Becoming Comfortable With The Uncomfortable
“It’s time to get comfortable with being uncomfortable…”
A friend of mine said this while I was curled up on her couch sipping the kind of coffee that tasted like revenge, orgasms, and generational healing.
-Jamaican Me Cazy- Dearborn Farms, Holmdel, NJ— if you know, you know.
We sat there, two feral women in various state of existential unraveling, dissecting life like spiritual coroners with amazing taste in cacao blend greatness.
We weren’t just catching up. We were conducting divine audits of the bullshit in our lives—the flawless cocktail of male lies, business delusions, and “what the fuck is the Universe trying to tell us before it drop-kicks us in the soul?”
That moment when the Universe goes from sending angel numbers to full-blown, spiritual white-knuckle head knocks:
“ HELLLOOOOO BITCH — WHY ARE YOU STILL IGNORING THE FUCKING SIGNS??”
** I kid you not, I had a psychic reading once and he told me my Grandma Jimenez screams this to me often because I’ve blatantly ignoring her for years. I have since recognized some of her signs, and when I do, I trust the guidance she provides.
Sometimes that metaphysical’s knock wakes you up, making you realize the shit you’ve been tolerating is actually the reason your skin has been breaking out, your hair sheds in clumps in your hands while in the shower, and your dreams feel like they’ve been left on ‘read’.
The Universe gets sick of your indecision and goes into full-on boss mode:
Your job feels like selling your soul in 15-minute Outlook calendar blocks.
Your marriage has the sexual tension of a lukewarm fart in church—awkward, silent, and smells like denial.
You realize you’ve been handing out backstage passes to people who wouldn’t even repost your business if their life depended on it.
You start feeling itchy in your own skin. And not in a “maybe I need new sheets” way — but in a “maybe I need to burn this version of myself to the fucking ground and rebuild from the ashes” way.
The Sill - Hero Images
A part of healing is about confessing to yourself and others, “this isn’t going to work for me any longer” without softening the blow for their fragile ego.
It’s recognizing that not every man you vibe with is your soulmate — sometimes they’re just a warm body and a lesson wrapped in bad cologne and unmedicated trauma.
And sometimes — this is important— you don’t own anyone a damn explanation.
Not your ex.
Not your old friend who “just don’t get the new you.”
Not your family.
Especially not the ones who have the audacity to call you “too much.”
Lemme just break this down for the back row — the ones watching me with judgmental eyes while pretending they’re not screenshotting my posts to send to whoever-the-fuck they’re talking to:
I am TOO LOUD.
I am TOO OPINIONATED.
I am TOO OBSESSED with PLEASURE, FREEDOM,& SAYING SHIT OUT LOUD THAT MAKES YOU SHIFT and maybe even SHIT IN YOUR SEAT.
I talk about sex because I fucking enjoy it.
I talk about my pain because I survived it.
And I don’t need to stomach it for other people’s palates.
And yes, I’ve said the word “DICK” in the same sentence as “HEALING.”
Because guess what?
Sometimes healing looks like taking a bubble bath with a large glass of cabernet with R&B playing softly in the background.
Other times, it looks like having your back blown out by someone who knows the clit isn’t a myth.
I’ve spent far too many years being palatable. Quiet. Digestible—barely. Trying to say things “the nice way” so I wouldn’t make people uncomfortable.
Fuck. That. Era.
I’m in my unhinged, unapologetic, slut-for-truth phase.
I want to be felt. I want my words to hit your solar plexus like blunt force trauma and awaken every part of you that’s been sleeping through your own damn life.
I’m not sorry.
Not for my words. Not for my joy. Not for my healed, messy, sexual, spiritual, foul-mouthed, breathtaking, don’t-fuck-with-me energy.
And if that makes me a problem?
That seems like a YOU issue.
I’d rather be the woman who speaks up, tells her story and lives loud and proud. Not the girl who shrinks and cowers, allowing others opinions and judgements dictate her life.
That woman no longer exists. So if you miss her, mourn for her—because she is quite literally never coming back.
Until next time…
Cook with Me here —> @ The Hollow Quill’s Cabernet & Chaos Kitchen
2026 Hearth & Hand Spring Collection
Daily Harvest High Protein Smoothies
Follow me on Social Media for more!
DOWNLOAD✨ ‘The Hollow Quill Reflection Journal’
This is not a planner.
It’s not a reset.
And it’s not here to rush your healing.
The Hollow Quill Reflection Journal is a 10-page guided digital journal created to help you slow down, reflect honestly, and close the year with intention — without pressure or perfection.
Designed for women who want to acknowledge the year they actually lived, this journal offers thoughtful prompts for gratitude, awareness, and gentle self-discovery.
This is not a planner.
It’s not a reset.
And it’s not here to rush your healing.
The Hollow Quill Reflection Journal is a 21-page guided digital journal created to help you slow down, reflect honestly, and close the year with intention — without pressure or perfection.
Designed for women who want to acknowledge the year they actually lived, this journal offers thoughtful prompts for gratitude, awareness, and gentle self-discovery.
Get Comfortable Living, Home Aesthetics, & Work-From-Home Tips @ Sandalwood & Serenity
Every year, my eldest twin, Brandon, asks for the same birthday dessert: strawberry shortcake. After last year’s French-style version “just wasn’t giving strawberry shortcake,” I went back to the classics. This homemade recipe features fluffy vanilla cake, fresh whipped cream frosting, sweet macerated strawberries, and homemade strawberry jam for the ultimate summer dessert. Whether you’re celebrating a birthday or simply making the most of strawberry season, this family-favorite recipe is guaranteed to become a tradition in your home, too. 🍓🎂