Rediscovering What Truly Matters

This past weekend, I attended my college’s Homecoming, marking my 10-year anniversary of joining my sorority—a milestone that forever changed me.

I remember arriving on campus as a young girl from Atlanta, wide-eyed and ready to dive into a world I’d only seen on TV or heard about in special programs. As a Black woman from the South, college was always a given goal, even though no one guided me much on how to get there. I was fortunate enough to attend an elite private school that emphasized college readiness and had dedicated college counselors. Still, all the focus was on “What kind of profession do you want?” without asking, “Where will you truly thrive?”

Growing up, my love for HBCUs was woven through my experiences. I loved visiting Morris Brown College to cheer on my cousin in the band, and I marveled at the powerful environment created “for us, by us.” My exposure to HBCUs deepened in high school through cotillions and summer programs, where I met more people within this enriching world. So, when it came time to choose, I knew I wanted Spelman—a place where polished, educated, graceful Black women could thrive. It felt like a “finishing school” for Black women, the ultimate place for self-discovery.

When I was accepted, I knew this was a big deal, not just for me but for my family. My grandparents never had this opportunity, and my mother, who was accepted to Spelman herself, had to turn it down for financial reasons. She told me, “If you want to go, we’ll make it happen.” And they did. I was a Spelman woman.

Those early days were a mix of excitement and discomfort. Spelman introduced me to the wide spectrum of Black womanhood. Some students, like me, were used to being “the only” in predominantly white environments, while others came from Black elite circles, grounded in social capital, legacy, and ambition. Navigating this diversity was challenging. I felt a bit lost, trying to balance studies and social life just 10 minutes from home but miles away from anything familiar.

Luckily, I had my best friend, a year above me, as a guide. I followed her lead in joining the dorm stroll team, the step team for my region, and even entering a pageant my freshman year (I didn’t place, but I tried). By sophomore year, I’d joined a sorority—the BEST sorority, if I say so myself. It was an empowering experience that made me feel seen and validated in this new world. Suddenly, I had access to the best parties, Spring Break trips, the “most-desirable” men, and visibility across campus. I felt like I’d “made it.”

Then, in spring 2016, my mom passed away. Losing her shifted everything. I poured myself into crafting an “image” that would be respected and loved—a way of reinventing myself so people would no longer see me as “the girl whose mom died.” This loss only pushed me harder to perfect my persona.

After graduation, I moved to New York with a clear vision: to become the “Black Carrie Bradshaw.” I even had it in my Instagram bio. I only dated “Bigs” in the city—the bankers and tech execs who were the crème de la crème. I became laser-focused on being impressive, on being the girl everyone wanted at their dinner party and the woman everyone else envied. But by 2020, I was exhausted. My friendships felt shallow, my relationships strained, and my social life felt like a chore. My best friend and I would ask, “What are we even doing here?” Then, when she left the city, I found myself alone and finally ready to understand how to build my own life.

Returning to campus for Homecoming this year, I wondered what I’d feel. The familiar faces at tailgate, the day parties, the old friend groups—they brought back questions I’d been avoiding: “What was I even chasing? Was it worth it?” It felt like the people who had once shaped my sense of self were still using the same measures of value, trapped in the same narratives I’d once strived to fit into.

But a pivotal moment came when I ran into an old friend—a genuine soul who seemed unfazed by it all. She radiated a quiet contentment that struck me. I realized, standing there in the crowd, that it really could all be so simple.

These last few days, I’ve reflected on that ah-ha moment. I’ve felt embarrassment for letting the social media-fueled chase distract me from what’s real. But I’ve also forgiven myself. I was doing my best at the time, and today, I am proud of the authentic life I’m building.

The friends I have now are those I can be vulnerable with. My partner is kind, shares my values, and genuinely enriches my life. I’ve found work that fulfills me, not just looks good on LinkedIn. And my relationship with my family has only strengthened with time.

Lately, I’ve been reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck* by Mark Manson, and two chapters—Happiness is a Problem and You Are Not Special—hit home. They focus on choosing struggles that matter and letting go of the need for validation. The message is simple yet profound: true fulfillment lies in relationships, creativity, love, and service.

It may sound “boring” by society’s standards, but that’s the point. The things that seem mundane help us uncover what truly counts. And I’m finally learning that living a life I can respect is more rewarding than anything I could ever chase.