle, leaving behind her pixie cut for extensions. She explained that the hair style change was for work, but she liked it so she kept the look. She also explained that whenever she got the extensions installed by her hairstylist, who came to the house, she asked her boyfriend at the time, Gabriel Aubry, to leave. At the time I laughed as did the studio audience, but I was also perplexed. Halle’s boyfriend was a model. So, wasn’t he used to seeing women get extensions? Why was this something to hide? Not to mention that Halle had what the Black community used to call good hair so what did it matter if she chose to get extensions? I mean she still had beautiful hair. It upset me that as Black women we’ve always had to “do something” with our hair. And the something was supposed to be a mystery.
Eventually the “natural hair moment” took place, and our hair was no longer that mysterious. Girls were showing us how to lay edges, twist-out, braid-out, and pluck the heck out of a lace front. They were doing it openly, discussing hair issues that many Black women only discussed with our closest friends and our hairstylist.

Outside of the community, there were myriad responses to Black girls and their big chops. Whether positive or negative everywhere you look you can see naturals wearing beautiful variations of curly, coily, and kinky hair.

Many brothers were coming out in support of our beautiful tresses, but accepting the two hours of co-washing, loc method, braid-out, twist-out was much easier than understanding what actually happens when women goes from relaxed to natural. The language does not automatically change, and words like “nappy” and “good hair” don’t magically get dropped from our vocabulary.

I had my husband wash my hair not too long ago. After that process, we shared an openness about my hair that we had not previously had. He is bi-racial, and has curly, coily hair. Some of the comments he’s made about black woman and our hair over the years were “questionable.” He was never cruel and did not have malicious intent, but he perpetuated stereotypes early on in by referring to his hair as “nappy” whenever it was frizzy or unruly.



After washing my hair, my husband’s tone when discussing it or my regimen has completely changed. The questions themselves may be the same, but instead of frustration or puzzlement, which made me defensive at times, he is honestly interested in what, exactly, I’m doing with my hair and what I’m putting in it. He even asks, “Do I need him to watch the baby so you can finish?” (Yes!) His compassion has helped eliminate the barrier that’s often present between Black men and women when it comes to acceptance of our hair. When questions like “are you leaving your hair like that?” became “babe I saw a cool protective style on tumblr I think you would love,” (true story) It produces honesty and dialogue in a relationship where every girl should be allowed to be truly bare and at her best.
Over time his views on hair have changed because of the natural hair movement and the overall awareness he’s gained by dating and marrying a Black woman with kinky hair. Though he would still get frustrated with the amount of time it took to wash my hair or make comments like, “you should wear your hair like this or that” when it was clear that the hairstyle was for a different texture or length of hair.

I won’t say that he’s a YouTube hair guru now, but after washing and styling my hair, my husband has completely changed his tune. He understands more about texture and takes his time finger detangling our daughter’s hair with pride. For so long, not only have Black women not understood our hair, but neither have Black men, and it’s time for that to change. In our house, the only good hair is healthy hair.

Photo: Shutterstock


Lola Mitchell is a Youtuber who recently started a channel with her husband called Mitchandlo xo. She's also the author of Lola's Prayer Cocktail and the mother of a beautiful 1-year-old named Autumn.

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The sun blares through the blinds of an unfamiliar room. It takes a few blinks for you to put together the pieces of your night. The disheveled room décor is a pretty good indication that fun was had. The light snore of the person next to you is comforting but their scent is one that is unfamiliar to you. This is not the person you are used to. They are not your significant other.

The remnants of the night confirm your infidelity.

When the great Martin Luther King Jr. (MLK) was just a kid, a woman by the name of Funmilayo Ransome Kuti was in the frontlines of a movement for gender equality and political independence half a world away.

Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti (FRK) was a pivotal Nigerian feminist and nationalist leader who organized women and the disenfranchised against injustice.

She was the mother of Fela Kuti, a man often regarded as a prophet and the great aunt of one of Nigeria’s most illustrious writers, Nobel Prize Laureate Wole Soyinka. For many Nigerians Funmilyao was like Gloria Steinem, Malcolm X, Harriet Tubman and MLK rolled into one.

I have an addiction.

I anticipate my next hit, and feel at ease once the chemical has done its job.

No, it’s not what you think. I’m not doing any harsh drugs, or sweating because I’ve popped mollies.

Ammonium thioglycolate is my drug of choice. Whether you know it by its scientific name or as a conk, relaxer or perm, I feel no remorse for taming my kinks and curls.

I dragged myself to class, just as I do every day.

Sociology of African Americans wasn’t the class I thought it would be. I could think of a million and one places I wanted to be besides in that classroom. On top of being completely and utterly over school, I forgot that my professor mentioned that we would be having a guest speaker.

If I would have remembered this a little earlier, this might have been the perfect day to skip. But I was already sitting in my usual seat, and I had my computer to keep me busy just in case I wanted to tune out our guest.

“Blacks…racism…white people.” This sounded just like 99% of the classes I had already taken at Howard, and I wasn’t seeing any reason why I should pay attention.