Hungry for More: My First Daniel Fast

Why I Decided To Fast

The Daniel Fast

Warm, golden brown buttermilk biscuits. Caramel colored, thick, brown molasses. Yellow, fluffy scrambled eggs. The rich smell of Maxwell coffee. During the summer in Mississippi, I loved waking up to these aromas. I knew that down the hall my great grandmother, affectionately called Mother, would be waiting for me at the table. We would sop our biscuits in the thick molasses syrup, sip on piping hot coffee, and savor eat bite. I don't recall if we had any monumental conversations on the mornings she took the extra time to make homemade breakfast, but I do remember how warm, loved, and desired I felt.

Over the course of my life, food would come to soothe a variety of emotions; sadness, happiness, guilt, depression, shame, and loneliness. Food was at the heart of every big event in my Southern life. Since my birthday is on the Fourth of July, my birthdays were full of food; barbecues, cakes, soul food, and later in life any restaurant my stomach desired.  In my adult life, food became a way to reward myself for a job well done at work, a long week, or an exhausting day.

Food took on a different meaning when I became homeless last year. I often remember the days I had no money for food. How I'd swipe my debit card praying it went through so I could savor a Wendy's 4 for 4 to mask the fact I had no place to call my own.

Now that I am employed, and living in my own place, food has become a source of pride and honor for me. To be able to buy my own food without government assistance, or a food pantry or shelter has felt so empowering. So empowering I have found myself constantly thinking of my next meal. I've accepted every left over plate, every cake, every free coffee because it feels so good to no have to stress over nourishment.

Lately, though I've been longing, hungry for something food can not fill. Freedom from shame. Acceptance of my past. Courage to move forward into my future. In reading the Bible, I've read how a lot of prophets fast when they are faced with a big decision or are uncertain about where God is going to take them. So when my friend Shirley suggested the Daniel Fast, I was curious. The Daniel Fast is fashioned after the what Daniel ate in captivity. He ate food from pulse or seed, and water. Daniel refused to eat the food given to him by the king that was holding him captive because it was blessed by false gods. I am following the Daniel Fast plan by Susan Gregory go to www.daniel-fast.com for more details.

When Shirley first suggested the fast, I thought there was no way I could diet like that for 21 days. The Daniel Fast does not allow for sugar, caffeine or processed foods which are my favorite comfort foods. Something stirred in my spirit the more I thought about fasting. I had researched how so many people felt closer to God, focused, and clear about which direction they should take. Friends even told me the powerful changes that happened to them through prayer and fasting. So I've decided to make the leap. I am now on day 2 of my Daniel Fast.

God has blessed me so much throughout my wilderness, and the more He restores me the more He is able to use me. I am hungry for a closeness of God that I have never experienced before. I am hungry for His direction and calling. That is a thirst that no drink or food can quench.

I'll be charting the journey of my Daniel Fast on my blog every Sunday through the month of January.

The Best Christmas Gifts Ever

The Best Christmas Ever: What's Under the Tree.

I was extremely blessed to have some amazing gift filled Christmases when I was younger.Both of my parents grew up poor so they spared no expense making sure my siblings and I had what our hearts desired. I can recall all the hours my step-brother and I spent trying out our new Sega Genesis', Nintendo 64, or Playstation. We grew up in the golden age of gaming so I have many memories of Mario Go-Kart tournaments, and Sonic the Hedgehog journeys. The Christmas I got the 'Crazy, Sexy, Cool' album by TLC was one for the books. I remember how confidently I was playing  the new CD and reciting the very mature, naughty lyrics to my friend Pam down the street. Christmas' rocked in my house as a kid. But, as much I remember the holidays where gifts were awesome and cheer was high; I also remember the holidays that weren't. 

The Gifts of Christmas Past

As much as my parents rocked at holiday gift giving one year they completely missed the mark, and the feelings it stirred in all of us is something I never want to feel again on such a joyous occasion.  It was Christmas, early nineties maybe. The whole family ceremoniously came downstairs for the opening of gifts. Gifts of all colors, sizes, and shapes covered sat beneath the Christmas tree. My step-brother's little hands began tearing into the gifts with his name scribbled on the front.  The first present he opened was a basketball hoop. It was the kind you hung on the back of your bedroom door to practice free throws. I smiled. That's cute I thought. My step-brother huffed and tossed the basketball hoop and wrapping aside. His eagerly started in on his next gift. After tearing through layers of wrapping paper he discovered, a football. Much like his reaction to the basketball hoop, he tossed the gift and keep going. Within minutes, my step-brother uncovered a foam baseball bat, a baseball, and a ton of disappointment. After everyone had opened their gifts, we look at my step-brother who at this point was pouting. 

"You don't like your gifts?" my step-father asked.

My little brother stomped his feet. Tears were welling up in his eyes. I wasn't sure what to do, laugh out of sibling rivalry, hug him, or hug my step-dad. I knew my parents had worked hard to buy those gifts, but I also understood my step-brother wanted video games. At the time he was no jock and had little use for the athletic dreams my stepfather seemed to be hoping for through those gifts. Time lingered. Moments like that made my parents hang their heads in shame at us. Us, ungrateful, rich, spoiled, entitled kids who had no real clue of what real disappointment actually felt like. The disappointment of no gifts under the tree, no father to nod at his kids loving, or superficial holiday cheer we had become accustom to. My step-brother did not know that then and neither did I. All I did know was that Christmas sucked.

When I started earning my own money as a teenager, I wanted desperately to somehow show my parents that I appreciated their hard work, their generosity, and our good home. So one of the first Christmases I could afford to buy my family gifts I stressed over getting the right things.  I hoped that with the right gift I could have a Hallmark moment with my family Christmas day. You know the moments where someone opens a gift you gave them and they cry from the sheer awesomeness of it? I wanted that. I didn't have a lot of money so most of my gifts came from the Dollar Tree or the discount section in the mall, but I had hoped the thought would make up for the cheapness. 

After pacing the mall stores for an hour, I stumbled upon a clever sign I thought would make my mom laugh. The sign said very simply, "Think" in bold, capital letters. My mother was one of those  funny, witty type of people, and whenever we said something stupid she'd always point at our head and say, "Think." As I took the sign down from the store wall, I imagined how she'd hang it up and get a laugh every time she saw it.

Christmas Day when it was my turn to give her the gift, excited bubbled in my stomach. "Here you'll like this. You're always saying this. Now all you have to do it point at it when we say something silly," I said handing her my poorly wrapped surprise.

She smiled, and opened the present slowly. When the wrapping paper was gone and my little sign rested in her hands, she looked confused. I saw her eyebrows squint, and said  "Hmm."  

"Don't you get it? You're always telling us to "THINK" Now you can just point at the sign," I said trying to contain my laughter. She smiled, and said thanks. She placed the gift to her side and kept opening presents. We all moved on to other gifts, and other things that evening. There was no Hallmark moment, or tears. In fact, I feel like I a failure. I was ashamed that after all the stuff my mother had given me I managed to give her a lame sign. After that Christmas gift giving with my family felt more than work than holiday joy. This expectation of the perfect holiday moment like those Hallmark movies portray did not come that holiday. I never saw that sign hung up anywhere in the house, ever. 

The Gifts of Christmas Present

This year there were no holiday decorations, or tree downstairs. No tree with gifts stuffed under a tree, no smells of holiday cooking. It was me, my apartment, my restored friendships, my new beginning, my healing, my peace, my joy. And, I almost cried at the sheer joy of those kinds of gifts. The best presents ever. I am living in one of my greatest Christmas gifts; a studio apartment in a cool, part of town, with quiet neighbors thanks to a gracious friend. I went to church today and fought  back tears.

"God is this what joy feels like?" I asked in a silent prayer at church. So many years as a kid I thought Christmas meant physical gifts, the things my boyfriends, my parents, or siblings bought me. And, so many times those gifts didn't produce the feelings of joy or happiness I had hoped for. Here I am starting my life over, and I feel more blessed than I have any Christmas in my life.

What if the real gifts are the time we give, the love we share, or the comfort we provide? I received all these gifts and more this holiday. This past weekend I got to see beautiful sunrises in Corolla, North Carolina with an old television friend. And the gift of our renewed friendship is one of my greatest joys this year. The perfume from a peer who celebrates every goal I've reached this year. The gift of time spent with my "keep it real" friend Tara. The gift of comfort God sent my way through friends like Miss Sunshine. The gift of therapy that is pushing me to confront past, and live in my present. The spiritual gifts I am realizing in myself, and the joy I feel sharing it with others. My greatest gift a relationship with Christ in a way I never knew possible. The real, intimate, personal kind of relationship I thought was only good for super, saved, perfect church folks. God showed me in the wilderness that He loves broken people like me. That even in brokenness He has plans for good, plans for a future, plans to prosper.

Sunrise in Corolla

Renewed friendship

"I will rebuild you, and you will dance again." - Jeremiah 31:4 

Next year, I plan to take even bigger steps of faith to living fully alive; a baptism for re-dedication, the bravery to complete my book, the boldness to speak my truth, and the heart to help God's people in amazing, supernatural ways. 

This is indeed 'The Best Christmas Ever

Local Running Community Helps Former Homeless Reporter

If I were still a news reporter, this would be the headline to a story of how a local running community brought Christmas early to a former homeless t.v. journalist.

When I was a television reporter the holiday season lent itself to tell amazing stories of people's generosity and compassion. One Christmas when I was working as a rookie reporter in Lynchburg, Virginia I did a story on neighbors who ran in a burning home to alert a sleeping family to the dangerous flames. One Thanksgiving as a reporter in Hampton Roads, I did a story on a woman I met in a hair salon who made dinners and gifts for dozens of homeless people at the Oceanfront. I loved telling those stories. They reminded me that there are good people in the world, and the simple act of compassion to your fellow man can be life changing. I never imagined that I would be on the receiving of this kind of love, and generosity. That changed this weekend thanks to a local running community in Virginia Beach.

Tara and I at one of my speeches

If you follow this blog, then you know I've been homeless for over a year. Thankfully due to a lot of prayers and a very generous friend I moved into my apartment this past weekend. Last year when I had to sell my beautiful two bedroom, two bath condo to prevent foreclosure I had to part with everything; furniture, clothes, plate ware. All I have is now is small storage space filled with pictures, memories, VHS tapes I can't part with, and journals I hope to turn into books one day. 

My friend Tara offered to post on her Facebook page about my season of homelessness and lack of

furnishings to see if anyone could donate a few items. I agreed, and what happened next blew my mind. Within minutes of the Facebook post Tara's friends from all over Hampton Roads, one even as far as Spain offered their help. My phone was pinging almost every 10 minutes with someone else posting how they could give. It didn't take long for this community to offer a couch, a memory foam, running shoes, money, silver ware, lamps, bedding, pillow cases.... the list goes on. More than these tangible items this running community, renewed me hope that my life is worth fighting for, that living independently again is going to be OK, and that God has tremendous plans for my life. I can see it daily now, because He keeps sending compassionate, and loving people to help me get back on my feet. Their generosity has also reminded me that even though times are tough in our country; love is still present. 

I will never forget this feeling. I've been thinking about a way to repay all these awesome people. I think the best repayment will be striving to live my best life, and finding opportunities to pay it forward to someone else.

I am also thankful for the amazing new friendship with Tara who helped put all of this in motion. The first time we had breakfast and shared our stories I instantly felt safe and connected with her. The past three years have tarnished what I believed about friendships. Friends I thought I would grow old with hurt me in the worse ways, and so many times friends took advantage of my vulnerability. Everyday, through people like Tara God is showing me what real friendships look like. Friends are the people who walk in when the world walks out, who love you in the valleys and the peaks. Thank you Tara. The fact that so many of your friends gave this way is a testament to you just how awesome you are.

I can't wait to put all the donated items in my new apartment. My home will be filled with love because people furnished it from their hearts. I am immensely grateful. 

Thank you for giving me the best Christmas gifts ever! A Christmas where a running community showed a former homeless tv reporter that love is real.

#LOLOSLOVELIFE: SINGLE NO MINGLE

It’s been over a month since the Boston Bear and I parted ways. I’m using the words “parted ways” because it was more of a business transaction than a break-up. Break-ups to me include tears, long conversations, arguments, some sort of care to fight it out. There was none of that.  While I admit the shock of how it ended stung for a few weeks, I have found peace. Ultimately, we were just two people not capable of a relationship, not just with each other but anyone for that matter. One of us was more consumed with business aspirations than a meaningful relationship. One of was unable to open up due to fear of abandonment, and rejection. I’ll let you decide which was which.

Boston Bear was nice, but looking back I’m not sure either of us would have gotten into a relationship with the other if our lives were in better places. The relationship was notable in that it was the first time I had trusted a man enough to call him in my boyfriend in over four years. It’s also the first time a man I really cared for did nothing to fight for our relationship. The lack of energy put into saving “us” was hard for me to grasp. I loved hard in my twenties, and every man I uttered the words "I love you" too loved just as hard. And, even when it was over each of those men gave all they had to try to make it work. So when Boston Bear didn’t I was stunned.  I second guessed myself. I became self-conscience. I’ve spent a lot of time in prayer about that. Focusing on self-love and reconnecting on the love that never tires of fighting for me which is God’s love for me.

Now that the chapter with Boston Bear has come to a close, and I’m no longer beating myself up mentally about it, I’ve come to realize I not only want to be single for a super long time, I think maybe I need to be. Before you go call me a Bitter Betty who is so hurt from her last relationship she is ruling out men, hear me out. Here is what I am learning are the perks to being single— and why I have absolutely no desire for a mate in the next month or maybe even the next few years.

I DO NOT WANT KIDS- Yup you read that right. I am 33 years old and I am drawn to puppies more than babies. There is still a societal expectation that women my age should be married and with child. People say, “Your biological clock is ticking.” Hey we live in a world world where 50 year women like Janet Jackson are popping out babies. I have time. But seriously having a child takes sacrifice, patience, and selflessness. These are all things I am not ready to give. Also, rational or not I am super afraid of passing down generational hurt to my children. There are a lot of wounds from my family and childhood that have yet to heal. And, until I’ve faced those things and learned to make peace with them I don’t think having a child would be wise.

I WANT TO BE SELFISH- Since my first suicide attempt in 2014, I’ve lost everything I held dear. I finally feel like I am getting a second chance to live a life of my own path and creation. I want to pursue this new life boldly. Also when I was dating the Boston Bear I felt the need to be so selfless it wasn’t long before I submitting to all his needs and none of mine. In this chapter of my life, I want to look out for me only. I want to chase the dreams of my heart, consider me first, and learn to love myself completely.

DESIRES OF MY HEART - One of the beautiful things of my recovery is that I am discovering my purpose and new dreams are unfolding. I am in the process of writing my first memoir, and taking a bold leap of faith to become a professional motivational speaker. I want to pursue those things wholeheartedly. I want to travel, and see God’s beautiful world. I want to share my story across the world.

INDEPENDENCE -  Being homeless meant I had to rely on so many other people; shelters, social services, friends, strangers. Now I want to know what life feels like relying on God first and my strength second.

I AM AT PEACE/ MY HEART IS FULL - Throughout my twenties I wanted so badly to be loved and coupled. I had this ideal in my heart that I’d be married, and knocked up by twenty eight. Now, as I am moving into my own place, growing in a job that I love, I don’t have that same aching for a romantic relationship.  And, as time goes on I am less connected to the ideal of marriage; the idea of finding completion in another person. This is a major departure from my dreams in the past. It is not that I do not believe in marriage. I just don’t think I want it for myself anymore. Also I've met some amazing friends who have become family who fill my heart is so many great ways.

Who knows maybe 5 years from now I will meet a man is Dwayne Johnson’s carbon copy and we’ll fall madly in love. Until then I am perfectly fine—alone, single, solo….just me.

The Power of Telling Your Own Story: The Black Danielle Steele

The Power of Telling Your Own Story: The Black Danielle Steele

When I was a little girl I always dream of being a big time writer. Cover of magazines, book tour, celebrity big writer. Way before Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City made writing sexy and fun, I wanted to be like Danielle Steele. Steele is a hugely popular, best-selling romance novelist. She paints the most beautiful love stories with her words. And, to top it off she loves luxury. Before I’d start any Danielle Steele book I’d turn to the back of the book to see her author head shot. Home girl was always on point. Her long hair, straight, and luscious hair would be pressed to perfection. Her makeup was flawless, and she was always sporting some seriously gorgeous jewelry. Before grammar, vocabulary, and punctuation would scare me from a writing career, I dreamt of being the Black Danielle Steele. (I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors you see in this blog. I do my own editing, and like I said grammar scared me from writing career.)  A few D’s in English class shot any dreams I had of being a writer. The pain of being rejected in a subject I loved so dearly was so painful I shelved the idea of ever becoming the Black Danielle Steele or the successful public speaking career I thought would blossom from my New York Times Bestselling books.

I still remember the time I brought home a ‘D’ in English. The reaction from my stepfather was enough for me to never believe I’d be a writer in real life. “Writer’s don’t get ‘D’s,” he said looking down at my red marked essay I brought home from school. I am sure he meant well, and didn’t realize how hard I took the criticism. But, what I heard was, “You are not writer material.” I continued to write in journals, and occasionally I’d write pretend soap opera skits and spread them around to my friends, but I never seriously pursued a writing career after that. I did not submit anything to school magazines, or offer to read in class.

I am now 33 with a much different story than I thought I’d be writing, and a new desire to recapture the dream of being a writer. The story I have to tell now is nothing like those steamy love stories Danielle Steele I read as kid. It is real. It is hard. It is at times shameful, and regretful. It is mine. I’ve been sharing my story from mini TV fame to surviving suicide to homelessness to the road to my recovery for over a year now. I am now writing my story with the help of an amazing organization called 'The Muse', giving speeches on my story, reliving the pain of my story, praying for grace and mercy along the way. I hope my story shows people that all of us possess the strength to survive unimaginable pain, heartbreak, and mental illness.

As I reflect on my last year as a mental health advocate and speaker I often recall the first speech I ever gave on my depression and how it motivated me to keep sharing. Last March I gave my first speech in a small church in front of some of the warmest, most compassionate Christians I’ve ever met. I remember standing before the congregation, with tears coming down my face as I shared my suicide attempts, the renewal of my walk with God, healing and the road to recovery. Afterwards, so many people shared their same struggles. We hugged. We laughed. We even cried together. We rejoiced, and a part of me started to feel stronger. Stronger, because I had survived to tell my story.

When I dreamed of being a writer and speaker as a little girl, this is not the story I thought I’d be telling. But, now that I’ve started telling it, I can’t stop. Now I don’t just talk for me. I talk for every person that finds comfort, hope, and acceptance listening to my story. With every speech I feel this is part of my new calling in life.

I can’t wait to see my book in print. I am taking a memoir class, and growing more and more confident in my writing ability. Some days I am frightened to keep writing. Some days I am too sad to walk down memory lane. But, most days the little girl in me is beaming. She is excited to think of having her picture in the back of the book, and her words capturing readers across the world.

Thank you for everyone who has supported my journey as a writer, mental health advocate, blogger, and speaker thus far.

If you’d like to continue helping me reach the dream of publication, you can do so with a small donation to my GoFundMe Page. Donations will be used to buy a new lab top ( I am borrowing one now), to pay for my hotel and airfare to a huge writer’s conference in Tampa next year, and more writing classes.

All donation can be made to www.gofundme.com/teamgoodgirl





 

The Power of Telling Your Story: The CBS Story on my Journey

For seven minutes, I watched the depression, trauma, heart ache, homelessness, and despair that I’ve lived the past three years. I don’t know if I can describe what those minutes felt like. I was a television reporter for most of my twenties, but it was surreal seeing my own personal story on-air. I never thought what the subjects of my interviews felt about seeing their stories on-air. I always wanted to get their stories right, but I never thought about the effect it would have on them. That changed Monday, October 23, 2017 when my own personal story aired on CSB 6 in Richmond, Virginia.

It all started on July evening, when I was sharing my story on Facebook live.

For the past year I have shared my journey on Facebook. The good, the bad, the ugly you name it I shared it. Doing so connected me to so many other people struggling with their mental illness, introduced me to new friendships, and opened the door for support.

On that July evening, a television reporter I knew joined my Facebook live. At the time I was sharing with everyone how I grateful I was to be coming out of my season of homelessness. When the Facebook live was over, the reporter connected with me and I shared my story even further. She expressed that she wished she had known how I was struggling. She wished I would have reached out. But, in the clutches of depression I felt nothing or no one could help me. A few weeks later, the television reporter, Shelby Brown, asked if I would share my story on-air for Depression Awareness Month. I immediately said, “Yes.” Not because I wanted my 15 minutes in the spotlight. I did it because of something God spoke into my heart a year ago about sharing my story.

As I was coming out of my depression a year ago, I reconnected with my spirituality and I began to hear God speak to me in supernatural ways. One of the many things I heard from Him was that sharing my story would set me free, and remove the shackles of shame for so many others. I never knew how God was going to bring that promise to pass, but when Shelby asked to share my story I knew then it was just as God said.

When Shelby came down to shoot the story in August, I was nervous. While I knew this was part of God’s plan I was scared. I was worried people wouldn’t understand, but I pressed forward. When Shelby arrived and I saw who her photographer was and all my worries faded away. Shelby’s photographer, Dwight Nixon, was someone I had worked with at a previous television station when I was beginning my career. I remember seeing him and crying. I felt so safe and secure that the two of them were going to treat my story with care. Shelby and Dwight went to the Wal-mart parking lot where I slept some nights in the winter, the church shelter I found refuge, and then attended one of my speeches on suicide prevention.

I stayed up to watch the story air on live stream. The first 3 minutes took my breath away. I sat there watching and listening how my life fell apart; from upcoming television star to homeless, depressed vagabond. I can’t believe this was my life. I wanted to so bad to reach through the screen, press some magical button in life that rewind the past few years; take back the decision to leave WAVY News 10, get help sooner, leave the toxic love triangle I was in speak up more. But, life doesn’t work that way. I can only look back on where I was, and keep being thankful for where I’m headed. The story also shared with viewers how I am using my painful past to help others as a mental health advocate and speaker. I share my story with as many people who will listen. I speak in front of crowds. I share on YouTube, and each time I speak I feel a sense of healing about my past.

The second part of the story described the Christian couple who took me in their home, and gave me the kind of spiritual rest my soul could not find in a shelter. They opened their home to me, share their food, supported me, and reminded me once again how God brings His children together to help one another. They remind me that God makes it so I am never alone in this journey called life. Many thanks to Pat and Wayne. I was basically a stranger to them and they trusted me in their home. They came into my life just as the shelter program was closing and I was unsure of where I would rest my head. There are no words to describe how thankful I am for both of them.

After the story, I just cried tears of sadness, regret, joy, and gratitude. I know that is a lot of emotions, but that’s what I felt. That story reminded me of how God told me sharing my story would free me. When it was over I wiped my eyes, and exhaled. God whispered, “You are free! The truth will set you free.” That story empowered me to keep singing my song of victory over depression, suicide, and homelessness. My story has value. That was reinforced by all the people who messaged me personally to applaud me for sharing my story. They shared their own bouts of depression with me, and told me how my story inspired them to keep moving forward.

My hope is that CBS6 story is only the beginning. I have big dreams as a mental health advocate, business owner, writer, and motivational speaker. I pray God takes my like voice nationwide to encourage people that they can live through tough times, depression, mental illness, suicide, and homelessness. I want to be a ray of hope for those feeling in darkness. I am currently writing my first memoir about the last three years of my life, and I hope it serves as a platform to go on a book tour. I am expanding my audience and I feel destined to take this message of hope to as many people as I can. If you are interested in booking email teamgoodgirl84@gmail.com or comment on the page below.

I come to inspire, motivate, educate, and cultivate hope!

This road to the new me would not be possible without so many people. I am constantly thankful for all the beautiful people God sent to feed, shelter, love, encourage me.

How I Stumbled Into Being a Mental Health Speaker

The first time I decided to blog about my suicide attempts and depression, I had nothing to lose. Depression had already robbed me of everything I held dear; my ability to work at my high-powered television job, to function in relationships, and it took nearly two years of my life. Something inside me felt compelled to tell the viewing public why I left WAVY News 10 just when my career was beginning to take off. It was an admission of a battle I had fought for 16 long years with a mental illness. I endured it privately due to shame and guilt.

When I started writing the blog, ‘Standing in My Truth’, the words just poured out. I had nothing else to hide. I explained how depression forced me to resign from WAVY News 10, kept me locked away in my room for days at time, took away my desire to do simple things like shower, comb my hair, or brush my teeth. There were times I felt so disconnected from my own body that I pulled hair out of my scalp, and peeled scabs off my face just to feel like I was still alive. The array of anti-depressants coupled with ferocious hunger added 100 pounds to my small frame in a matter of months. Depression felt like an invisible coffin; cold, dark, and lonely. It even pushed me to attempt suicide.

When I posted the blog about my battle I expected pity, shock, and maybe a few eye rolls. What I did not expect was a tide of support, comfort, love, and most of all, understanding.

One friend wrote, “Thank you for sharing this. Mental illness is not discussed enough in the black community. The story you are sharing is so real for so many people.”

And I have to tell you writing those words, felt like freedom. Freedom from the shame of my illness, my struggle, and it showed I wasn’t alone. The comments on Facebook kept pouring in. Viewers who knew me as a sparkling television reporter saw me as a real person, with a real struggle like many of them. They expressed empathy, sadness, pride, and many were rooting for me. Even more interesting  was that people started sharing their stories with me. That showed me that so  many people are suffering in silence. They want to share their story, but the stigma of mental illness holds them back. I wanted to break that barrier wide open and show people there is nothing to fear in owning your truth.  A friend recommended that I visit a website called ‘This is My Brave’, a non-profit that creates awareness about mental illness through creative storytelling. I admired the bravery of these storytellers living with their mental illness. “This is My Brave”, They and so many other non-profits like them are breaking the stigma by normalizing the discussion of mental illness. One of the most beautiful things I found while reading the stories, poems, and songs of

those with mental illness was that it lead me to acceptance, which in turn made me an even stronger advocate for my own mental health. I started to throw myself into talk therapy, I researched every medication I was prescribed, and became aware of my triggers to stay healthy. This is what speaking up does; it helps others know they can speak up too.

Since my first blog, I’ve been invited to speak at several mental health conferences, and suicide prevention walks. I never imagined I’d be this open and raw about my suicide attempts, and recovery. In October, I will be speaking at a number of suicide prevention walks and raising funds for the Out of the Darkness Walk in Norfolk by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I reached out to one of the walk organizers Eric Peterson, a man who lost his teen daughter to suicide. Something he wrote in an email reminds me why I am a mental health advocate.

“I am sad everyday that my daughter Sarah is no longer a part of my life here, but there is nothing I can do to change that. I am out here working to prevent suicide because I believe in you, and others who struggle. Everyday you stay alive brings meaning to this work in which I am involved in.”

His words resonated with me for days. “Everyday you stay aalive brings meaning to this work,” I kept thinking. My life, my struggle, my pain, my survival, my acceptance, my endurance is not only powerful for me, but for so many others. I hope in sharing my story, staying alive, and living with my mental illness, I show others they can too. Like my name, I want to be ray of hope for others. A, person who helps free them of their fear of getting help, starting over, and moving to recovery. I want to show those in the darkness with a lot of help and, and support there is light on the other side of their pain.

I am currently a Peer Recovery Specialist for the City of Portsmouth, a position that gives people living with a mental illness or substance use disorder the ability to help others through reach recovery. My name is Lauren Hope, I have Major Depressive Disorder, I’ve survived suicide, and THIS IS MY TRUTH.

For you interested in booking me as a speaker: email me at teamgoodgirl84@gmail.com

#MentalHealthMonday: Sharing my story and Getting Involved

Depression  knows no color, race, or age. I was diagnosed at 16 and struggled with accepting it for so many years. I am now growing to a place of acceptance, and I share my story of overcoming to show others living with a mental illness is possible. I was asked to share my story of attempting suicide and surviving depression with a local awareness campaign called 'Talk About It Norfolk' This is a city wide initiative in Norfolk, Virginia to spread awareness about depression and suicide. The hope is normalizing the conversation will encourage others to speak up and ask for help.

This is my story 

I also participated in a mental health training called 'Talk Saves Lives' where attendees are taught how to talk about suicide with those you care about it.

I am also raising funds for the American Foundation for Suicide Foundation. There are several awareness walks called 'Out of the Darkness'. Click here to donate

Secrets of My Life: The Complexity of Telling Your Own Story

Secrets of My Life: The Complexity of Telling Your Own Story

LAUREN HOPE·SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 201712 Reads

It is early, a little after 3:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and I am thinking of Caitlyn Jenner. Yes Olympic gold medalist, turned reality start now transgender woman, Caitlyn Jenner. I checked out her memoir, because confession I love the Kardashians, (that’s another story all in itself) and I want to know how living in their world effected his gender dysphoria. I wonder what it feels like to live in a skin that you feel is not your own for over 60 years. I’m also reading, because I am fascinated beyond measures with memoirs, and biographies. I always have been. I guess that is what lead me to a field in journalism in the first place; I love storytellers. Memoirs allows you to step in someone’s world for 200 or more pages. They give you a window into someone’s pain, reality, and often times triumph. One of my favorites growing up was “I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings’ by Maya Angelo, and more recently ‘Glass Castle’ by Jeanettee Walls. My greatest moments as a journalist was when I knew my reporting gave viewers that same intimate look into someone else’s world. I miss that dearly.

Caitlyn’s story has struck a nerve with me for so many reasons. It brings to the forefront my own struggle with writing my memoir. In journey of Caitlyn’s life her story intersects with so many others; the Kardashians, three former wives, her kids. All of their lives have been impacted by the telling of her story. And, I find it heartbreaking that the telling of her story has further destroyed her relationship with her once close Kardashian stepchildren. I’m sure the book wasn’t the only thing, but all of them have publicly stated the book was a punch in the gut. This is hard for me, because I worry constantly what my memoir will do the people whose lives I have intersected. Will they brand me a liar like Caitlyn or say I am rewriting history to serve myself? I am truly anxious about this as I am sure a lot of memoir writers with controversial stories are. My story is dirty, and ugly at times; dark and desperate. There are parts of my story that still keep me up at night, and make me ashamed of myself Accepting your story flaws and all is brave thing. This is why I have been drawn to storytellers my entire life.

Reading ‘Secrets of My Life’ reminded me that my story is mine, not my families, not television viewers, or people I feel could never understand the struggles I’ve endured the last three years. My story is mine, and as painful as it is to write; I feel compelled to keep going. . I want it to set me free as I know the truth does, and I hope in the pages of my memoir it sets someone else free too. I hope in reading my struggle it gives a broken-hearted woman in a church shelter hope that one day she won’t sleep on a gym mat and thin cover. I hope people with mental illness see how I’m living in recovery and choose life over suicide. ( I am currently raising money for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention you can donate at www.afsp.org/norfolk search Hope Walker) I hope that imperfect Christians like me know that no matter what dirty deed you have done, or how far from grace you feel God will meet you where you at and fill your well again. (See the story of the Samaritan woman in the book of John. Ichanged my life.)

I pray this early morning that like God says in Joshua 1:9 to “Be strong and courageous,” in my story-telling. I hope no matter how many tears fall in remembering those homelessness nights, or bad choices that I continue to put pen to paper and hands to keys.

Everyone is a story, and being a journalist has taught me that telling your story can be hard. But when we are brave enough to tell our stories profound things can happen for you and the people who read it. My little blog and business Good Girl Chronicles is not much now, but one day I hope it’s part of a storytelling/motivational speaking business that encourages and teaches people how to share their stories even if it’s only for themselves.

Caitlyn Jenner’s memoir is a mess at times. Her reflections of herself teeter back and forth from optimist to depressed. You can read that she too struggles with her version of history and the version of the people around her. But, what I do admire is that none of that stopped her from telling her story, and as you near the end of the book and Bruce transition you can feel and sense a freedom that is joyous. That is what telling your stories does, it has the power to liberate you. May we all move a step closer to making peace with our past, owning own set, and dancing in the free of our true selves.

Out of The Darkness: Suicide Prevention Month

Norfolk Out of the Darkness Walk:  I Walk to Be a Ray of Hope

I’ve been speaking publicly about surviving suicide for over a year now, and it’s still not something I am comfortable with. I am sad that depression took me to a place where my life didn’t feel worth living. I can still remember the numbness, and darkness I felt during my first attempt. And, a part of me feels that when I tell some people I am a suicide attempt survivor there is some pity, and in turn some guilt and shame in me.

On the flip side, speaking about what lead me to attempt suicide is liberating. I can see myself further removed from that pain, and I am proud of my recovery. I am also starting to discover that sharing my story has done more for others than I ever imagined. In a world where suicide is taboo to speak about people tell me my story lets them know they are not alone and has encouraged them to get help. That is why I speak up, and I am always seeking opportunities to spread a message of hope.

When I heard that a suicide prevention walk called “Out of the Darkness” was happening in Norfolk, I wanted to help. So I sent an email to Eric Peterson, a man who lost a teen daughter to suicide, about how to participate. Eric had heard me speak at another suicide prevention conference for mental health professionals. I was honored and something he wrote in his response email confirmed to me once again that my story has value, and as hard as it is sometimes I must keep sharing.

“I am sad everyday that my daughter Sarah is not longer a part of my life here, but there is nothing I can do to change that. I am out here working to prevent suicide because I believe in you, and others who struggle. Everyday you stay alive brings meanings to this work in which I am involved in,” said Eric.

And Eric is right. He and his family are on the front lines of teaching people about depression and suicide prevention. I see him and his wife often at events promoting good mental health. They are trainers, advocates, facilitators, warriors for the cause. They remind me that suicide doesn't just affect one person. They are using their pain for the purpose of helping others. I am constantly in awe of their passion and drive. For days Eric's words stayed in my heart.

“Everyday you stay alive brings meaning to this work.” It reminded me of the value of life and not just any life, my life. Everyday I choose to live in spite of my circumstances, and my major depression is a victory. I want to be a voice for those living with a mental illness. I want to show people suffering in silence that they really are NOT alone and with the right resources, there is a way out of the darkness.

The Norfolk Out of the Darkness walk.is part of the e American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. On their website they state the mission of these walks is not just about raising funds which is definitely important, but also about showing the world that when people work together they can make big change.

I want to change the discussion around suicide and show people resources to help themselves or others. There are a number of Out of the Darkness walks in Hampton Roads. Suffolk, Norfolk, Virginia Beach, and Newport News are all hosting walks. I’d love your support monetarily or by walking with me.

Suicide is the 10 leading cause of death in the United States, and AFSP is dedicated to reducing the suicide rate by 20% by 2025, a big part of that I believe is awareness. Out of the Darkness Walks are in all 50 states, to find one near you go to www.asfp.org

Hungry for Mississippi Morning

The sunlight creeps through my great grandmother's bedroom blinds, and gently kisses my face. I rub my eyes, stretch, and rose from my great mother’s waterbed. I would often find myself floating on her waterbed when nightmares kept me awake or I just needed extra comfort.

 The aroma of fresh buttermilk biscuits and coffee are swirling through the house. It's seeping from underneath my great grandmother's bedroom door. She is a second mother to all us kids, cousins, and neighborhood kids. We all called her ‘mother’, and often ran to her when moms, the women who carried us for nine months, weren’t giving us what we wanted.

 There is a sizzle, a crack, and pop. I know that's bacon cooking on my Mother’s old black, burnt frying pan. This is a Mississippi morning, and where some of my fondest food memories live.
After lingering in the bedroom for a while, my senses overwhelmed with the breakfast that is cooking down the hall, I wake up and start following the aroma.  My cousins are anxiously sitting at the table, and Mother is at the stove smiling. Her caramel life-worn face shoots me a smile. I'm only eight, but she pours me a cup of coffee. I go to the pantry and reach for the generic creamer, and sugar. I've tasted a lot of different coffees since those Mississippi mornings, but this coffee will forever be my favorite. When the biscuits finish baking, Mother brings the piping hot pan to the table. Me, my cousin, and young uncle are eagerly waiting for our turn to pick a soft, moist biscuit from the pan. No KFC, Church's Chicken, or any fast food joint can lay a finger on Mother’s biscuits. We pour this rich, thick maple molasses that came in large mason jars on our plates. It’s so rich and thick it takes what seems like forever to seep from the jar to the plate. With our hands we dip the biscuits in the syrup. This was the kind of food that fed more than your stomach. It fed something deep inside of you, something intangible. It’s like I could taste the love and attention Mother cooked into the meal. At the old circular table surrounded by my kinfolk I felt part of something, part of something lasting.


I've been thinking about these early Mississippi mornings a lot lately. I'm riding another weight roller coaster, and after way too many highs on the scale, I'm starting to wonder how I ever got here. Some nights I’ll lay on the couch, miserable, homesick, and alone. Then I feel a hunger rising in my stomach, punching, kicking, and demanding for something to fill the emptiness inside of me. It compels me to venture to the kitchen, and stand in front of the refrigerator. What I am really hungry for? I grab a coke, a few cookies, and head back to the couch. After my late night snack is consumed, my stomach is happy, but something else is still empty.

The sugary mix of caffeine and chocolate are not filling the loneliness or take me back to those mornings where I felt so whole and complete.  Growing up, food was not just about nutrition or fueling the body. Food brought my family together, it comforted us, and it was love. I've carried these feelings about food from childhood.  I realize now that sometimes when I overate I'm really trying to fill my soul with the same warm feelings I got on those Mississippi morning.
When I can't fix anything in my world at least I can fix a good meal for myself. The food cure doesn't fix the problem, but for those few seconds I'm lost in a haze, trying desperately to feed the little emptiness in my heart.

Our family is so far away. I’m living in the mountains trying to start my adult life. My sweet, warm Mother is now in a nursing home with little memory of those post sunrise meals. She has lost her youngest child, my aunt, and it’s caused a rift in the family that can’t seem to be healed.


My cousin and young uncle can barely relate anymore. The last time I went down South, I sat at that table where we had those sweet, rich, fat inducing breakfasts. I’m hungry for that feeling again. But, as I sit there in a house my Mother can’t call home anymore—I know no meal can fix where life has taken us or transport me back to those days that started with the feeling of sun on my face, and the smell of a family that loved deeply.

#LOLOS LOVE LIFE: The Boston Bear

For the past three years I’ve been lied to, hustled, lusted after, used, but rarely have I been admired by a man. They called me a bitch, crazy, ugly, and so much worse. So when I heard that a guy in another department at my job had a crush on me I didn’t really know what to make of it, and it made me wonder if I was really worth of someone’s admiration again.

When I met the Boston Bear I remember thinking he had kind, inviting eyes. Nothing about the encounter suggested anything romantic. We exchanged names. I explained I was fairly new to the company, and after that I didn’t see him again. Weeks later one of Boston Bear’s coworkers stopped me in the back office.

“So what do you think of the Boston Bear?,” he asked.

“What do you mean? I met him like once. He seems nice,” I replied.

“Well he thinks you’re really pretty.”

Pretty, I thought.  I couldn’t help but wonder if Boston Bear needed his eyes fixed. My work uniform makes me looking like I’m carrying an extra 15 pounds on my already voluptuous frame, and since we can’t wear bright makeup, more often than not I look rather plain. Nonetheless, the compliment felt nice. Pretty was one of those words I always wanted to hear from the opposite sex when I was younger. I didn’t see much of the Boston Bear anymore since we worked in different departments, but his co-workers never missed the chance to tell me I needed to give Boston Bear a shot.

“He’s a super sweet guy. You should reach out to him,” they would say.

Love was the last thing on my mind. For the past year, I’ve been struggling to escape a life of homelessness, and despair. So many days I felt broken, less than, and hopeless. A part of me had given up on finding love again. But, I took a leap of faith and sent the Boston Bear a Facebook message. I was touched the Boston Bear read my blog, praised me for my strength in adversity, and didn’t flinch when I shared the heartbreak I had endured or the depression that nearly killed me. The turning point came when the Boston Bear heard I had no way to get to work because my driver's license was suspended. For weeks, he'd take me home, and take me work. On those trips down 264-W on the 40 minute trek to my house, I fell in love with the Boston Bear’s northern accent, his love for his city, and his welcoming brown eyes. One night home, he put his hand on my knee, and I felt flutters in my stomach. I found myself taken back when he opened the car door for me, carried my work bags, and greeted me everyday with, “Hello beautiful.”

When your new boo is a Patriots Fan- you just go with it

The Boston Bear and I have been dating for two months now. He is one of the most selfless people I know. He is kind, patient, hard-working, funny, affectionate, and an amazing listener; so many of the things I prayed for in a partner.

When I was homeless, it was hard to feel safe with a man. Most wanted me physically or were enamored with the little celebrity I had as a television reporter. I thought every man was out to get something from me, and I was always waiting for them to disappoint me.

The Boston Bear didn’t pressure me for sex, or immediately ask to Netflix and Chill. He read my blogs about my suicide attempts and didn’t run. He laid awake with me for hours sharing pieces of himself and his history that few know. He holds my hand in my public, and blow kisses to me from across the room, and he believes in my dreams. He encourages my speaking career, gushes me about to his family and friends. And, when he holds me I feel home, a feeling I’ve wanted for a really long time.

To my Boston Bear….. Thank you for sharing your life and heart with me. Here is to new beginnings. May we grow as lovers, partners, and friends. May we build each other up on hard days. I want to be your harbor in the storm, your biggest cheerleader, and best friend. Thank you for giving me the type of love every good girl deserves. I can’t wait to see all your dreams come true.