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I've always been told to never underestimate the power of prayer.

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This past year was my three-year anniversary since I took, what I like to call, my spiritual dip. Three months shy of graduation and I had finally made the decision to stop playing and let Pops (God) take leadership in my life.

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I am very grateful for the genes that my parents have passed down to me. I have a head full of natural hair that I am learning how to manage and enjoying how to do so, a set of long legs that was passed down from Big Mama (hated this at first but at the age of 25, one of my best attributes), and a button nose that makes this gold nose ring sit perfectly.

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Prior to becoming a mother, my idea of Postpartum Depression (PPD) was what I saw on TV: the story of Andrea Yates who drowned five of her children in 2001, and the one of Laurel Michelle Schlemmer who also drowned both of her sons in 2014. I remember thinking that PPD was extreme and only consisted of rare cases that happened to white women who just had children. This is not something I easily identified within the Black community, nor would I be able to acknowledge it if it was right in front of me. It was not until I had my encounter with pregnancy and routine check ups with my doctor who later explained PPD and the strong possibility that I could develop this shortly after birth.

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I’ve been hurt before.

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Like many others over the past week, I have been fully immersed in what’s been going on at the University of Missouri (Mizzou). What’s different is, I am not looking at it through the lens of an opinionated media consumer.

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