I was moving to New York! It was a dream I had since college - to live in Brooklyn and work in Manhattan.

#MyClosetStory On New Year’s Day 2015, I stood at a crosswalk on Magnificent Mile in downtown Chicago. The light signaled for pedestrians to cross. I had plenty of time --30 seconds -- to make it to the other side of the wide and busy thoroughfare. I stepped off the sidewalk curb into the crosswalk. Each step was heavy and excruciating. With every moment, my joints in my arms, legs and feet felt like they were being ground with a cheese grater. My face grimaced. My pace was s

#MyClosetStory I never had a desire to go to Vegas. When family or friends would return from Vegas, the stories about their visit never really compelled me to want to go. My grandmother used to go every year or two it seemed. She’d come back with stories about gambling in casinos and about buffets, two things I couldn’t care less about. I’m not a fan of gambling my money away and I especially hate buffets. People my age would talk about crazy nights drinking themselves to obl

#MyClosetStory “What country in Africa are you the queen of?” I looked up and there stood a salt and pepper haired man. His almond shaped eyes twinkled behind his rimless glasses. I could not help but chuckle at how corny his comment was. “Funny!” I said with a smirk. “I like the head wrap. Thought maybe you came from Wakanda,” he said in a playful tone that reminded me of my granddad. If it’s not Erykah Badu, it’s Wakanda. I had on some distressed cropped jeans, pointy toe f

#MyClosetStory I got onto the number 3 train at 72nd street headed downtown to meet the photographer in Tribeca. It was lovely day, a bit cool in the morning so I had on my green cardigan, one of my favorite Ross Dress For Less finds. And in typical fashion, I was rocking a head wrap, the green and peach one my mom made me. It was in the early evening and I plopped down on the orange chairs next to a large man who looked to be in his mid fifties. He acknowledged me as soon as

#MyClosetStory When I was about 24, a family member specifically called me to ask me if I ever wanted to get married. I was packing up my room at my parents' house in Virginia to move halfway across the country to go to seminary for grad school. I replied, “Sure, eventually. But I’m just living my life right now.” I told this family member that I wasn’t going to worry about it. Then this family member began to rattle off the statistics of eligible black men who were educated,

“Noodle Arms!” They said. As I looked in the mirror at my reflection, in those long sleeve or sleeveless tops, I’d hear those childish voices in my head. “Noodle arms, noodle arms!” I was 110lbs, 5’7”, and wearing a size 9 shoe. I was a tall, skinny, acne prone girl with these arms that dragged the floor and flopped around. And, I was self conscious about it. I couldn’t change my height or the acne, but I could make my arms seem shorter by wearing short sleeve t-shirts. You k