Privacy is a prison. I’m a flexer at heart.

 

“Sometimes you gotta pop out and show n!ggas….” -Kendrick Lamar, “Not Like Us”

I’m not humble nor have I ever been. Humility was a defense mechanism I could use to cloak the fact I am indeed a bad b!tch: accomplished, ambitious, sexy. I was all these things before the world could accept my spunky, fabulous package. I reflect on my early diva days fondly: wearing platform wedges to 8th grade science, discovering Clinique mascara samples (still the best mascara I’ve ever used in life), getting first chair in band on a recurrent basis. 

Getting accepted to art school felt obvious: I was a good writer that needed refining and a space to evolve further into my destiny before adulthood could assuage my passion at worst, distract me at best. I’ve accomplished so much that I was able to still maintain a modicum of confidence during these hard years where so many inner and outer changes transpired for me and led to more questions than answers. Perhaps it’s my new car talking, but I think I’m over the hump. 

I say all that to say I grew a good relationship with confidence early on, and it’s one of the most beneficial relationships I’ve had to date. Even though it can’t supplement me doing the work to overcome some of my personal issues, it can see me through the tunnel. My only sadness is that I simply don’t announce anymore. Announcing feels performative even though I have every rhyme and reason to brag. I’ve learned to just let my work speak for itself. If my audience needs me to say I’m the best at whatever I’m doing, that’s not an audience I identify with. I love real life and real reactions to what I have to offer, and being private about how much I’m actually working can only benefit me.