Both Black History Month and Juneteenth have passed but the fact remains—I'm still Black and proud as hell of it.
My melanin isn't a fleeting fashion or a passing trend, and I think I speak for every Black woman reading this when I say I've never needed designer clothes to be fly—my skin my logo.
Be that as it may, I never pass up an opportunity to represent my heritage and show the world that my ancestors don't play about me. Whether that means rocking a #JusticeForBreonnaTaylor t-shirt or rocking a fresh set of melanated nails, I put on for my culture every damn day and this skin tone-inspired nail trend will empower you to do the same.
Bringing a new meaning to the phrase "send nudes", here are 13 images of melanated fall nails that will have you struggling to pick just one shade.
@icedoutnailz
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Featured image by Instagram/@natashaleeds.
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And so, while I didn’t want to accept what was happening to my favorite guy, I was intentional about seeing or talking to him over the phone every day for those last six or so weeks.
Courtesy
In the weeks and days leading up to July 11, I often had pep talks with myself, “You’ve gotten through this before. He’s 93, and you can’t expect him to live forever.” Thinking I would be okay once the call came in, I quickly found that I wasn’t.
I experienced insane insomnia, anxiety attacks, and even nausea on the day of his funeral. I couldn’t even muster up the strength to sit in on the viewing, so my family allowed me to sit in the church lobby until the casket was closed.
Somehow I made it through my speech during the service (barely), but after it was all said and done, I knew I simply needed a change of scenery. Less than 48 hours after we buried my grandfather, I began planning an impromptu trip to Paris, one of my favorite cities in the world and host of the 2024 Olympic Games.
My therapist classified it as trying to escape my grief, but I saw it as a time to process while doing something that genuinely brought me joy. After going back and forth for about a day and a half, I had finalized my itinerary with my flight and hotel confirmed. Exactly a week later, I was on my flight headed to Paris, France.
Once I landed, I felt as though a weight had been lifted. Seeing all the Olympic signs and the overall Parisian aesthetic was an instant breath of fresh air. While it was slated to be a short trip, four days and three nights, I mapped out activities that I knew would make me the most happy while there—shopping, a trip to Disneyland Paris, and of course, an Olympic event.
As a self-proclaimed adult Disney fanatic, spending a day at the French capital’s version of the theme park allowed me to disconnect from real life and tap into my inner child. I rode the teacups, ate ice cream, and even lined up to watch one of the parades, where I excitedly waved at all the characters. I left the park that evening feeling renewed.
The next day, and for my official summer games experience, I headed to my pre-booked women’s 3rd round tennis match in the famous Roland Garros Stadium. The entire time, as I randomly yet passionately cheered on the underdog Chinese competitor of the match, I kept saying to myself, “I'm really at the Olympics in Paris.”
I should preface that with, I’ve technically been before, but it was the winter games while I lived in South Korea in 2018. So it was my first Summer Games.
Courtesy
With much of my trip bringing a smile to my face and spirit, there was a moment as I was leaving the tennis stadium when tears welled up. Typically, anytime I travel, my grandfather is the person I call once I return. He was always genuinely interested in hearing about where I had been and what I saw.
So, in true grief fashion, I had that moment where I got excited to call him and tell him about what I had just witnessed during my trip, and then reality hit. That was a call I would no longer be able to make. Admittedly, it left a lump in my throat, just as it did when I wrote this.
I began to question if my trip was worth it. If I hadn’t gone, would I still have this same sadness? It almost left me feeling like I should slow down on traveling for a while, or at least until I could handle the potential emotions that may result from not being able to talk to him anymore. Because the wound was still very fresh.
But, I remembered that travel is my personal love language. I also remembered how excited my grandfather and mother were to see me travel this big, beautiful world and experience global cultures. And in that moment, I knew this sadness was simply a temporary reaction to the lifelong cycle that I would go through.
Feeling my feels, as my therapist says, I allowed the emotions to do what they needed to, and then I went on to finish the rest of my trip on a high note. Because in the end, while they may not be here physically, they are certainly with me wherever I go in spirit—and that is what I will rest on as I continue to navigate this never-ending merry-go-round called grief.
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