Being an adult comes with its own set of unique experiences and challenges. In this reflective piece, I mark my own personal experiences by discussing the importance of community, resilience, and the triumphs that arise from difficult moments, encouraging readers to honor their journey and the richness it brings to their lives.
Before I begin, I want to make it clear that sharing these experiences isn’t about fostering resentment or hatred toward anyone. I know some people may not come across in the best light, but I ask that you approach these stories with grace for everyone involved. Life isn’t always pretty.
When I was twenty-two, my partner and I moved to Memphis, Tennessee, to stay with his family for a short while. This decision came after multiple failed attempts at living on our own. Financially, we simply couldn’t keep up, and though it hurt deeply to acknowledge those failures—not once, not twice, but far too many times—I swallowed my pride and chose to prioritize safety and stability.
Initially, things seemed promising. My partner’s mother helped us secure jobs at a local soul food restaurant, and the money was decent. All we were expected to do was pay them some rent money and be respectful. For the most part, everyone tried to give each other space, but with so many people under one roof, that quickly became a challenge.
The household included two children, their mother, my partner’s mother, and the two of us. To help keep things clear, I’ll give them aliases: the youngest boy, TJ; his older sister, Sabrina; their mother, DeDe; my partner, James; his Mother, Shaunie. Early on, Shaunie warned James and me about TJ and Sabrina’s habit of “sticky fingers.” The seriousness of her concern was obvious from the moment we stepped into their home.
The refrigerator had locks on it, and both Shaunie and DeDe kept to themselves as much as possible, avoiding interactions with the children whenever they could. TJ is on the spectrum and may have faced behavioral challenges at school, but Sabrina's frequent run-ins with the police and school staff painted a much clearer picture of the significant struggles both siblings were navigating. Because James and I didn't have a room, we made do with the living room at night, and most of our time was consumed by work.
Though Shaunie and I had a few tense encounters during our stay, nothing compared to what unfolded during our final week in their household. After spending a much-needed weekend at a nearby hotel for some alone time, James and I returned home. Weeks earlier, Shaunie had given us a tub to store our belongings in, specifically to keep them out of reach of the children. So, when I went to grab my laptop from the tub to get some writing and editing done, I was stunned to find it missing.
It wasn’t just my laptop that was gone, but that was the most alarming. I had traveled from Las Vegas, Nevada, to Memphis, Tennessee, with that laptop intact. The moment I noticed it was gone, I felt a sinking certainty: Sabrina had rummaged through my belongings while we were away.
I confronted her immediately and watched as her mother, DeDe, reprimanded her. But deep down, it wasn’t enough for me. My laptop wasn’t just a piece of equipment; it contained sensitive, personal information that was now completely exposed. The thought of Sabrina selling it, possibly without even wiping the data, filled me with dread.
The next morning, Shaunie pulled James aside and told him that I needed to inform them if I was getting rides with someone else. When James relayed this to me, I was confused. It felt unnecessary, especially given the circumstances. My emotions were already running high after the past few days, and this demand felt like Shaunie was poking at me. I told James I didn’t agree with it. I wasn’t obligated to run my every move by them, and I didn’t see why this was suddenly an issue.
Apparently, Shaunie overheard me—and she didn’t like my response. Behind her closed door, she started hollering and cussing, clearly angry at my refusal to conform. I shrugged it off and tried to carry on with my morning, but then her friend DeDe decided to escalate things.
DeDe got in my face and James’ face, demanding that we “respect our elders.” It felt like the conversation was meant to shame me rather than resolve anything. If they had communicated these feelings earlier—before all the chaos and tension—I might have been more understanding. But at that moment, it just felt like an ambush.
By the end of her tirade, DeDe looked me in the eye and delivered a string of cruel insults. She told me I was a “poor excuse of a woman” who didn’t deserve to be in a relationship, that I was “weak-minded.” She even threw my homelessness in my face, mocking me as if I were some sort of spectacle. Everyone stood by and watched, silent, as if I were on display.
I had never felt lower in my life. Never had someone speak to me with such venom, reducing me to nothing. Afterward, I told James he had two options: stay there under his mother’s roof or leave with me—but either way, I was taking my paycheck and getting out of there.
James didn’t agree with anything that Shaunie or DeDe had said or done. We both left that day and moved into a long-term weekly rental. In hindsight, I wish we had only stayed with them for a couple of weeks before moving on. Staying an entire month had been a mistake.
The reason I’m sharing this long and humiliating story is to dive deeper into what DeDe said to me and how it left a lasting impact.
This wasn’t the first time someone felt the need to “bring me down a notch” or “humble” me without justification. I’ve been called names, bullied, and demeaned simply for standing up for myself. And when you live under someone else’s roof, there’s this unspoken dynamic that often leads to mistreatment. People stop respecting you; sometimes, they don’t even care about you at all.
The hurt from that experience has stayed with me. Even though James and I moved on, and nothing as extreme ever happened again, the emotional damage lingered. It left me wary of trusting others, terrified of being “down bad” or in a position of need ever again.
Now, a couple years later, I find myself craving community but feeling paralyzed by fear. I’m terrified of letting people get too close, of showing them the vulnerable parts of me that someone once used as ammunition to tear me down. Those words from years ago still echo, shaping how I approach relationships and protect myself from harm. The deeper reason for creating this blog is to begin healing from the shame I’ve carried—not just from this incident, but throughout my life.
Shame and painful emotional encounters have been recurring themes, shaping far too much of my story. By sharing these experiences, I hope to offer comfort to someone else who might be struggling. I want to remind you and myself that we don’t have to hold onto shame. We can confront it, talk about it, and release it.
Let’s bring these stories to light, not to dwell in the pain, but to show those who tried to diminish us that we are still here. We won’t back down, and we refuse to be silenced. Thank you for reading and allowing me to share this journey with you. I’ll be back soon with more stories and reflections. Much love, xoxo.