Honoring My Dad on His Heavenly Birthday — December 7th

December 7th will always be a sacred day for me. My Dad’s Heavenly Birthday. A day that still feels unreal to write, say, or even think about.

Grief has a way of reshaping you, stretching you, breaking you open, and then slowly teaching you how to rebuild piece by piece. As I honor him today, I’m honoring not just the man he was, but the woman I am becoming because of the love he poured into me.

Losing my Dad was like losing my anchor. He was my biggest cheerleader, my calm in the storm, the person who reminded me without saying many words that I was capable, brilliant, and more powerful than I ever realized. He loved my writing. He would text me after reading my posts, proud of the way I turned my thoughts into something that could uplift others. That’s something I carry with me every single day.

When I write, when I travel, when I show up in my community, when I push forward in my business he’s there.

This year, grief showed up in unexpected ways. Sometimes loud. Sometimes silent. Sometimes in the middle of a flight. Sometimes in the middle of a hotel room. Sometimes when I was trying to create, when I was trying to rest, or when I was trying to be “strong.” But through it all, I’ve tried to give myself grace. I’m learning that healing isn’t linear and it isn’t supposed to be.

What I do know is this: my Dad would want me to keep going. To keep living. To keep traveling. To keep showing the world that Black women deserve rest, luxury, adventure, joy, softness, and ease. He would want me to keep breaking barriers. To keep building the life I dreamed of. To keep using my voice, my story, and my sparkle to inspire others.

And so today, instead of breaking down, I am choosing to honor his life by continuing to live mine with intention. Continuing to grow. Continuing to write. Continuing to love myself through the hard seasons. Continuing to build spaces like Herald Beauty, Curvy Cardio, and Professional Pretty that uplift other women navigating their own mountains.

If you’re reading this and missing someone too, I hope you know you’re not alone. I hope you know it’s okay to feel everything. To sit in the quiet moments. To celebrate the memories. To cry. To laugh. To keep going at your own pace.
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This Heavenly Birthday isn’t just a reminder of what I lost, but of everything I gained. A father who believed in me. A legacy of strength. And a reminder that I am still here, still becoming, still shining.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Dad. I love you endlessly. Thank you for guiding me from above. Everything I do, I carry you with me.