You Don’t Own Me.

I have a sticky note on my mirror that says, “People are experiences. I do not own anyone and no one owns me”. I look at it daily because I’ve always valued loyalty, commitment, and longevity. I once believed that when I opened my heart and my life to you, you will and should remain there forever.

You’re mine. You’re my friend. You’re my spouse. You’re my family member. Mine. Mine. Mine.

That way of thinking made things difficult when people left my life for any reason. On the flip side, I would remain in other’s lives no matter how uncomfortable it was to be there. Because I’m yours. Forever. I wanted to be “claimed” by others. It made me feel valued and worthy. Endings would devastate me.

What feels like so much loss in my life, I had to learn how to release. Release relationships that didn’t serve me. Release myself from the clutches of people who drained me. Allowing myself to be released by people who didn’t value me and to be real, maybe I didn’t enhance their life either.

People are experiences. This whole life is an experience. You can own cars, property, assests, but we don’t own people. When we view people this way, we are more grateful for the time that we have them. We appreciate what they mean to us in the moment. We appreciate them for the lessons they bring, whether they leave or if they stay.

We owe nothing to each other. You don’t own me. And I don’t own you. Let’s just enjoy the experience.


Traveling can show you alot. I love people watching and the airport is the perfect place to do so. Today as I was traveling back from Puerto Rico, I noticed lots of couples and families. I particularly paid attention to the men and how they moved with their girlfriends and wives.

I saw care. I saw attentiveness. I saw love. I saw chivalry.

The “chivalrous gentleman” is an individual who uses courtesy and thoughtfulness to demonstrate commitment, respect, compassion, and trust.

I saw men carrying their women’s bag along with their own. I saw men holding their babies tight. I saw men ensuring that their families were safe. I literally saw a man tie his woman’s shoes because she didn’t have room to bend down. I looked at these couples with admiration, but also (I hate to admit) envy. When I used to travel with my significant other, it was a time of dread and anxiety for me. Flying makes me nervous because I’m always afraid that I will forget my ID or passport. Or I will hold up the line. Or I will miss my flight. Flying with another person, especially one you love should put some of those fears at ease, but for me, it heighten them. I always felt rushed. Or that I would be easily left behind (and sometimes I was).

If you walk behind me, you might as well walk 10 steps behind”.

This has been said to me several times as a “joke”, but it made me feel small. Unimportant. I felt no sense of security or protection. There was no holding of bags. Or holding my hand. There was no gentleness with me. No concern or care. She’s strong and independent, so there is no need to look out for her, right?

Today, on the flight back to Atlanta, I traveled alone. I sat down next to a couple and the man was in the middle seat. When he saw me preparing to sit in the aisle seat, he opened the seat belt for me. I sat down and he ensured that I was able to buckle myself in. At first I was nervous because my first thought was, “His girl is right there! He shouldn’t even be looking at me!” But she was not phased. I assumed she was secure in her relationship and knew her man was just showing kindness. I thanked him and gave my greetings to her and we were well on our way.

I fought back tears during the flight because of this small gesture. It seems crazy, but I believe this was God’s way of showing me that there is still chilvary out there. There is still kindness out there. I don’t have settle for being left behind. I don’t have to accept feeling alone in a relationship. I am deserving of a gentleman.

I am a woman. No matter how strong I appear to be, I appreciate and value the protection and provision that a man can provide. And one day I will have it.

I Remember HER!

Between becoming a mother just a few short years ago, the pandemic last year, and just life in general, my femininity had taken a hit. Not only that, but I didn’t know what my identity was. Looking back now that I’m in a better place, I think I was fighting postpartum and some depression (or just hella sadness), but because of this “I have to be strong” mindset, I didn’t fall into those feelings.

I remember rolling out of bed most days even when having to go to work, not putting on makeup. Not ironing. Not caring. As long as I was clean, I was fine. No need for the razzle dazzle. And then when the pandemic hit and we were working from home, I really had no need to do much. I worked in my pjs, lounge wear, and forgot what make up was. I was doing double duty at that point. Working as a mom and at my regular job so who had time to worry about looking “cute”?

But the thing is, I like feeling cute. I like putting in effort in my appearance. I love clothes, shoes, and accessories. I love a fresh pedicure and manicure. I love putting on makeup and enhancing my beauty. I love everything that comes with being a woman. I just started putting everything and everyone first.

For the past few weeks I challenged myself to wear a dress everyday, put on heels, and put on makeup. For some this is a normal everyday routine. For others, you maybe like, “ummm but why”? For me it’s big. It’s a statement. It’s saying, “I am going to take some extra time out of my day to pour into myself”. I will no longer pour all of my energy into other people. I will no longer feel guilty in taking the time out to feel and look pretty.

There will never be enough time, until you make time.

Yesterday I put on a black dress, put on a statement necklace, pearl earrings, and bunned up my locs. I made up my face and slipped on some heels. I got so many compliments from my colleagues and even a kid stopped me in the hall to tell me, “I like your style”.

Look at that! I have style! Sherron has style.

Now I’m remembering who Sherron is.


I’m a black woman. I’ve always known I was black. From the moment I understood what race was. However, I never let it define me. I’ve just been a girl who became a woman. I never felt the need to put my blackness in the forefront. Never really saw how it affected me until recently.

When we talk about race, we automatically assume it’s about racism. Although I recognize that racism is all around us, this is not that kind of post. This is about me. A black woman. A black woman who doesn’t feel protected and I’m not sure if I ever have (with exception of my dad). And I’m wondering whose fault is that?

Protection does not just mean physically. It means emotionally as well. I have not felt emotionally safe in my relationships. I have not felt safe to rest. I have had to be strong constantly. I have had to be a work horse; always with 2 jobs or more. I have had to worry about everyone around me, take care of everyone around me, and neglect myself. I mention my blackness because this seems to be a theme for other black women I surround myself with and encounter.

And we are tired.

Who protects us when we have breakdowns? When we’re depressed? When we are exhausted? When we absorb all the anger and pain of our loved ones? When do we get to be soft and rest in our femininity?

Who takes care of us?

Is it our fault that we exude too much strength? Does it come from our distant past of being slaves? Working in the fields, in the house, taking abuse, being raped, breastfeeding all the babies, cooking all the food? Being ripped away from our husbands and children? Has that ability to take on pain just been passed down from generation to generation and we accept it as gospel?

Some could blame our men who have not learned to art of protecting, providing, and leading us. Most of them (including us) have been apart of broken homes and we have not been shown or taught what that type of household looks like.

I could come up with many excuses and reasons to why black women don’t feel safe. Many reasons why I don’t feel safe now. But the real issue is, how do we change it? Based on Malcolm X’s famous quote, this feeling, this issue is not new. But it’s something that needs to be addressed.

Protect the black woman.

Loving You.

My daddy tried. He tried to teach me how a man should treat a woman. He opened the doors for me. Took me on dates. Walked on the outside of me when we walked down the street. Showed me what affection looked like. And somehow I still ended up with men who did none of those things.

What I’ve realized is, no matter what he might have tried to show me or tell me I deserved, deep down I didn’t believe it. My self-esteem was non-existant growing up and even up into adulthood (I’m still working through finding the root of it).

I would write on sticky notes that, “I am the prize” and place them all over my house. I was hoping that if I saw it enough, I would adopt the mindset.

But I didn’t.

Every relationship I’ve ever been in, even in marriage, I’ve treated men like they were the prize. Like I was the lucky one if they gave me the time of day. If they called or texted me. If they took me out. If they wanted to be with me or marry me. Somehow that approval made me feel like I was worth something. Being something to somebody. But in reality, it is only made me feel even more unloved. Bitter. Resentful. Angry.

Until I love myself properly, I will never be loved properly by others. Until I see myself as worthy, no one will see that either.

I should be telling myself I’m the shit because I am. I’m as humble as they come, but I have to hype myself up. I’m intelligent, I’m ambitious, I’m hard-working, I’m savy, I’m financially stable, I’m a damn good mom, I’m sensitive, I’m compassionate, I’m empathic, and I don’t look too bad either. When I exude that confidence in myself, everyone around me sees it and responds to it.

That’s what I’m working on. Loving myself appropriately. That’s what we all should be working on. Doesn’t matter if you’re married, single, black white, green, or gold. When we treat ourselves with respect, kindness, and love, others have no choice but to do it too.

So how are you loving you?

Jayden’s Mom

I’m a boy mom. I’m praying that I don’t become the mom that everyone complains about.

The “My son is my King” mom.

The “Nobody is good enough for my son” mom.

The “My son does no wrong” mom.

I’m not gonna lie, it’s going to be hard. Because my Jayden is just a great human. He’s so full of life! He’s curious. His laughter is infectious. He’s bright. He’s bold. He’s absolutely adorable (which he gets from his mom by the way).

He’s only been on this earth for a few years, but he’s taught me so much about patience, patience, and more patience. But oddly enough, he’s taught me a great deal about love.

Like this dude loves me. Like really loves me. Likes me even. I realize that this may change as he gets older. He’ll get mad at me for taking his phone away or not letting him go to a party or giving my opinion about a girlfriend. But for now, my toddler likes me.

He looks for me when I’m there and not there. He gives me hugs and kisses when I ask and even when I don’t. I think he thinks I’m funny and fun to be around. He dances and sings with me. He enjoys me. He’s taught me that I’m a pretty great person to be around.

He sees me. And boy, oh boy I can’t tell you how important that is.

To be seen.

This little dude has set the standard. He’s shown me how to love myself better. How to take care of myself so I can take care of him. And he’s shown me in his small, unawaring way, how others should be treating me.

Like I’m somebody. Because I am.

I’m Jayden’s mom.


It’s not just about penetration of the body.

I need pentration of the soul.

I need connection.

I need devotion.

I need protection.

Every inch of me needs to feel secure.

We concentrate so much on the act of sex, that we forget intimacy. The closeness of being with another person. Being able to let our guards down. To be ourselves. To be free.

We forget to look deep in our lover’s eyes. To say what we mean and mean what we say.

We forget to grab their hand in public; a simple gesture that says, “You’re mine”.

We forget to touch their arm, rub their head, place their face in our hands. Gentle touches that say, “I love you”.

We forget to be close. A simple hug at the end of the day that says, “Lay your burdens down. Rest.”

We forget to kiss them softly and deeply. Acts to say, “I want you”.

And the things we forget can be the demise of our relationships.

Don’t forget intimacy.

Celebration or Toleration?

You know what I love to see? People celebrating the ones they love. Proud to post pictures of their family. Give a birthday shout out. Share an anniversary dedication. Or just a random Man crush Monday or Woman crush Wednesday.

So often you see one person/spouse/significant other (usually the woman) posting the trips, smiling faces during dates, and affectionate declarations of love. And then you go on their partner’s page (usually the man) and that same person who is singing praises is no where to be found.

I’ll use myself as an example. If you look on my Facebook and Instagram it won’t take you long to know that I’m married. You will see a few pictures of my wedding, posts celebrating our anniversary, and random “Look at my husband, I’m so in love posts”. Then if you take a look at my husband’s, you wouldn’t even know we were married. He looks like an eligible bachelor. There’s not one picture of us together. Not one tag from me thats been approved. Not one share of my book or my accomplishments (which I asked him to share). And I can easily write this openly because he doesn’t have any interest in what I’m doing or writing.

Now I know some people are private and want to keep some things off of social media, but in this day and age, is anybody really THAT private?

If your significant other is not excited about you, not celebrating you, not proud of you, then why are with them? They should be your biggest cheerleader. Supporting your hopes and dreams. Happy about your new job. Investing in the business. Promoting your book. Shouting the loudest when you got your degree. And posting a simple, fucking picture of you.

And it goes beyond social media, but hey, that’s a start.

So let’s ask ourselves, are we being celebrated or tolerated?

Decisions, Decisions.

“It all starts with a decision”, he said.

That simple phrase has made me think about every decision I’ve made up until this point. And now it has made me really think about my future decisions.

The decision to go left or right can lead you to a road of joy or pain. It’s scary because it’s Russian Roulette and if you’re anything like me, you over analyze everything.

Your decisions not only affect you, but the people that surround you. Friends. Family. People you love. People you work with.

But the thing about making choices is that you have the ability to change your mind and your circumstances. You have the free will to change your situations. The old saying of “You made your bed, now lie in it” may be true, but the truth is you can get up. You have the ability to get comfortable under the covers or throw them off and make the next decision.

So exercise your right to make decisions; to marry, to divorce, to apply for the job, to quit the job, to move to another state, to stay at home. Do it all or do nothing at all. It’s your decision.

But it all starts with a decision.

Enjoy your freewill.

Enough is enough.

Have you ever found yourself going down the rabbit hole of Facebook? You’re on a friend’s page and see a tag of a mutual friend, which leads you to another page. Then on their page you see a picture of a familiar face. An ex.

The ex that broke your heart. That spent years disappointing you. Stealing time from you. Deceiving you. Until finally you couldn’t take it anymore and you left.

Even though time has passed and you haven’t thought one minute about that ex, somehow you end up lurking on their page. And you see their shiny new family. Their loving spouse. Their newborn baby. Their new house. It’s not that you want those things with them anymore, but you can’t help but wonder why they couldn’t give them to you back then.

Thoughts creep up like:

What was it about me that made them shit on me?

Was I not loving?

Was I not kind?

Did I not give them everything I had?

Was I not smart enough? Good looking enough?

I’m here to tell you that you are enough. That ex wasn’t ready for you then. Not everyone is meant for you or prepared to handle your greatness. And at that time, they weren’t.

Beside that, we all grow and change with time. The same person who was immature and treated you like crap at 20, can mature and treat another like royalty in their 30s.

So enough is enough. Stop beating yourself up over past relationships. You were, are, and always will be enough for the right person.