On November 15th 2015 9:17am, the burn of stinging hot water sizzles my flesh, the only thing I was worried about was my youngest and not making noise because he was napping. Lasagna noodles, why lasagna at 9am? because I have to be this strong, black superwoman. I was breastfeeding my youngest I thought I would be in the hospital for a day and they would send me home to my children. Nope 2 hours away from them for two weeks! I cried every damn day. I had support from places from people that really touched my heart and some that didn’t provide support, in that moment I began self evaluating my life. What was I doing, who was I, as an individual. I looked at my breast defeated and hollow, my identity was questioned in a way that I never even knew existed in my spirit. As a black woman you already feel pretty invisible who was I what was my culture, besides the one my ancestors pieced together from anguish and oppression, I have no language, now one of the things our culture uses to define my sexuality was now my concern. Breast implants, magazines, television hell Instagram, which I was never going to participate in but a dear friend said this would encourage my growth and help me network. So back in school, back to writing, Voice over work, if this event taught me anything it’s that I have no control I need to realize life is about loosening this tight grip, do your best everyday but life is going to happen whether you fight it or you just hop in and enjoy the ride. So here’s to my scars for showing me what I was to defensive to see!