I don’t think people talk enough about the right things. Or maybe I’m just lost at this point, but my 2025 bingo card has me feeling like Janiyah from Straw—just going through wave after wave of things people refuse to see or acknowledge.

About a month and a half ago, I was physically assaulted in my own home for the first time. Naturally, it affected my mental health—more than I like to admit. I didn’t feel comfortable opening up at work because the environment was already messy, and I often felt singled out by management. The person who assaulted me was someone I met at my job, and after what he did, I couldn’t bring myself to return there or even home for two days. I tried to reach out to the police, but the officer I encountered clearly didn’t want to do his job. He handed me a piece of paper and pointed me to the next nearest station. That experience discouraged me even more.

Eventually, I lost my job and my health insurance. I was approved for unemployment—but it’s only $200 a week. My rent alone is $750. (This is my first apartment btw) That doesn’t even begin to cover my monthly expenses. When I reached out for help understanding the unemployment process, I was met with more frustration. Though they did call me back, it was to tell me that my previous employer claimed they had given me multiple warnings before letting me go—something I wasn’t aware of—so now I might be disqualified altogether and have to reapply.

In the meantime, I’ve been DoorDashing and searching high and low for vendor opportunities to support my small business. But I’ve found that so many of these opportunities are gatekept. I’m just trying to survive and figure out how to live the life I want as a young, single Black woman in Memphis.

And then, just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I began getting harassed by my neighbor. At first, I tried to take the high road and ignore it—something I felt forced to do during past assaults—but it escalated quickly. He became verbally aggressive. He yelled at me whenever he saw me, threw my plants at me from my own front door, and eventually pulled a gun on me.

The most shocking part is, when I looked down the barrel of that gun, I didn’t even feel fear. I know that sounds strange, but with the year I’ve had, I honestly felt at peace with the idea of letting go. The very next day, I went to church. I didn’t even know there would be a guest speaker, but I trust my pastor. And that day, I was reminded that I have a purpose. For a moment, I felt seen.

But it’s so easy to forget.

Because as I searched for ways to pay rent and utilities, my brakes started squeaking. Then my engine light came on. Then the local rental assistance program told me they were out of funds. Just like that, the little hope I had left started to fade. I’ve never found it easy to ask for help—but I’ve also never felt this close to losing my mind. It’s scary.

I’m tired of going through so much in silence. Unlike the first assault, I’m going to make sure this one gets the attention it deserves—because this one changed me. I stared down a gun and wasn’t even afraid to die. That’s how much pain I’ve been carrying.

Can you really blame me? We live in such a “fear thy neighbor,” “I don’t owe anyone anything,” and “if it’s not my business, it’s not my problem” kind of world. People love to say they grew up knowing their whole neighborhood—then raise their kids to fear anyone who looks different. It’s exhausting.

On top of all this, I’m an artist in the age of AI. That may sound simple, but it’s soul-crushing. I’m watching the designs and work I poured myself into get replaced overnight. That’s why I’m asking for help—not just financially, though that’s a huge part of it. I need connections. I need community.

I want to host more art-centered events. Not only so I can earn an income doing what I love, but to bring community and creativity back to my city. Memphis deserves that. I deserve that. And I can’t even pretend I can do it alone.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for caring.