The Queen’s Quill

I think I’m finally ready to talk.

I should have known it was going to be an interesting journey when, on my first night in the city, I was welcomed with tornado sirens. I remember lying on a cot in my new apartment thinking, Where’s James Spann?! Thankfully, the weather wasn’t as bad as predicted. One of my first stops in the city was Nothing Bundt Cakes. The sentimentalist in me made sure one of my final stops was there too.

And then things just continued to trend in the most unexpected directions. Kobe. Gigi. Those other precious souls. Floods in the city. Then COVID.

I remember thinking, God, You sent me to Mississippi where I know exactly one person through a mutual friend, and now You’re shutting everything down? You’re really trying to get my attention.

I can’t even pretend it wasn’t scary. There were moments when I thought, What if I get sick here? Who’s coming to take care of me? I was so grateful for every opportunity to escape home to Tuscaloosa whenever possible. There were drives when I barely saw another car on the road. Talk about creepy.

Initially, I only planned to give you two years. My attitude was simple: I can always go home.

After COVID, I thought maybe I should give it another year since we couldn’t really be outside anyway. The next thing I knew, I was buying a house. Things escalate quickly in the ’Sip.

Listen, you gave me lessons that only being a single Black woman in Jackson, Mississippi could provide. At this point, I’m requesting that Jackson State University award me an honorary doctorate for my time in Jackson because I am the case study. I have a lot to share. I can’t say I was always a willing participant, and the same could probably be said about the residents of Jackson as well.

Through your rigorous academic program, I learned a lot about you—and even more about myself.

I can say with confidence that I am leaving as a very different woman.

When I would tell people I lived in Jackson, Mississippi, they often assumed I had family there. Eventually I would explain that I came for a job. No shade to you, Ms. Jackson, but I was trying to create my best life in Georgia.

People also often asked if Mississippi and Alabama were similar. I usually responded that they could be cousins.

Ms. Jackson, you have some amazing people in your city. They are resilient, hopeful, dedicated, and determined. Some of your residents became family over time. I am grateful for every Sunday dinner shared with people who quickly became family. Through the Change Collective, my Jackson family continued to grow. A super special thank you to the Black Women’s Roundtable Ambassadors, the brainchild of Paheadra, and an organization birthed by Mrs. Cassandra. I could keep going about the people I met during my time in Jackson. If our paths crossed you’re now in the archives too. You participated in the case study too! 

You also introduced me to HBCU Saturdays. Shout out to Alcorn and Thee Jackson State University. I was truly introduced to HBCU pride and culture thanks to Tougaloo’s Mother Eagle Queen.

Best Homecoming still goes to Tuskegee. Not up for debate.

I most definitely left with more than what I arrived with.

I am learning to be grateful for every lesson you taught me—again, I was not always a willing participant.

Somewhere along the way, you gave me some of my hardest lessons and some of my greatest gifts. There were losses I never expected and blessings I could not have planned. There were seasons that stretched me, broke me open, and forced me to grow. There were friendships that became family, opportunities that changed my life, and healing that happened quietly when I wasn’t even paying attention. Looking back, I realize that both the heartbreak and the joy were part of the same story.

I wanted this super clean exit. But honestly, why would I expect that after all the lessons taught over six and a half years? You were still testing me during my final hour in the city. Just know it involved a lost car.

The car was eventually located. I will give the dealership a special shout out AFTER I receive my car back. 

Ms. Jackson, if I’m being honest, I’m not entirely sure what comes next. What I do know is that the woman you helped raise will carry these lessons and relationships wherever she goes.

Healings happened in Jackson, Mississippi.

Home. I always knew there would come a time when I would want to go home. I would want to be closer to my village and my family. A lot of life happens in six and a half years. Recently, I’ve had the opportunity to sit down with old friends and catch up. I didn’t realize how much of each other’s lives we had missed simply because we were busy.

Ms. Jackson, I promise I won’t be a complete stranger. I’ll be back, and I’ll proudly represent. But for right now, we need some space.

You did a lot in those final days.

We’ll keep in touch.

With gratitude,

Equil

For years, my theology was very active.

Pray and work harder.

Trust God and create a spreadsheet.

Have faith and send the email.

Rest…after everything is finished.

I didn’t realize how much of my identity had become tied to productivity until life forced me to sit down.

Literally.

The funny thing is, the couch and I have history.

Long before I sold my house. Long before I resigned from my job. Long before I became a resident of the gray space between “what was” and “what’s next.”

The couch was one of my favorite spots.

Sometimes it was the only place I could really sleep.

I don’t know if it was the angle, the comfort, or the fact that my nervous system felt safer there than anywhere else, but the couch became a place where my body could finally exhale.

Back then, I thought it was just furniture.

Now I think it was a sanctuary.

The couch and I have been doing this work together for longer than I realized.

Years ago, during therapy, I refused to sit on the couch.

I preferred a chair.

The chair felt safer somehow. More structured. More controlled.

Looking back, that’s funny because control was often the very thing therapy was asking me to loosen my grip on.

Over time, something shifted.

The couch stopped feeling vulnerable and started feeling safe.

There were days I would show up to therapy carrying my own blanket.

Not because I was cold.

Because I needed comfort.

Because I was tired.

Because I was carrying things I didn’t yet have words for.

The blanket became a quiet permission slip.

Permission to be honest.

Permission to unravel.

Permission to stop performing.

Permission to show up exactly as I was.

I didn’t realize it then, but some of the most important work of my life was happening on that couch.

Not in a classroom.

Not in a boardroom.

Not during a presentation.

On a couch.

Talking through grief.

Untangling old stories.

Learning boundaries.

Learning how to rest.

Learning that my worth wasn’t tied to what I could accomplish for other people.

It’s funny now to realize that years later, in another season of transition, I keep finding myself back on a couch.

Different city.

Different circumstances.

Different chapter.

But maybe the lesson is the same.

The couch has never been where I went to give up.

It’s where I went to tell the truth.

Over the past several months, my life has looked nothing like I imagined.

I sold a house.

Moved out of a city I had called home for more than six years.

Lived without a permanent address.

Restarted medication.

Resigned from a job that was hurting me.

Watched plans change, relationships shift, and certainty disappear.

And where did I keep ending up?

On the couch.

At first, I judged myself for it.

I told myself I should be doing more.

Applying more.

Planning more.

Networking more.

Producing more.

My brain was operating like a corporate manager.

My body was filing formal complaints.

The conversations usually went something like this:

Desk Equil:
“We need a plan. A spreadsheet. Twelve applications. Three backup options. Let’s go.”

Couch Equil:
“Girl, I’m tired.”

And if I’m being honest, Couch Equil has been right more often than Desk Equil lately.

Some of the most important decisions I’ve made this year didn’t happen in a meeting.

They didn’t happen during a strategy session.

They didn’t happen while checking things off a list.

They happened under a blanket.

On the couch.

The realization that I couldn’t continue in my job.

The acceptance that I was exhausted.

The acknowledgment that I needed help.

The gratitude for the people who kept showing up for me.

The possibility that maybe—just maybe—God was doing something new.

Those weren’t panic thoughts.

They were clarity thoughts.

I’ve started calling this season Couch Theology.

It’s what happens when your spiritual growth takes place after the productivity is stripped away.

It’s the lessons you learn when you can no longer distract yourself with busyness.

It’s the uncomfortable question that surfaces when you’re not fixing, helping, teaching, organizing, leading, planning, or rescuing anyone:

Who am I when I’m not producing?

That’s a harder question than most Bible studies ever ask.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us learned to associate worthiness with usefulness.

We learned to believe that rest must be earned.

That slowing down requires permission.

That our value is measured by output.

Then life happens.

A loss.

A transition.

A burnout.

A season that refuses to respond to our carefully crafted plans.

And suddenly God meets us in places we never expected.

Not at the conference.

Not on the stage.

Not in the office.

On the couch.

I’ve always loved the story of Elijah.

After one of the biggest victories of his life, he crashed.

He was exhausted, afraid, and ready to quit.

God didn’t start with a lecture.

God started with rest.

Food.

Water.

Sleep.

Only after Elijah recovered did the next instructions come.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.

Maybe rest isn’t punishment.

Maybe it’s preparation.

Maybe it isn’t laziness.

Maybe it’s protection.

Maybe God isn’t disappointed that I’m on the couch.

Maybe He’s using the couch as a classroom.

The truth is, I still don’t know exactly what comes next.

I don’t know what job I’ll have.

I don’t know which opportunities will work out.

I don’t know which dreams are hobbies and which ones are assignments.

But I know this:

Somewhere between the naps, the prayers, the coffee, the medication, the laughter, the tears, the journal entries, the dance class, and the random business ideas, I’ve started hearing myself again.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

The couch isn’t the destination.

But it has been a faithful companion on the journey.

Turns out theology can happen anywhere.

Even under a blanket.

In 2006, I was voted Most Likely to Succeed.

Like many 18-year-olds, I thought success was a destination. A city. A degree. A career. A title. A house. A relationship. A collection of accomplishments proving I had arrived.

So I came out of the gate running.

I left Alabama for the University of Tennessee looking for a new identity. Later, I transferred to the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. My major changed. My friends changed. My career plans changed. My life changed.

Twenty years later, I found myself back in Tuscaloosa asking a very different question.

Not “What do I want to become?”

But “Who am I?”

Somewhere along the way, I started preparing for the wrong test.

I thought the exam was about achievement.

Can you build a career?

Can you buy a house?

Can you get the car on the vision board?

Can you survive hard things?

Can you find success?

Then life handed me a different exam booklet.

The house I once prayed for became the house I desperately prayed to sell.

The car on the vision board became the car I can’t currently drive.

Jobs changed.

Titles changed.

Plans changed.

And suddenly I was left with a question none of those things could answer:

Who am I when the labels get quiet?

The answer wasn’t in the next city.

It wasn’t in the next job.

It wasn’t in the next relationship.

It wasn’t in my resume, my social media profile, my credit score, or the opinion of my most recent supervisor.

The answer was in remembering who God says I am.

When I remember who He is and who I am in Him, the pressure comes off.

I don’t have to make every opportunity work.

I don’t have to force every season to last forever.

I don’t have to squeeze my identity out of temporary things.

Twenty years after being voted Most Likely to Succeed, I’m realizing success was never the destination.

Wholeness was.

And maybe the greatest success isn’t becoming someone new.

Maybe it’s remembering who God said you were all along.

One thing people don’t talk about enough is the emotional impact of doing “the right things” financially and still struggling.

Saving money.
Being responsible.
Separating accounts.
Planning ahead.
Trying to think long-term.
Avoiding reckless decisions.

And then one day realizing:
the math is no longer mathing.

For the past couple of years, I’ve been navigating the reality of being significantly underemployed while also deeply burned out.

At one point, my annual income dropped by around $24,000.

That changes things.

Not always dramatically at first.
Sometimes slowly.

You start withdrawing from savings.
Moving money around.
Trying to make strategic decisions.
Trying to buy yourself time while also hoping the next opportunity finally stabilizes things.

But eventually reality sets in:
you cannot continuously withdraw without replenishing.

Eventually the accounts get lower.
Eventually the stress grows louder.
Eventually even “responsible people” start feeling scared.

And then comes the mental loop.

Replaying:
“How did I get here?”
Over and over again like somehow the math is mysteriously going to change if you analyze it long enough.

Trying to pinpoint the exact decision.
The exact moment.
The exact turn where things shifted.

Especially high achievers.

Because somewhere along the way we absorbed the message that if we were smart enough, disciplined enough, organized enough, or hardworking enough, we should be able to keep everything together indefinitely.

But life is more complicated than that.

Burnout is expensive.
Transitions are expensive.
Healing is expensive.
Trial and error is expensive.
Learning financial literacy later in life can be expensive.
Trying to rebuild while exhausted can be expensive.

And honestly? Sometimes the options genuinely do feel like they keep hitting walls.

You try one thing.
Then another.
Then another.

You tell yourself:
“Just keep pushing.”
“Just hold it together a little longer.”
“Just survive this season.”

Meanwhile your nervous system is deteriorating under the pressure of trying to emotionally and financially sustain yourself at the same time.

One of the hardest truths for me to accept is that part of my struggle was not simply financial irresponsibility.

Some of it was burnout.
Some of it was lack of guidance.
Some of it was survival mode decision-making.
Some of it was trying to recover from years of emotional exhaustion while still needing to function.

And some of it is simply the reality that many people are struggling financially right now, even the responsible ones.

That realization softened some of my self-judgment.

Because for a long time I carried guilt about not being able to “hold it together” perfectly.

But maybe the goal was never perfection.

Maybe the goal was survival, learning, recalibration, and eventually building a softer, more sustainable life.

I’m still learning.
Still rebuilding.
Still figuring some things out.

But I no longer believe financial struggle automatically means personal failure.

Sometimes it means you’ve been carrying too much for too long without enough support, margin, or rest.

And sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is tell the truth:
“This season has been hard.”

One of the hardest things to explain is the moment you realize you are tired of surviving.

Not lazy.
Not ungrateful.
Not incapable.

Just…tired.

Tired of always figuring it out.
Tired of carrying everything.
Tired of functioning at high levels while quietly unraveling behind the scenes.
Tired of acting like constant pressure is normal.

I think for a long time I romanticized endurance.

Being “the strong one.”
The capable one.
The adaptable one.
The one who could survive transitions, stress, uncertainty, multiple jobs, financial pressure, emotional disappointments, and still somehow keep moving.

And to be fair, that strength carried me through a lot.

But lately I’ve started noticing something uncomfortable:

I no longer want a life built entirely around resilience.

That realization comes with grief.

Because when survival becomes part of your identity, softness can feel unfamiliar.
Even suspicious.

You start wondering:
Who am I if I’m not constantly overcoming something?
Who am I if life becomes slower?
Safer?
More stable?
More supported?

I’ve spent so much of my adult life taking care of myself that receiving care still catches me off guard.

Someone making sure I eat.
Someone asking if I made it home.
Someone noticing I’m tired before I admit it.
Friends stepping in without me having to perform strength first.

Those things should probably feel ordinary.

But for people who learned early that survival was their responsibility, gentleness can feel deeply emotional.

Lately I’ve realized I don’t actually want a dramatic life.

I want peace.
I want softness.
I want consistency.
I want a home that feels settled.
Work that feels sustainable.
Relationships where I can exhale.
Space to laugh, rest, create, and simply exist without constantly preparing for impact.

And maybe that’s the real transition happening right now.

Not just career changes or location changes.

But the quiet unraveling of the belief that my worth is tied to how much stress I can endure.

Maybe healing looks like learning that I can still be valuable even when I’m resting.

Maybe adulthood is not supposed to feel like emotional triathlon training every day.

Maybe strength is not disappearing.

Maybe strength is finally choosing a life that no longer requires me to stay braced all the time.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about food.

Not in a diet culture way.
Not in a “summer body” way.
More in a:
“What does nourishment feel like when your nervous system has spent years in survival mode?” kind of way.

Growing up, I was always small.

And people noticed.

Kids can be cruel, but sometimes adults leave marks too.

I remember always keeping a jacket on. One day a school secretary looked at me and said:
“You’re trying to hide your body.”

I still remember how exposed I felt in that moment.

Then there were the nicknames:
Walking Stick.
Skinny Minnie.
Pippi Longstocking.

A few others not worth mentioning. 

People said them casually, jokingly, but when you’re young, comments about your body have a way of settling into your spirit.

Especially when you’re already sensitive.

The truth is, I’ve never been a big eater.

I’m the girl asking for a to-go box before everybody else is halfway done.
The one who eats slowly.
The one with specific preferences.
The one who doesn’t like a lot of spice.
The picker.

And when stress enters the picture?
My appetite is usually the first thing to disappear.

Not intentionally.
Not as control.
Not vanity.

My body just…shuts down.

Over the past few weeks, I realized how much stress I’ve actually been carrying because eating became hard again.

Nothing sounded good.
I would forget to eat.
Or I would know I needed food but feel too overwhelmed to figure out what to make.

It’s strange how emotional nourishment can become.

Lately though, my appetite has slowly been returning.

Not because life suddenly became perfect.
But because care started showing up in small ways.

Home-cooked meals.
Friends asking me what I plan to eat for the day.

Friends asking what can I bring you back. 
People making me identify an actual meal plan instead of surviving on caffeine and vibes.

And honestly? Cooking for another person is such an intimate act of care.

Especially when the person is:
a picky eater,
a low-appetite girl,
sensitive,
stressed,
and still learning that she deserves nourishment even when she’s overwhelmed.

There’s something healing about someone remembering:
“She doesn’t like a lot of spice.”
“She probably needs a to-go box.”
“She eats small portions.”
“She still needs to eat anyway.”

For so long, food felt tied to awareness of my body.
To comments.
To stress.
To survival.

But maybe nourishment can also become tied to gentleness.

To safety.
To slowing down.
To laughter over burgers and fries.
To being cared for without criticism.

Maybe healing sometimes looks like your appetite quietly returning after being gone for a while.

Maybe it looks like finally feeling safe enough to be hungry again.

These words come as they are—wandering, wondering, and weaving themselves into meaning.

 May one of these reflections speak to you at the exact moment you need it. 

Instead of creating what I want to see and experience I keep allowing the limiting beliefs to hold me hostage. Why am I not leaning into those moments whenever possible?

Why am I not doing the things that bring me joy consistently?

Why deny myself in that manner? 

Literally settling for the doom and gloom rhetoric…

Letting the “rules” keep me in place. 

Rules created by others and myself.

Often times my rules were way harsher than others.

Staying power. 

We often celebrate staying in a place.

Whether that place is jobs, relationships, other…

Longevity. 

There are times that staying isn’t anything to celebrate because it’s hurting you.

 As soon as we that 5th red flag, go ahead and get up out of that situation. 

I said 5 because you may be like me and just ignore the flags like we’re at Six Flags over Georgia…

I’ve stayed in places too long. 

Why?

I worried about how it will look or sound 

Feeling like leaving early meant I gave up too quick 

Thinking it’s a failure…

Obsessed with quantity over quality. 

What if you stayed 14 years but you suffered, lost yourself, got ill, stalled yourself, didn’t enjoy yourself? 

Do we still celebrate the longevity? 

Just so many rules that my creativity is imprisoned. 

Scared to live, to make mistakes…

Yet knowing the gift and talent is there….

In my last threapy session we talked about me remembering to bring my trophy with me. I won! I am winning even when it looks and feel like I’m losing! 

Allowing myself to dream without a budget because on faith I know my God can do anything but fail me. 

I deserve to live a life of joy. You do too. 

Just some random and unscripted thoughts on a Saturday…

✨ Running Thoughts ✨

These are just the unfiltered places my mind wanders. No outline, no agenda—just me capturing the thoughts/reflections as they come.

• We should do one thing that’s scary each day. Ok, that’s a stretch I’m good with one thing a month…it can result in at least 12 new things 
• Connections are key
• Count it all joy; where God guides He provides (Isaiah 58:11)
• Part of leadership is getting people to buy into the vision you have
• Don’t let the environment/setting influence how you show up and the efforts you put forward. Whether positioned in a large corner office, a repurposed closet or cubicle. Focus on the fact that you’re in the building. Settings are temporary. Authenticity should not be.
  • A title is just a title. Don’t allow that title to limit your contributions. 
  • I’ve been in the nice office with a fancy title. I was miserable. Those walls were silent observers of the tears and frustration. After feeling as if I’ve been abused by the pursuit of leadership roles I said I was done with leadership roles. A friend said, “no; once a leader, always a leader. No matter your title, people will see your innate skills. 
• Sisterhood is a powerful thing. 
• “Get out and smell the roses”-Ms. Evelyn
• “You could be sitting on generational wealth but you won’t jump off the porch”-My sister Alecia
• How can I be afraid to tell man no for fear of his response, but I boldly tell God “no” or “get someone else”. 
• What if being vulnerable is what’s needed in this moment in order to go higher.
• Make the outfit work. You cute! You handsome! 
• We are always waiting. Do it now. We always say “oh when xyz is in place…I’ll do it.” But what about the abcdef…..other variables that we don’t even know to account for…
• You filter matters….what filter are you using to cover yourself and this situation?
• We are living for others and not living for ourselves.
• We are living based on a narrative someone else created who doesn’t know your true self

These are just the unfiltered places my mind wanders. No outline, no agenda—just me capturing the thoughts as they come.