The Great Pretender | by Roselyn A. St Claire

 As told by a friend of mine one day when he just needed someone to listen..

Is he wrong for staying in a love he no longer feels? Or is he just human, playing the role because it’s easier than starting over?

He sat across from me, eyes heavy, voice low.

“I don’t even know if I’m a bad man… or just a man trying to survive the situation I’ve found myself in.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to me about her—his partner. But this was the first time he said it without anger or frustration. Just truth. The kind that doesn’t ask for permission to be said.

He told me he plays the role well. Says all the right things. Does all the expected gestures. From the outside looking in, it would seem like he’s committed. Like he’s in love. Like everything is just fine.

But it’s not.

He hasn’t felt genuinely attracted to her in a long time. Not physically, not mentally, not spiritually. There’s no spark left—not even a flicker.

The only way he can rise to the occasion during sex is with help—brown liquor, a heavy cigar, or both. That’s the only way he can numb himself into performance. He can't remember the last time he touched her sober, clear-headed, and aroused because of her.

“She doesn’t satisfy me,” he admitted, not out of malice but out of exhaustion. “She’s a basic lover. Closed off. Not open to exploring. She shuts down every time I try to talk about sex. It’s like she’s locked herself away from even her own pleasure.”

And yet… he stays.

He stays because leaving would mean explaining. Uprooting. Starting over. He stays because her presence is predictable. Familiar. It’s easier to pretend than to begin again. And sometimes, we all choose what’s easy.

But while she may believe she has him, he confessed that his body has wandered elsewhere.

Other lovers have given him the satisfaction he can only dream of getting from her. They ignite things she no longer can. But he keeps those flames at a distance, just far enough to not burn the bridge at home.

“She thinks I want her,” he said. “But I just want peace. And sometimes, pretending gives me that.”

He cares for her… in the most basic ways. He does just enough to keep her feeling wanted—birthday gifts, the occasional compliment, the kiss on the forehead. But none of it comes from passion. It's all from habit.

She’s not unattractive. Just… average. And over time, average can feel like nothing at all.

He’s grown tired of asking. Tired of trying. Tired of faking orgasms with someone who doesn’t even know they’re being faked.

And now, he asks me:

“Am I wrong for feeling this way? For staying… but not really being there?”

---

🖤 Closing Thought

This isn’t just one man’s confession—it’s the quiet reality of many relationships that run on autopilot. Where love has turned into duty. Desire has turned into obligation and emotional connection has faded into performance.

So many are trapped in dynamics where needs go unmet, but change feels more frightening than misery.

If you're reading this and it hits too close to home—ask yourself:

Are you the one pretending?
Or are you the one being performed for?

And what would it take for either of you to stop?

Let’s talk about the relationships that look alive… but died long ago.

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

Invited Into Her Danger | Guest contribution by Herman Kingsley | Edited by Roselyn A. St. Claire

A bold male perspective from our Intimate Conversations series.

From casual office flirtation to a night I’ll never forget, this encounter started with kindness and ended in chaos wrapped in pleasure. What began as innocent appreciation turned into the most dangerous—and seductive—affair of my life.

When I started working back in 2012, there was this one female coworker who, from day one, seemed deeply invested in my well-being. She trained me in the ins and outs of the job, and in return, I brought her small tokens of appreciation—coffee, lunch, the occasional chocolate bar. We built a rapport. A rhythm. A soft exchange of kindness that grew during my probation period.

She welcomed the compliments. Laughed at my teasing. We even brushed against each other sometimes—a casual nudge here, a gentle pat there. Nothing dramatic. Nothing inappropriate. But the chemistry? It lingered. It whispered beneath every interaction.

Then came one unexpected weekend. She invited me over.

We had been flirting for weeks. She often mentioned how much she hated being alone in the evenings. She lived nearby, and one night, I decided to visit.

She greeted me in a robe. And from the way the fabric clung to her curves, it was obvious—she wasn’t wearing anything underneath but lingerie. That raised an eyebrow. Sure, we’d been playful... but this? This was something else.

Still, I stepped inside.

She guided me to the dining table, where she had laid out a full three-course meal. Every detail was intentional. Thoughtful. Honestly, sex was the last thing on my mind—until I started noticing the photographs.

Wedding photos. And not old ones.

I excused myself to use the bathroom and got a closer look.

She was the bride.

My mind went into overdrive. Was he gone? Divorced? Dead? Or about to walk in and make me the lead story on Monday morning?

Trying to stay cool, I returned to the table. She then asked me to lie down in her bedroom while she took a shower. The mental fog thickened.

When she emerged... it was like watching a goddess glide across the room. Her skin still wet from the shower, hair cascading down her back, her naked body gleaming with oil. It was poetry in motion. She moved slowly. Confident. In control.

I had to ask about the photos.

She sighed. “He left years ago. Went to the States. Never came back.”

“You still have feelings?” I asked.

“If I did, you wouldn’t be here,” she said calmly.

It was both a warning and invitation.

She knelt beside me, kissed my cheek, and touched me with the kind of tenderness that breaks down your defenses. I sat on the bed, and she returned from the bathroom glowing—nude again, and clearly on a mission.

She straddled me. Slid her hands under my shirt. Kissed my chest. Licked my nipples.

I was hers.

She reached for my shorts and pulled them off with slow urgency. Her mouth found me—slow, deep, confident. She took her time. She teased. She pleased. It wasn’t rushed or frantic. It was purposeful. Like she was unraveling me with every breath.

And when I couldn’t hold back any longer, I came hard. She swallowed it all—without hesitation.

Then she climbed on top of me and lowered herself with ease, her hips rising and falling in a rhythm that felt like worship. She was untamed. Wild. Desperate. She came once. Then twice. Then again. Her moans filled the room until she collapsed on top of me, panting, spent.

Later, when she stirred from our shared nap, she asked, “Did you come too?”

I chuckled. “Not the second time.”

She opened her legs. Locked eyes with me. And whispered, “Then come again. Inside me. This time, don’t hold back.”

I was exhausted. But there was no way I was turning that down.

I took my time—slow strokes, steady rhythm. Her legs wrapped around me, guiding me deeper, harder, faster. When I finally came again, she asked me not to pull out.

I didn’t.

And that moment—right there—changed everything. I wasn’t just the new guy anymore. I had crossed into something darker. Something hotter. Something I couldn’t walk away from.

Her husband had left.

But I had walked in.

---

Closing Thought

Some affairs come with warning signs. Others cook you dinner, kiss you like you’re the only man on earth, and make you forget there was ever a line to begin with.

I didn’t just risk it. I dove in.

And even now? Part of me would do it all over again.

---

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

---

Territory | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

The story is told of two friends who lived in the same yard—a space they shared intimately, their lives woven into the fabric of daily routines. They were as different as could be, yet over the past few months, they had become the best of companions.

There was Steve, the male—quiet, steadfast, content to observe. And Luna, the female—all light and curious energy.

They spent countless hours together. Their days were marked by shared walks through rustling leaves and the comforting rhythm of meals eaten side by side. Life in the yard had settled into a gentle hum of companionship. Steve, ever watchful, cherished this quiet bond deeply. Luna, in turn, sought him out with playful nudges and soft purrs of attention—a constant affirmation of their closeness.

Then one day, a new male arrived.

His name was Hennessy. Larger. More imposing. His stay was only meant to be temporary. From the start, Hennessy kept mostly to himself—a solitary figure who often lounged in his makeshift dwelling on the western side of the yard. Occasionally, he’d attempt a friendly gesture toward Luna—a casual nuzzle, a low rumble of curiosity. But she didn’t seem particularly interested. Perhaps she simply wasn’t “feeling him.” Or maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to upset her companion, Steve.

But Steve felt it—a subtle shift in the air. A new presence had arrived. And something was changing.

---

The Shifting Tides

As the weeks passed, the subtlety faded.

Luna began to linger longer near Hennessy’s space. Their playful chases began to drift toward his side of the yard. Steve noticed the difference first in her gaze—a softer, more captivated look reserved now for someone else—and then in her energy, a new spark of excitement that once belonged only to him.

This new connection didn’t sit well with Steve. The once cozy, predictable dynamics of their yard felt suddenly… off. Chaotic. A knot of unease tightened in his chest.

Hennessy was bigger. Stronger. His movements deliberate, his presence commanding. Their unspoken rivalry flared into the occasional territorial clash—quick growls, sharp snaps. Nothing serious, but the tension hung in the air like smoke. Steve, though smaller, held his ground—but the creeping sense of helplessness was undeniable.

He was losing his place. And he didn’t know how to fight for it.

---

The Quiet Ache

Steve and Luna shared the main house on one side of the yard—their haven, filled with shared memories. But Luna began to venture further into Hennessy’s domain, drawn by something invisible. Steve would sit on the porch, watching her cozy up beside Hennessy, the intimacy once shared between them now openly—casually—extended to another.

Then came the “dates.”

Several times, Luna and Hennessy would disappear from the yard, returning only in the quiet hours of dawn. Steve would wake with a start, a sinking dread already settled in his gut. He’d see Luna returning from the far side of the yard, often looking tired—but unmistakably content.

Each sighting was a fresh stab. A silent confirmation that everything had changed.

What could Steve do? Hennessy was older, larger, and had stolen something Steve hadn’t even known he could lose. And Luna... had made her choice.

This pattern continued for weeks, stretching Steve’s patience and heart to their limits—until the day finally came for Hennessy to leave.

---

The Departure

When Hennessy left, a strange stillness fell over the yard.

A mix of relief and grief settled over Steve. He no longer had to compete. The tension was gone. But so, too, was the vibrant bond he once shared with Luna. He dealt with it in his own quiet way—retreating into himself, letting the echoes of Luna’s shifting affections fade with each passing day.

The yard returned to its quiet hum.

But it was never quite the same.

---

Closing Thought

The quiet drama that unfolded in this yard—with Steve, Luna, and Hennessy—might sound like the outline of a love triangle or a coming-of-age romance.

But here’s the twist: This wasn’t a human story.

It was the story of three dogs. Two of mine. One belongs to my son.

For three months, I pet-sat them, and in observing their behavior, I saw an entire emotional landscape play out: loyalty, jealousy, competition, longing, heartbreak, and quiet healing.

What’s wild is how much it mirrored us—how we, too, navigate the shifting tides of connection. How we feel replaced. Left behind. How we fight for our place in someone else’s life. And how, sometimes, the only thing left to do… is sit quietly on the porch and wait for peace to return.

Love. Desire. Loss. Territory.

Maybe we’re not so different after all.

_________________________________________________

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

"Still a Father: The Silent Grief of Miscarriage" | Guest Contributor - Herman Kingsley

Edited By Roselyn A. St. Claire

One of the worst feelings a man can experience is watching his woman go through a miscarriage, especially when the child was deeply wanted. When you’ve worked hard to reach the point of pregnancy, hearing her say, “My water broke,” just three or four months in… it’s not just heartbreaking. It’s mentally devastating.

Worse still is knowing that, unless a miracle happens, there’s no chance of survival.

Years ago, my partner and I were expecting. We were overjoyed, floating. We took every precaution: clean eating, careful movement, doctor visits, supplements. Every possible precaution was observed. We were older than the average couple, so when the doctor recommended an amniocentesis, we were told it was to rule out the possibility of Down Syndrome. We agreed.

Still, I was uneasy.

The day of the procedure, I called a doctor friend in the U.S., and his response was urgent:

“Get out of there. Now.”

But by the time I made it to the office, she was already in stirrups and the needle was going in.

That procedure lasted nearly an hour. The doctor said the baby kept extending his leg toward the needle, so he had to “keep trying.” That meant pulling the needle out and re-inserting it, repeatedly.

Now, I’m no medical expert, but common sense told me that couldn’t be good. Still, he assured us it was fine, that no harm was done. She was told to go home and rest. We had a wedding to attend that weekend, and though she didn’t feel great, we still went. That night ended on a high note.

But the next day… everything changed.  She called out to me from the bathroom.

“My water broke!”

I ran in to find the floor soaked and blood trickling down her legs.

Panic.  Pain.  Powerlessness.

We rushed to the doctor’s private hospital, and as he met us at the entrance, I could see the look on his face.

Guilt.  Failure. 

He knew.

Later that night, we learned it was a boy.  He didn’t make it.

I went home and completely broke down. I couldn’t even be there for her. Couldn’t hold her. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t process what had just happened.

And the next day, when I returned to pick her up—she was the one comforting me. That image of her, strong in her most broken moment, is burned into my memory.

For many years, that miscarriage remained a silent rift between us, even after we eventually had a child together. We never fully grieved together. And if I’m honest, I never forgave that doctor.

Looking back, I believe the procedure was not done properly. I think that the loss could have been avoided. And while I did find healing in becoming a father later on—with the guidance of a different, more capable physician—there’s a part of me that still aches for the boy we didn’t get to meet.

Men Grieve, Too

This story is personal. It’s raw. And it’s a reminder that men grieve, too.

We may not always show it the same way.

 We may not have the language or the tools.

 We may even fall apart quietly—in the dark, alone.

But miscarriage, pregnancy loss, and reproductive trauma affect both partners. And too often, men are expected to be the strong ones, the fixers, the steady support.

Sometimes, we just… don’t know how.

🖤 If you’re going through this—whether you’re a mother, father, or partner—know this:

You are not alone.

You’re allowed to feel everything you feel.

And you don’t have to carry it silently.

📌 For women:

Please seek support from OB/GYNs, grief counselors, or maternal mental health specialists. Post-miscarriage depression and trauma are real.

📌 For men:

It’s okay to need help. Therapy, grief groups, spiritual counsel, even just a safe conversation with someone you trust—all of it counts.

Don’t minimize your pain.  Don’t bottle it up.  Don’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Your grief deserves care, too.

_______________________________________________

If you or someone you love has experienced miscarriage or pregnancy loss, consider these resources:

1. Amniocentesis - https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/amniocentesis/about/pac-20392914

2. Pregnancy After Loss Support -  https://pregnancyafterlosssupport.org/

3. Postpartum Support International – Dads/Partners - https://postpartum.net/get-help/help-for-dads/

4. Miscarriage Association (UK-Based but global support) - https://www.miscarriageassociation.org.uk/  

🖤 Let’s keep talking about the things that break us—so we can learn how to heal.

____________________________________________________

#MenFeelToo  #SilentGrief  #HealingThroughStory  

#UnspokenPain  #MentalHealthMatters

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

If sex is supposed to be intimate, why are we so scared to talk about what we actually want?

We’ll ask for directions before driving into a new town… 🗺️🚘
But not before diving into each other’s bodies. 🍑🍆

Why is that?

Why do we hesitate to talk about sex—especially with the people we're actually having it with? 🛏️🗣️

We’ll fumble in the dark for a condom, a position, or a pulse… but won’t reach for a real conversation.

Let’s talk. 💬🔥

 

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

🎹 The Talent That Wasn’t Nurtured 🎹 | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

A reflection on creativity lost too soon—and how it still lives in us, waiting. — A reflection on music, memory, and reclaiming softness

I was talking to my cousin the other day.
We do this sometimes—disappear into our own worlds for months, then suddenly reappear in each other’s lives like we never left. Our conversations are effortless. Sprawling. Emotional. We cover everything: family history, our parents, our siblings, love lives, work, the things we still dream of doing... and the things we never got to do.

We’re both February babies—air signs. Thinkers. Talkers. Dreamers.
There’s always something swirling in the atmosphere between us. Something deep. Reflective. Free-flowing.

---

Music: Our Constant Denominator

Every time we reconnect, one thing always shows up: music.

She told me about the Casio keyboard she got as a child, along with a beginner piano book. She was excited. Curious. But the interest—though real—never got to grow. Life stepped in. Structure stepped in. And most of all, priorities that weren’t hers stepped in.

And that’s when I remembered something I hadn’t said out loud in years.

---

A Piano by the Door

When I was somewhere between fifth and seventh grade, I asked my grandmother for piano lessons.

And for a short while—I actually got them.

There was a woman who taught out of her home. I still remember the feeling of walking in: quiet, sacred, still. The piano sat right at the entrance. Not tucked away. Not hidden in a corner. It lived in the center of the home—loud, proud, waiting to be played.

I was quiet, but eager.
Ready to learn. Ready to make sound.
Ready to press a key and feel something rise.

But the lessons didn’t last.

Maybe it was money. Maybe it was logistics. Maybe it was that silent, generational belief that art was a hobby for “other people.” That real life required practicality, not piano keys.

And so the lessons stopped.
And the little girl who wanted to play... didn’t.

---

The Notes We Still Carry

My cousin and I sat with this.
Two girls who had a spark.
Two women who, even now, feel the ache for the things we were almost allowed to love.

I think that’s why I’ve grown to love the pan yard.

It’s not a piano—but it has rhythm. Keys. A voice. A heartbeat.
It lets me express what I didn’t get to nurture as a child.
I get to play. I get to feel. I get to release.

And maybe that’s what this was all along—a quiet, lifelong craving for emotional freedom. For softness. For spaces that let us be whole.

---

Soft Life, Hard Lessons

My cousin and I are both in a season of craving softness.

Not laziness. Not lack of ambition.
But ease.
Feminine energy.
Joy that doesn’t have to be earned through exhaustion.

We’ve carried so much—being the strong ones, the dependable ones, the “fixers.”
We became the over-functioning daughters, sisters, and partners.

And it’s heavy.
It wears you down.

Now, we’re learning to peel back the layers.
To give ourselves permission to want what we were once told wasn’t practical, or possible.

---

When Dreams Are Treated Like Extras

It’s strange how long we carry the grief of dreams we weren’t allowed to nurture.

We were just kids, reaching for something that moved us.
And the people raising us—often with good intentions—taught us that our gifts weren’t necessary. That creativity wasn’t “real.” That art was something extra. Something you grow out of, not into.

But creativity isn’t extra.
It’s essential.

It’s how we connect.
It’s how children make sense of themselves, and the world around them.
And when adults dismiss it—when they say, “That’s not important”—they don’t just say no to a hobby.

They teach a child to silence themselves.
To second-guess their instincts.
To believe their voice isn’t worth hearing.

That kind of disconnection doesn’t disappear. It lingers.

---

We Grow Up… But Something Still Feels Missing

Here we are now—two grown women who once wanted to play the piano.

We still light up when we talk about music.
We still wonder who we might have been if someone had simply said yes.

I think that’s why I feel so at home in the pan yard.

It may not be a grand piano, but it has everything I need.
Sound. Energy. Freedom.
A space to let my spirit stretch and sing.

I may not have been raised to believe music was a path—but I’m finding my way back to it. On my terms. In my rhythm. With my own two hands.

---

A Note to Parents (Past, Present, and Future)

Please—don’t dismiss what your child naturally loves.
You may not understand it. You may not see how it fits into your plans.

But that spark they carry?
That could be their gift.
Their compass. Their therapy.
The very thing that helps them feel alive when everything else feels heavy.

Don’t teach them to live half-alive.

Let them draw. Let them dance. Let them sing.
Let them build or tinker or make magic out of words.
Because creativity isn’t just cute—it’s identity.

It’s how a child learns who they are.

---

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

Daddy’s Business | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

When Caring Becomes a Conversation — Love, Duty, and the Quiet Moments in Between

My mom called me one day last week and said she wanted to talk when I had a moment. It didn’t sound urgent, so I moved through my day as usual and ended up seeing her the next day.

She told me that both my father and my brother needed to go to the doctor for checkups—but neither of them wanted to. I found myself thinking: How exactly am I supposed to make two grown men do something they clearly don’t want to do?

My dad had told her he wasn’t feeling much sensation on his entire left side. He also admitted he hadn’t taken his medication in a while.

I booked an appointment with the German doctor near my area in Indian Harbor. It was easier to access, and the thought of dealing with traffic and parking on the main strip stressed me out.

Later that night, my mom called again. She said Daddy wanted to thank me, but he was feeling better and didn’t think he needed to go anymore.

I wasn’t impressed.

The appointment was set for Wednesday at 1 p.m. Somehow, I’d already booked three meetings that day. I was going to have to juggle it all and hope I didn’t burn out.

I left home and drove to pick him up. I called my mom when I was nearby so she could have him ready and out front. That way, I wouldn’t have to go inside.

He came out in a long-sleeved blue-and-white plaid shirt, white jeans, and a cap. When he got into the car, my mom walked over and signaled to me with some crumpled bills in her hand—two hundreds and a twenty.

I told her it was fine, I’d cover everything. As she turned away, my father looked at me and asked how I could refuse money like that. “Whenever someone gives you money, accept it,” he said.

I should’ve known better. I called her back and took the cash—just in case we needed it for medication.

As we drove through the province toward the business center in the south of the island, he was animated. He pointed out old buildings, made side comments, and shared memories. We passed a man on a bicycle—someone he used to work with. Strangely, he’d mentioned that same man’s name just moments earlier, saying he hadn’t seen him in a while.

I swear I heard him mutter under his breath, “If I wanted to take him out, he wouldn’t even know it was me.” I smiled quietly to myself.

He was genuinely happy I was taking him to the doctor. He reminded me, like he often does, how when I was a child, he used to take me to town on weekends, spending his pay getting me food, clothes, and just hanging out with his firstborn.

I asked him, “Who gave me my name?”

He said by the time he arrived at the hospital, my mom had already chosen it. But he had another name in mind—he’d wanted to name me after his youngest sister, Gillian.

The drive was a string of small stories and comfortable silences. An oddly tender day. And still, I found myself quietly wishing it would rain hard enough to cancel everything.

We got to the doctor’s office half an hour early. The receptionist greeted us while on speakerphone. She paused her call to give us registration forms. It was a small, three-room clinic tucked inside one of the shopping malls in Long Island—reception, doctor’s office, and a bathroom.

The doctor—a tall, bearded German man—arrived soon after. Quirky, funny, and attentive. He spoke directly to my dad, listened carefully, and asked all the right questions.

Turned out, my dad hadn’t taken his medication for weeks. His blood pressure read 195. The doctor said that could definitely explain the numbness.

They talked for a while about his health, made a follow-up plan, and he was told to start taking B12. The doctor suggested we book an appointment with a cardiologist next.

I sat mostly in silence, watching. Watching my father being taken seriously. Watched someone listen to him without rushing. It felt good.

I paid the bill and then stopped by the nearby pharmacy to get his medication.

On the drive home, I asked again about my name. He repeated his answer—Mom named me, but he’d wanted Gillian. I thought about how, as a child, people often mixed up my name with my aunts’, sometimes even calling me Gillian by mistake. Maybe there was always a little piece of her meant to be with me after all.

It’s been a few days since I took him to that appointment. I called once but didn’t get through.

I haven’t tried again.

---

Reflection

Caring for our parents sometimes means stepping into roles we never expected—becoming their advocate, their chauffeur, their memory-keeper. It’s a bittersweet path, filled with small victories and quiet frustrations.

Taking my father to the doctor was more than a medical errand—it was a reminder of the love and history between us, the unspoken stories carried in names and shared silences. A moment where past and present met, where duty mingled with tenderness.

Sometimes, the hardest part is accepting that we can’t protect those we love from every fear, every choice, every stubborn silence. All we can do is show up, hold space, and keep the line open—even when they don’t answer.

This is the complicated dance of family.

And it’s where love lives—in the imperfect, the unexpected, and the everyday.

_________________________________________________

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

The Wallet With a Heartbeat | by Herman Kingsley

Story of My Life, A Perspective from Herman | Guest Contributor

As a man in the later chapters of life, I often find myself amused—sometimes even baffled—by the number of women who cross my path pretending to be something they’re not.

Fake. Performative. Opportunistic.

They show up with charm, sweet smiles, and smooth conversation. At first, it feels like there might be a genuine connection. But somewhere along the way—sometimes very early on—it becomes painfully clear:
If there’s nothing to gain, there’s no point in staying.
No money? No meaning.

I’ve come to realize that for many women today, there's a deep desire for emotional connection—but only if it comes wrapped in financial benefit.
No romance without finance.

To me, that borders dangerously close to prostitution—and I don’t say that lightly. I’m not judging anyone’s hustle, but I can’t ignore the growing frustration that the only value some women seem to see in a man… is in what he can provide.

Why is that?

Is it desperation?
Survival?
Entitlement?
Or have the lines between love and transaction become too blurred?

Has it really become normal to offer companionship in exchange for money, even when there’s no real friendship, no shared history, no emotional investment?

Look, I understand hard times. I know life isn’t always kind. I don’t have a problem with a woman asking for help. But it’s the expectation—the assumption—that throws me.
The demand for support before there’s even been time to build something real.

Can a man not offer emotional, spiritual, intellectual—or even sexual—connection without feeling like he has to swipe a card first?

Are we truly at a place where intimacy must come with a price tag?

Here’s what I believe:
Ladies, be strong. Be grounded. Be self-sufficient. Build your own life. Carry your own load. If a man comes along who wants to support you, accept it with grace—but don’t make his pocket the condition for his presence.

Don’t lose your power chasing someone else’s wallet.

A good man doesn’t just want to spend—he wants to build. He wants partnership, not pressure.

And to be fair—this goes for the men too. Don’t show up looking for a second mother, expecting to be fed, clothed, comforted, and funded while bringing little to the table. Do better. Be better. On both sides.

But today, I just needed to get this off my chest.
This is real for a lot of men like me—men tired of being treated like a bank account with a heartbeat.

---

A Note from the Blog Editor
This entry comes from Herman, a friend of the blog. His words are raw, honest, and unapologetically personal. You may not agree with everything, but you may know a man who feels the same way.

If you do, take a moment. Listen deeper.

And if you’ve thoughts, please share them in the comments. Let’s talk about it.

---

 

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

She Walks the Streets, But I Remember Her Light | An Observation By Roselyn A. St Claire

“She was strong, capable, and God-fearing. The kind of woman who could fix anything—around the house, or in your heart. And now, she walks the streets like a stranger. I grew up under her wings, and I’m watching them fall apart. This is my truth. This is what mental illness looks like in Black families when no one wants to say it out loud.”

🧡The Unspoken Grief: When the Strong One Falters

How does someone you once admired—emulated, even—become someone who just walks the streets?

The woman whose footsteps I once followed…
The one who showed me how to be proud, how to be present, how to plan.
How does that woman become a stranger to herself?

As a child, an adolescent, a teenager—and even now, as an adult—I looked up to her.

She wasn’t just a role model. She was the model.
Smart. Sophisticated. Driven. Loving.
There was nothing she couldn’t do around the house. She built things, solved things, organized everything. She was deeply involved in the lives of her children, a solid part of our family’s core, and rooted in the church.

She had a plan for everything. From the outside, it looked like she had life all figured out.

But grief is a thief.
And in our family—like in so many Black families—we don’t always know how to speak its name.

She lost her mother. Then she lost her father.
Two tragedies that left quiet cracks in a woman who had always held everything together. After that, slowly, things began to unravel.

I grew up in the same house with her. I watched her move through life with grace and command. She was who I wanted to be.

And what I see now... is just a shadow of her.

She walks the streets now. Her clothes don’t fit the same. Her conversations drift. Her once-bright energy dims under something I can’t name—but I feel it.

She’s not okay.
And it breaks my heart.

I’m not a doctor.
I’m not her closest next of kin.
I don’t have the resources to take her away, to get her help in some calm, healing place. God knows I would if I could.

But what happens when someone doesn’t want help?
When they refuse it?
When they say they’re fine, even when you know they’re not?

Do I have the right to force her to get better?

That question keeps me up sometimes.

Because this is the part we don’t talk about:
What happens when the strong ones in our families—our role models, our caregivers—fall apart?

What happens when the people who once raised us now need to be raised, cared for, protected?

Mental illness sits in the middle of our living rooms and still goes unnamed.
Not because we don’t care, but because we don’t know what to say.
We were raised to pray it away, to hide it behind smiles and Sunday dresses, to say “she’s just going through something.”

But this is not just something.

This is real.
And it’s heavy.
And I’m tired of pretending I don’t see it.

This isn’t a story with a tidy ending.
It’s just the truth:

I love her.
I miss her.
And I don’t know what to do.

But what I do know is that we have to start talking about it.

We have to make room in our families to say, “Something isn’t right.”
We have to normalize naming these things without shame or secrecy.

Because silence doesn’t heal.
Love might not be enough to save someone, but it should be enough to try.
And trying starts with talking.

---

Reflection

Mental health in our families—especially in Black families—is so often brushed aside. We call it stress. We call it mood swings. We call it "just a phase."

But sometimes, the people we love are drowning right in front of us, and we don’t know how to swim out to them.

This is my truth.
Maybe it’s yours too.

We can't always save them.
But we can love them, honor them, and speak out loud what others only whisper.

This is how we start healing.

Let’s talk about it.

---

📞 If You’re Struggling, Please Reach Out

If anything in this blog feels familiar—if you or someone you love is going through a mental health crisis—please know this:

You are not alone.
There is help. There are people who care.
And there is no shame in asking for support.

📍Call or visit your local mental health organization, clinic, or hospital.
📱If you're in immediate distress, reach out to a trusted friend, family member, or a mental health hotline in your area.

Your healing matters.
Your life matters.

And it’s okay to need help 

#MentalHealthAwareness #BlackFamilies #UnspokenGrief 

_______________________________________________________________________

Image created with OpenAI's Sora 

Is It Ok To Break The Code? | By Roselyn A St. Claire

 

The older I get, the smaller the circle becomes. Not because I’m bitter — but because I’m paying attention.

I used to think I could just mentally categorize people: acquaintances, close friends, day-ones, ride-or-dies. Sometimes I wish I could create a spreadsheet. Name, type of friendship, level of trust. You know — just a nice clean Google Sheet with drop-downs and tabs. But real life doesn’t work like that. People show up differently across seasons.

There was someone I met in my twenties when I was working at a casino located inside the international airport. Back then, I was really just living. Trying to figure things out. I was in my head a lot, but one thing about me that never changed — I kept the main thing, the main thing. And the main thing for me? Loyalty. If you showed up for me in your own way, I respected that. I held that close.

So when a friendship grew with someone — let’s call them a “real one” at the time — I leaned in. We shared space, time, and stories. Weekend cruises together. Laughter. I even invited them to an all-inclusive birthday weekend at St Baths Club — a gift from my boss. I could have taken anyone. I chose them.

Fast forward to now — in my 40s — and I’ve found myself re-evaluating everyone. Not out of spite, but out of necessity. It’s been happening organically. Circumstances shift. Occurrences shake the ground. No one’s exempted — not even family.

And as much as I’m cutting cords where they need to be cut, I’m equally careful about forming new bonds. I’m that kind of introvert who can turn up when the mood is right. I connect easily, but that doesn’t mean I’m handing out intimacy for free. I read energy. I read intention. I can really feel when someone is being real or rehearsed.

And here’s the thing: we all have layers. Different versions of us show up for different people — and that’s not being fake. That’s discernment. I don’t owe everyone all of me. The version of me you meet is based on the energy you present. Full access is earned. Snippets are what most people get.

But what about the ones who’ve had full access? The ones who’ve seen your raw, unfiltered life? The ones who’ve held your secrets — the ones who were there when it mattered?

I believe that even if we’re no longer close, what we shared deserves reverence. If I called you a friend — and we shared moments that mattered — your secrets are safe with me. Forever. It’s not just friendship. It's a principle.

So imagine what it felt like when I realized someone I’d placed on the top shelf — like expensive liquor — didn’t hold me in the same regard. Through casual conversations with a mutual friend, things were said. Things that only they would have known. Intimate details floating freely, like they weren’t once wrapped in sacred trust.

Let me tell you something: when secrets become small talk, so does the person who shared them.

And it stings. You think maybe they felt the same way once.

Maybe they honored the bond… back then. But somewhere along the line, time diluted the meaning, and they decided that the expiry date on loyalty had passed.

So, when is it okay to break the bro or sister code?

The truth is, it never is.

Not when it comes to trust.
Not when it comes to once sacred moments.
Not when someone handed you their soft places and believed you’d protect them.

Breaking the code isn’t just a betrayal of the other person — it’s a betrayal of the version of yourself that once showed up for that friendship with honesty.

So yes — I’m cleaning house. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Some people have been quietly escorted to the exit, and others… well, their presence is being deeply questioned.

I’ve learned that shared history doesn’t always equal shared values, and not everyone you love will know how to love you back with integrity.

But I’ll always keep the main thing, the main thing: loyalty.

Even when others forget, I won’t.

---

Have you ever had to reevaluate a friendship that once felt solid? 

Have you been the one to hold someone's secrets — or had yours mishandled? 

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Let’s talk about trust, boundaries, and when to let go.

Image created with OpenAI's Sora

I Stand Accused...Too | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

 Some men speak their truth through music. Here's one story.

I Stand Accused
—A story of glances, silence, and a song that said it all.

One late morning, over a slow breakfast on the patio, he played her a song.
Isaac Hayes’ “I Stand Accused”—heavy with horns, velvet sorrow, and a voice thick with guilt and longing. As it filled the air between them, he began to speak. Stories of old lovers. Moments that had left bruises. Wounds that had healed and a few that hadn’t.

She smiled, nodded. Even chuckled at the timing. But she didn’t say much.

The next day, she played the song again—this time, alone.
And this time, she didn’t just hear it. She felt it.
Every pleading string. Every trembling note.
Somewhere between those soaring horns and aching lyrics, it hit her:
That song wasn’t just a story.

It was hers.
Or maybe... theirs.

---

Guilty as Charged

Because if loving him—in this quiet, complicated, careful way—was something she could be judged for, then yes... she stood accused.
Guilty.
Without hesitation. Without shame.

She knew he belonged to someone else. She’d always known. And every day, she tried to carry that knowing like armor.
She reminded herself she had no right to want him the way she did.
She tried to play it cool. Act unbothered.

But then he’d look at her—and it would linger.
He’d laugh in that way that filled the silence between them.
He’d show up with subtle gestures that felt almost... deliberate.

And suddenly, she found herself in that imaginary courtroom Isaac Hayes sang about.
No lawyer. No defense. No escape.

Just her.
And the truth:

She loved him.
Not because she chased it.
Not because she was naïve.
But because something about him found a hollow place inside her—and filled it.

And no matter how wrong it was…
She couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen.

---

The Unspoken Language

She didn’t know how he really felt. He never said.

But when she played that song again, she wondered…
Maybe that breakfast wasn’t just casual. Maybe the song wasn’t random.

Maybe it was his way of saying what he couldn’t say.
Not a confession, but a quiet offering. A gentle reveal.

Maybe that was his heart, speaking through lyrics.
Hoping she’d understand.

Or maybe she was just doing what women like her often do—
Reading too much into moments that felt too perfect to be coincidences.

Still, even if this love existed only in shadows, in glances, in sweet but silent exchanges...

She felt it.
She chose it.
She wore the guilt like perfume—intimate, lingering, impossible to ignore.

So yes, she stood accused.
And she would do it again.

---

Thought:
Sometimes, a song says everything we’re too afraid to. And sometimes, it’s the only truth we ever get to share.

Image created with OpenAI's Sora