I’m expressive—very expressive. My face has a mind of its own. It twists, turns, and contorts with every story I hear or tell, not for show, but because I live inside each moment.
Eye contact? I don’t just glance—I lock in. I stare, intentionally and intensely, because I’m painting pictures in my mind as you’re speaking. Every detail matters. If something feels blurry, I’ll stop you, ask questions until it’s crystal clear.
That’s how I connect—with precision and purpose.
And yes, I love sarcasm. But never to offend. It’s my way of nudging people toward laughter and helping them see things from a new angle.
If you’re telling me a story, just know I’m in it with you—mapping every scene, questioning every twist, laughing at the absurd, and honoring the truth.
There was a time in my life when I believed my opinions were golden—untouchable, absolute, and the only truth worth sharing. If someone didn’t agree with me, I’d withdraw. I’d stop talking to them or even cut them off completely. I wasn’t trying to be hurtful; I genuinely thought that standing firm in my beliefs was a form of strength. In my world, disagreement felt like rejection.
But life has a way of humbling you.
Over time, I began to see people not just through the lens of their opinions, but through the stories that shaped those opinions. I realized that we all come from different experiences, and those journeys leave footprints on how we think, feel, and move through the world. Just because someone has a different outcome or perspective doesn’t make them wrong—or bad. It makes them human.
This revelation opened my heart in ways I never expected. Now, my mind is always open to others. I ask more questions. I listen longer. I respect the silent battles people have faced and the wisdom those battles have taught them.
It’s not about watering down my own truth. It’s about honoring theirs.
If this blog post resonates with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you ever had a moment where someone’s story changed your perspective? Share it with me—let’s grow together. 💬
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Growing up with both parents in the home and being the oldest of four shaped me in ways that continue to nourish my soul. From a young age, my siblings and I were taught one golden rule: no fist fighting, no exceptions, not even once. It didn’t matter how mad you were — we had to talk it out. No name-calling either. Debates had to stay respectful and focused on the issue. That meant no “you’re ugly” or “you’re dumb” — just words with purpose, and always with love behind them.
And you know what? That rule was a gift. Today, all four of us are in our 50s, and the love between us feels like sunshine warmed by time. There’s a closeness that only comes from growing up in a household where peace was protected, and connection was nurtured.
💭 One tradition we’ve slowly drifted from — despite our parents’ wishes — is the gathering on holidays. My dad loved to fire up the grill, and my mom would clean and season the meat like clockwork. There’d be sides for days, and the house smelled like family. But as we got older, we realized something: we ate like that every week. Holidays started to feel more about food than feeling, and slowly, that tradition faded.
✨ But make no mistake — we haven’t lost our way. Because when it comes to birthdays, we celebrate loud and proud. We show up. We bring ice cream cakes, pizza, chips, drinks, pasta — everything that says “party” without fuss. We love the ease and joy of it all. It’s not about the menu, it’s about the memory. Every birthday is a chance to honor each other, to gather, to laugh, and to feel gratitude for another year together.
Even our mom, who still adores traditional holiday moments, has leaned into this birthday month celebration style. And though my dad is no longer with us, the legacy of love he and my mom built lives on in every laugh, every hug, every shared slice of cake.
I kept on nodding off. Then it started raining and that was my cue. I turned off the TV, and then the lights and it was a wrap. LOL
I hate that because now its 4:10 am and I am nowhere close to go back to sleep. I’m up for a long time and I know it LOL So, I’m going to write and schedule blog entries until these eyes get sleepy. And I know me, it’s going to be a good 1:00 pm.
Someone who loves people, someone who loves to listen and who gives Godly advice IF ASKED. I used to just automatically voice my opinion until a friend said, ” sometimes you need to just listen”, I love that. I got that. Because sometimes people just need an ear.
I love to laugh, and I laugh loudly especially if whatever is said really touched me. I’m friendly and can talk to a bird if it flew in front of me. I’m very approachable and very direct WITH LOVE.
A stroke pulled me into a place I never imagined, and when I came out of it, I wasn’t the same person. I was reborn—with clarity, conviction, and an assignment straight from God.
These past months haven’t been easy. I’ve felt the shift in my spirit. I’m broke financially yet fully covered by the love and provision of my family. Every need met. Every step guided. Because I know—I know—this is just the beginning.
God gave me instructions for my next chapter, and I’m on fire. 🔥 Not just to live it out, but to share it boldly. Many go through trauma and stay silent, either out of shame or because they’re just relieved to be past it. But not me. I will always tell my story. I will always speak on the One who sustained me.
I want people to trust Jesus—not just when it’s beautiful and easy, but when it hurts and you feel broken. I want others to know that their pain isn’t wasted. He’s working through it. He’s rewriting your story behind the scenes. And sometimes the ones with the deepest wounds carry the loudest testimony.
This chapter of my life is going to bless those who watch, listen, and follow the journey. I’m living proof that even when life knocks you down, God lifts you up with purpose. And when you come back… it’s with power, with passion, and with praise.
So, stay close. I’ll be sharing everything. And maybe my fire will ignite yours too.
Proverbs 3:5-6“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”
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If I won two free plane tickets, there wouldn’t be a moment’s hesitation—I’d be back in Atlanta.
Every visit is like watching the city dance in a new outfit. I love seeing how the buildings change and grow, reflecting a spirit that never stands still. Buckhead and Sandy Springs? My favorites. Something about those neighborhoods wraps me in comfort and familiarity. And this time, I’ve got my eyes set on the World of Coca-Cola—finally! I want to sip on the nostalgia and savor all that’s new in downtown Detroit too, but there’s something magnetic about Atlanta that keeps pulling me back.
Florida is lovely—sunshine and serenity—but Atlanta? Atlanta is love. Atlanta is legacy.
Growing up, influence wasn’t a trend—it was a way of life. We didn’t curse around our parents, aunts, uncles, neighbors, or any elders. Period. Respect was rooted deep. Even the smallest slip—saying “butt” or “you lied”—was a line we knew not to cross. And if we did? Oh yes, trouble followed.
Our parents didn’t parent alone. They built a village. And in that village, we had second mothers—like Ms. Harris. She didn’t play. She loved us hard and checked us harder. As kids, we joked that she was always “telling on us,” but deep down, she treated us like we were hers. And looking back, that wasn’t snitching—it was love.
I learned that lesson for real when I moved out at 22 with my three-year-old daughter. I was standing in my new kitchen, proud and grown. Hair laid, bad shape SHAPING, smile radiant, pretty face prettying, and feeling good. That’s when I heard God whisper: “You still have Me to answer to.” I knew His voice. I’d known it since I was 14. And in that moment, I understood adulthood doesn’t erase accountability.
Later, I found a new village—a four-family apartment, full of mothers. Ms. Elizabeth, Lorraine, Tonya, La Sonya-* Googie*, Yvette * Kim* we did life together. We shared meals when times got tight, watched each other’s kids, ran errands, cried, laughed, celebrated. We didn’t even have to build a village—God delivered it.
That influence? It passed to my daughter. She never cursed in front of them. She understood respect wasn’t optional—it was inherited. And to this day, respect runs deep through her. As her mother I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So today, when I see adults cursing on Facebook like elders can’t see it… I cry inside, because they have kids too. Just because you’re grown doesn’t mean you throw away your dignity. Being able to search your mind for better language—that’s growth. And me? At 57… I’m just not that grown.
Let’s stop acting like influence is outdated. The truth is: the next generation is watching. So, let’s guide them, correct them, love them. Even if it upsets them. Speak wisdom, carry a spirit that commands respect. Be a mirror of God’s voice, like I heard that day in the kitchen.
Let’s stop being afraid to correct. Let’s reclaim our influence. We may be grown, but we still have Someone to answer to.
My nickname is Zee-Zee, and while I can’t say for sure where it originated, I know exactly where it bloomed — from the heart of my grandmother. She was my mother’s mother.
From her two daughters, my grandmother welcomed five grandchildren into the world — each with a name, and more importantly, a nickname chosen by her own spirit and wisdom. These weren’t just pet names or playful labels. They were personalized blessings.
We are:
🌟 Zee-Zee — that’s me, the eldest of the eldest. 🌟 Dee-Dee — my cousin Dial, named by Aunt Wana, my mother’s only sibling. 🌟 Na-Na — my sister, born Yolanda, lovingly nicknamed with a gentleness that mirrors her soul. 🌟 Bobby — our brother, named after our father Robert, grounding us in legacy and tradition. 🌟 Peedie — our baby sister Electria, whose nickname sparkles with playfulness and youth.
Inside the mind of cree 