It’s finally 2021! Happy New year to all, I hope your year will be full of love and growth. Now that we have said goodbye to 2020, I have also bid farewell to abandoning this blog. I started this page to develop my writing but life got in the way. After reflecting over my goals for the year, relaunching this page is a priority of mine as it really is my baby.

It sounds like a cliché, but I am the stereotypical creative that needs to be in a particular headspace to produce art – especially when I write music! However, I now see that I only play myself because where is the consistency in that? See this as a written declaration of my intention to get it together and be consistent all of 2021. Self development journey aside, let’s get into this week’s topic!

“it took seven years for Ella’s family to be taken seriously”

Two weeks ago, a news notification popped up on my phone reporting that pollution was found to be a factor in the death of 9-year old Ella Adoo-Kissi-Debrah. Relief washed over me at the thought of her family being able to get justice for her death, however it also left a bad taste in my mouth that it took over seven years for them to be taken seriously.

For those who are not familiar with the case, Ella was a black asthma sufferer living in Lewisham, London. In the three years before her death in 2013 she had been admitted to the hospital twenty-seven times and had multiple seizures. Her mother, Rosamund Adoo-Kissi-Debra, often wondered how her daughter became unwell so suddenly, so this inquest has provided the answers they were seeking. However, why did it ever happen in the first place? How many more children will have to experience the same pain?

“Nitrogen dioxide levels exceeded WHO’s guidelines”

It was found that the level of nitrogen dioxide (NO2) near Ella’s home exceeded World Health Organisation and European Union guidelines. This begs the question as to why no action was taken against these unlawful pollution levels, were the relevant bodies unaware of the dangers or was it simply not one of their priorities?

The failure to improve Ella’s quality of life speaks volumes about the class issue we have in the U.K., the poorer areas are directly impacted by air pollution and unfortunately, those are usually where a large number of ethnic minorities people reside. It is a similar situation in relation to cases of COVID-19 amongst black and minority ethnic people.

Remember when rumours circulated about black people being immune to the Coronavirus? They really had me thinking I was invincible for a hot second, moving like I was made of vibranium.

It’s chilling when we look at how badly ethnic minorities have been impacted by the virus. Although ethnic minorities only make up one in eight of the population, back in May one in every three patients admitted to critical care were of that demographic.

It’s still unclear as to exactly why ethnic minorities suffer more, some put it down to greater exposure to the virus at home/work or having an underlying condition. Either way, more needs to be done to level the playing field, 2020 showed me there really is no reason to let things slide when it comes to social justice matters.

These issues not only impact those from minority ethnic backgrounds, but they also have a ripple effect onto the surrounding communities and NHS services. The added demand for medical services also impacts the taxpayer so effectively it’s not just an ‘ethnic’ problem.

The sooner more can be done to understand the reasons behind the increased cases, the better. It is one of many health issues, amongst black women’s maternity death rates, that the government have not made an effort to solve. A report published by UK parliament in November acknowledged the disparity in death rates amongst black women, but stated that the NHS currently has no target to end it. The report is available to read here – https://t.co/TCtvXq0jxQ

In 2021, I hope standards of life can change for others who look like me because essentially, you can never be too black for good healthcare.

I’d like to begin by thanking everyone who read and supported my first post last month. I was nervous to have my writing out on the web, but thank you to the kind souls who reminded me to trust in my abilities.

This week I wanted to talk about a love hate relationship I have, it’s both the apple of my eye and the bane of my existence. The thing that I pride myself on most but also debate on whether to change, that’s right folks it’s a natural hair post. This July, it was officially 7 years since I ‘went natural’ or rather, returned, as I like to say and it has been a character building experience to say the least.

I grew up with my hair being relaxed from the age of 4, I understood little about the process as I was just told it would make my hair grow. I didn’t mind it as before chemicals, nothing that anyone recommended would get it to grow. I was only four, but longed for waist length, ringlet locks like my barbie dolls so if it meant experiencing a bit of pain as Mum added the relaxer cream every 6 months, I didn’t mind. Anyone who has used relaxer is familiar with the uncomfortable, hot feeling it causes after being on for too long. As a kid, this was made worse by my low tolerance for pain. I’d wriggle around in the chair like I had ants in my pants to distract from the lava-like sensation spreading across my scalp.

Burning head or not, it felt like a small price to pay in exchange for looking like a bad b 🤪 I could waltz into school the next day feeling like Year 1’s next top model.

My Mum had relaxed or permed hair for most of her life so she had little experience looking after natural hair. She generally found it easier (and quicker overall) to chemically treat me & my older sister’s hair. Culture wise, it was the norm for Zimbabwean girls and still is to an extent. The natural hair movement may be big now but back then it was seen as messy, unless it was long or wavy. Growing up in England as well, I figured Mum wanted us to have the best possible chance at fitting in so the hair treatment made it easier for us to be relatable to our peers.

The majority of girls in my primary school had hair that was at least shoulder length, so I vividly remember feeling like I belonged more with long braids. Subconsciously, I also associated length with feminity so felt masculine when I wore my hair without braids. It never grew past shoulder length so literally everytime I’d have it out I would be sure to wear a school cardigan rather than jumper so I wouldn’t be mistaken as a boy. Or rather, make extra effort in the morning to add slides and bobbles to my hair to avoid possible confusion. It sounds ridiculous now but at the time my worth was tied to my hair length so it was difficult to feel confident with a short style.

Aside from being short, my hair was also very stiff and thin, nothing like the girls on the hair relaxer boxes with voluminous hair. Nevertheless, I was filled with immense pride in secondary school when it finally became long enough to wear a fringe. I had longed to be able to do styles that didn’t involve a ponytail or hair piece and now I’d hit the jackpot. It was a small win but I was glad to have the option of wearing my hair up or down. Being 14 at the time I was battling with developing self love without extensions in so this was a game changer. I lucked out as it was during a phase in popular culture when short hair was the ‘in thing’ again, Rihanna was wearing her hair out so why not join her? It definitely empowered me to embrace my hair length and associate short hair with beauty.

Now that I felt confident wearing my own hair, half the job was done. I was still yet to discover my natural hair and ditch relaxers, but it was easier said than done. A year later, I removed my weave to find my fringe was longer than ever, yet the hair at the back of my head was now only a couple of inches long. It was no surprise as I had no idea how to look after my hair well, but it was still frustrating as ever. To my horror, my Mum suggested I cut off the whole thing and start fresh. I protested immediately, cringing at the thought of walking through the halls of my predominantly white school with a pixie cut.

It goes without saying that eurocentric standards of beauty were the ‘in’ thing. I could already think of the names I’d be called for my super short cut, and they weren’t pretty. Luckily, my aunt who is only slightly older than me so understood the social order of western secondary schools, came to the rescue. She managed to get Mum to see that cutting off all my hair, whilst at my kind of school, would be social suicide. We compromised that the big chop would commence in four month’s time, after the year 11 prom. That way, I would have enough hair to get a weave done for the big day.

Prom came and went, before I knew it the time came to do the big chop. I felt both dread and relief, I no longer had to be in the environment where so much focus was placed on my hair, college would be a fresh start so these new people would have no idea my hair was much shorter. However, the thought of growing my hair all over again was frustrating. The whole process was played out very publicly, my Dad offered to cut my hair but on one condition, that he could do it in the front garden.

He insisted against doing so indoors to avoid making a mess in the house, apparently doing it in the back garden was not an option either. The alternative of course, was paying a hairdresser to do it, money that teenage me certainly didn’t have. I was ready to risk someone I knew walking past the house and seeing the public big chop, if it meant I wouldn’t have to pay fifteen pounds for it.

Although, as he chopped off my hair I instantly felt less confident in myself, like I’d lost my identity. It was bittersweet as it meant freedom from my unhealthy hair but now I had to face the burden of a completely new texture. It’s as if I’d just done a body swap like in Freaky Friday except it was hair textures and I was in way over my head.

As I hadn’t had natural hair since Year Reception, I couldn’t remember what it felt like. I imagined it would be loose curls, 3c-4a, to my horror it was the very end of the spectrum. Every strand was 4c, or mufushwa as Zimbabweans say. The texture was rough & naturally dry, no amount of oils seemed to make a difference. Of course back then, I didn’t know that it took a dedicated regime of deep conditioning and ‘wash days’ to make my hair manageable over time.

So, I did what any regular millennial would and turned to YouTube tutorials. To my surprise, there were tonnes of girls with natural hair channels that taught me many of the methods I use today like the LOC method and co-washes. However, it also sold me dreams, the majority of the girls had long curly 3c waves that grew incredibly fast. People said black girls couldn’t grow their hair long, yet these girls had manes like mermaids. I got into the mindset that if I followed their steps exactly, I would see my hair grow just as fast. This all went downhill when months later, I saw little progress, mainly because I was copying these 3c girls so my 4c hair wasn’t getting the right products. (And I was yet to learn about shrinkage)

Back then, I didn’t consider that the Youtubers I aspired to be like may not have been 100% African like me. It’s likely they had Indian/caribbean ancestry/dna which contributed to their loose curl pattern. Also, further research into hair growth taught me that some people are incapable of growing their hair past a certain length, ever. Along with the youtube gurus, I yearned to have hair like my sister’s, she did her big chop after mine and it was still longer. Thicker, wavier. I would preach the importance of using natural methods that I’d learnt to maintain good hair, but she could go without any of them for months on end.

Looking back, I allowed my lack of hair growth to get me super down for a solid 2 years. My parents noticed me struggling and tried to help by suggesting different options. “Just relax your hair!”, was regular advice but I was determined to stick to the natural hair journey, how else would I ever know my hair’s full potential? Besides, I had not just endured a public big chop for nothing, I was determined to learn how to take care of my hair come hell or high water.

A kind lady from church recommended that I simply apply oil and water to my hair, claiming that all the other products were a waste of money. This, and the discovery of the LOC method changed my hair for life. Along with investing in a heatpack to wear on my head during deep condition sessions, that in particular gave my hair a lasting shine.

It always makes me laugh when I think of using it at university, preparing the heatpack always made me feel like some sort of potion making witch lady as I had to stir them in a pot on the stove. I felt this more than ever when my housemate came in late one night. I didn’t realise she’d have company, so when her guy friend saw me with a face mask, bath robe & plastic bag on my head I nearly died of embarrassment. 🤦🏾‍♀️ It was just like the That’s So Raven episode, when half the school catches Raven at home when she was far from presentable, I’m just lucky it wasn’t that many people.

They proceeded to ask me what I was cooking, the mortifying encounter seemed to drag as I explained that it was for my hair. They exchanged glances and sloped off upstairs leaving me to my crazy, afro heat pack ritual. 🤦🏾‍♀️

That was nearly four years ago now but its taught me to be more unapologetic with my hair. This year, I summoned the confidence to wear my natural hair, unstraightened, unblowdried (without a hair piece) for the first time. I felt empowered and glad that I finally had the confidence to embrace my fro.

All in all, I’ve come a long way, my hair is the longest it’s been in my life. However, I’ve grown to learn that it’s more about how healthy the hair is rather than focusing on length. My main hope is that my future children are not insecure about their hair the way I was. Fingers crossed, I will be better at braiding and cornrowing by then so it will stand a chance at being healthy. 😂

For now, my short term goal is uplifting my younger sister and little cousins to feel secure in their natural hair journey every step of the way. I near enough annoy them with reminders of how hair which is tightly coiled and does not obey the laws of gravity is also beautiful, no matter what society has made them believe.

So to kick off my blog I’d like to start by telling the story of when my bad judgement got me into a mess. After over a year of the single life, I decided to jump back into the dating game but it felt more like a stumble.

It all began a couple of months ago, I was walking down the street when a guy pulled over to talk to me. My first thought was to do a runner, what were the chances he was about to bundle me into the back of his car? I then considered that he may need my help, was lost, or worse yet, suffering a heart attack and I would be the douche bag that ran away. Before I had a chance to imagine more life or death scenarios, he called out to me. I approached the car to find a pretty good looking guy grinning at me. We chatted for a while, turns out he wasn’t mid-heart attack and didn’t need directions, so must have meant he just stopped to flirt. He asked for my number and I was hesitant but thought, what’s the worst that could happen? I hadn’t gotten to know a guy in a while so I didn’t see the harm in getting the dating ball rolling again.

A couple of hours later I got in touch and Leo (we’ll call him that for the post’s sake) asked if I was free that evening. Naturally, I was expecting him to plan some kind of meal out (not necessarily a Michelin star restaurant but at least a respectable Nando’s) to see if there would be any chemistry. Judging by his flirty nature earlier, on I suspected he wanted to meet for a date so I presumed we would meet from 7pm or maybe 9 latest. Of course things are never what they seem, as he went on to ask me for a massage.

*First red flag alert🚨🚨🚨*

But of course being naive, I just laughed it off & declined.
He then told me he wanted to meet at 11pm. Instantly I wondered how the evening meal I envisioned would work when the only food places open at that time would be takeaways.

*sigh*

I explained to him that I would be busy by then as I don’t tend to meet guys that late at night. From there on it was downhill, he said I was a bull******* and should have said that in the first place. In retrospect, he had a point as the text exchange lasted a long time but I didn’t appreciate his tone one bit. He then told me he was ‘done’ and we went our separate ways. 🤷🏾‍♀️

Fast forward to a week later, a random number called me. (At the back of my mind I was hoping it would be an old crush from uni but that is a post for another day 🤫) I picked up and to my surprise it was Leo. He said he was over the disagreement we’d had and was wondering if we could meet up. Naturally, alarm bells started ringing. what made him change his mind? Was he planning a bloody revenge for me tonight? The optimist in me reassured that it was because he felt bad about how he left things the week before.

Once again he was adamant for us to meet up and eat at his place rather than a restaurant. My gut instinct (& the group chat) were telling me not to go but I made the conscious choice to lead with my stomach rather than my brain. I made it clear from the beginning that no funny business would take place and that this was strictly a chill meet up, to which he agreed. It had been a while since I’d pigged out on takeaway with a sweet one so surely wouldn’t hurt to just go…right?

• 

An hour later Leo arrived at my house, before I departed my better judgement told me to take my bank card just in case. It was possible that he didn’t mean he’d pay for my food as well as his own so it was better safe than sorry. Besides, if this evening didn’t go to plan then I was gonna need something to book a taxi home. As soon as I hopped into the car, I realised my mistake when the smell of weed attacked me. I loathe everything about it, let alone the smell so my first instinct was to get right back out. However, I figured I’d give him some credit, it may have been a friend who was having it, rather than him. But when I least expected it, the second red flag showed up. Whilst I was mid-sentence he blurted out that I sounded very ‘white’. My face instantly dropped so he rushed to insist that he meant it in a good way but the damage was done. As someone who has been told that a lot just because I’m well spoken, the comment irritated me. We went on to have the played out conversation about how being well-spoken is not synonymous with whiteness. He wasn’t convinced.
I swiftly changed the subject to ask what he did for a living and he explained he sold car parts. Something in me didn’t believe it but I figured it best to humour him until I sussed out the truth.

We also chatted about relationships, a topic I regretted almost straight away as he went on to say that he wasn’t the type to chase a girl, I’m used to being wooed so it sounded completely alien to me. At that point I was starting to understand why when I met him he asked me to text him first rather than the other way round. I went on to joke that he could instead cook as a way to woo me but with a straight face he said cooking was just for women. Next thing I knew we’d arrived at his place, I could finally escape our 1950’s-esque gender role chat.

We stepped into the house and were greeted by his flatmates, a mixed race guy with a seemingly Brazilian accent and a black girl with a London one. I never got their names so for the post’s sake we’ll call them Jake and Angela. The warm welcome they gave immediately put me at ease. At this point I was hoping to be led into a sitting room maybe even with a TV in case we had any awkward silences.

Oh, how wrong I was.

His room was the first one after the front door so he led me straight into it. Optimistically I hoped there would be a chair so I wouldn’t have to perch on the bed but to my horror, I was wrong about that too. 🙃 I also couldn’t help but notice that the carpet needed some serious TLC, I know some landlords don’t bother updating homes but this was a situation where Leo had not cleaned the floor in a long time, or rather ever. Angela’s room next door confirmed this for me, the door was half open and from the little that I saw, I could tell her carpet was spotless. Reluctantly I entered feeling like I’d reached the low of my dating life. I considered just sitting on the floor but given the state of the carpet I made do with the bed.

Almost straight after we went in he wandered out of the room, I used the opportunity to send my location to the group chat just in case. Leo didn’t exactly give off serial killer vibes but I wasn’t gonna take my chances.

Minutes later, he reappeared and said he was leaving, with a puzzled expression I asked why but he avoided the question. He suggested I find a takeaway to order from online and that he’d be back soon. At this point I lost respect for him, what kind of person invites someone over to chill and then ditches them? As he left I started browsing Deliveroo for takeaways in the area, part of me wanted to leave but I figured I’d already come all that way. I decided to order a Domino’s but hesitated when I realised I forgot to ask him what flavour he wanted, at that point all I could do was wait until he came back. I quickly learned it’s difficult to be on a date with someone if they are technically not there. Whilst I sat and contemplated my life choices, Leo’s housemate, Angela poked her head around the door and asked where Leo was, when I told her he’d left she checked if I was okay. We exchanged smiles and I assured her I was fine, the opposite of the truth of course, I could tell she was concerned but perhaps didn’t know if it was her place to say something. Either way, I appreciated the thought, she was already proving to be a better host than her housemate.

After what felt like forever, Leo came back apologetic and somehow settled, I figured that whatever sent him out last minute was likely to have been resolved so the night could now start properly. Upon that thought, I opted to not call him out on leaving as life happens, people can’t predict if something will pop up or not. Besides, his return meant we could start ordering food, I had been craving pizza for weeks so was ready to stuff my face. With the food ordered, we got the opportunity to have a proper conversation for the first time since we’d gotten to his, to my surprise I really enjoyed it, turns out he used to live in the city I went to uni in, what were the odds?

I noticed he had a photo of him with young children as his screensaver, he told me they were his nieces and nephews and how he loved spoiling them. But then he went from 0-100 and told me had a child of his own too, initially I was surprised but then figured it wasn’t exactly unusual for a 25 year old guy. Beaming with pride, he showed me videos of him with his toddler son and for the first time that night I saw the humanity in him. He explained how he was separated from the mother but would go to see his son regularly, like many men he could have taken the easy route and ditched him but he was adamant to not become one of those dads.
Just as we began to get the conversation flowing, Leo’s phone rang. The call was short and he quickly explained he needed to leave…yes, again. I asked if everything was okay but he just said he’d be back soon and within seconds he was right out of the door. It then dawned on me that I had not only just been ditched twice, on the same night, but that I was also going to have to pay for the food we ordered. He left in such a hurry that I didn’t even think to remind him that the food would be arriving any minute, I only had my debit card on me so the thought of the delivery guy turning up (likely expecting a cash payment) scared me to the core. Shortly after Leo left, the doorbell rang, the optimist in me thought he’d realised how rude he was being and decided to come back to the house but it dawned on me that he wouldn’t have used the doorbell. I peeked out the window and saw the Domino’s delivery guy, for a moment my eyes lit up, it wouldn’t be long until I could stuff my face with pizza but then I froze wondering how I was going to pay for it. What were the odds the delivery guy would take mercy on my failed evening and just give it to me as a freebie?

I weighed up my two options, either hope the delivery man would let me pay by card or ignore him in the hope that he’d just leave. Like the majority of my night, Leo was nowhere to be seen so my choices were limited. I went with option two and pretended not to notice the deliverer – cowardly I know – but eventually he gave up and left. At that point I lost hope of being able to salvage the evening, the food that I was invited for in the first place was now off the table and I couldn’t help but check quotes for an Uber back to my place. As I began weighing up if surge pricing was worth the price of my rescue, Jake came bounding down the stairs with a box in his hands. I could have kissed him when he strode in and told me he paid for the pizza when the delivery man went to the other door, turns out there were two and the one I saw him at was actually just the back entrance. I thanked Jake for taking care of it but he told me Leo gave him the pizza money before he left. Who would’ve guessed my date wasn’t as careless as I thought? Jake went back upstairs and left me to it, without wasting a second I dug in to the meal and sipped on the Fanta like it was my last meal. If I was gonna get ditched on a date I may as well enjoy the perks.

A couple of slices into the pizza, Leo came back. He seemed surprised that I had already started eating, even slightly offended but my conscience was clear. After being criticised for the way I speak and ditched by him twice in the same night, I figured I no longer cared about what he thought of me digging in without him. Besides, it’s not like he was taking the evening seriously, when he came back this time round he was with his cousin. From there I presumed whatever it was that had him ditch me twice was family-related so it wasn’t fair to give him a hard time for it. Once acquainted, his cousin made his way upstairs to give us space, I couldn’t help but feel bittersweet, it would have been weird to have him third wheel our date but all the same it was a mess so he could have made it less awkward.

I looked at the time and felt dread at the thought that I had only been at the house for two hours yet it felt like a lifetime, with the pizza now finished I realised there was no way the night could get better so I had to make an exit plan. I considered faking a family emergency, or rather saving myself the trouble of making up a story by sneaking out of the window, I’d been taking Pilates classes on Youtube, so had a pretty good shot at fitting through the small opening. In the end, I settled for the truth, I had a driving lesson scheduled the next morning so it would make a perfect get out of jail free card. I told Leo I would get a taxi home but he insisted on driving me back, I was reluctant at first as the way he drove me to his house wasn’t exactly safe considering he was in the middle of most lanes. Nevertheless, I figured it would be better than spending ten pounds on an Uber so I gave in. Leo then realised that he had lost his keys, I assumed they’d be found quickly as he’d used them ten minutes before when picking up his cousin, how wrong I was.

Five minutes went by and he asked his cousin to come downstairs in case he had the keys, he had no clue so Leo tried searching upstairs. Me and his cousin were left waiting together, I got talking to him and it turned out he had come from London to stay round his place that weekend. This begged the question of why I was asked to come round that evening if Leo knew he would already have company, when his cousin realised I had been asked round for a date he seemed confused too. Leo made his way down the stairs, he still hadn’t found the keys so he tried his room, I could see his cousin was starting to get impatient and to be honest I was too. Just as I was considering booking a taxi again, the keys were found, they had been in his trouser pocket the whole time.

Sweet victory! It may have taken nearly half an hour but now he had found the keys, I could finally go home and try to forget about my failure of an evening. As he needed to run an errand, Leo’s cousin ended up tagging along with us, the evening was beyond repair so this time I figured it would be good to have him there keeping the conversation flowing. From what I picked up on during our short chat he was a level-headed guy, dare I say it, I should have gone on a date with him instead.

I braced myself as I got into the car, Leo’s driving was far from safe but the thought of it only being a fifteen minute journey kept me going. Once again, I was wrong as the car was going in the opposite direction to my house, apparently we were taking a quick pit stop somewhere first. *sigh* As I weighed up the chances that I was being driven to a slaughterhouse, the car ground to a halt outside a block of student halls. A floppy haired white guy approached the car, Leo handed him something pocket-sized and was given money in return.

It dawned on me that I’d probably (definitely) just experienced a drug deal, I gotta say Leo really outdid himself, the surprises had been non-stop. At that point the mystery of his whereabouts that evening were cleared up, he probably had intended to stick around for the whole date but his ‘customers’ kept him too busy. Once we rode off the atmosphere in the car shifted, feelings of disappointment and anger overwhelmed me to the point where I spoke less than 2-3 words at a time. Being a former university student, I have encountered drug deals before so watching the exchange didn’t really phase me, but the realisation that I had been ditched for that annoyed me. I also began to question my judgement of character, how could I not tell from the offset that he was into dodgy dealings?

Leo’s driving knocked me out of my mini self-reflection session, he was a little reckless on the drive from my place but this time it’s like he was auditioning to be on Fast and Furious. I thought it may have just been me being overly-cautious but his cousin even piped up to ask why he was driving like he was hungry, a valid question considering he was literally driving on the opposite side of the road. Relief washed over me when he pulled up to my house, dangerous driving aside, I was back safe and sound. I sheepishly thanked him for the ride and slid out of the car, my power walk from the car to the front door could have rivalled Bolt himself.

The next morning I wasted no time blocking Leo’s number, after the train wreck that was the night before I had zero interest in a second date. I surprised myself by not letting him hear exactly what I thought of him for ruining the night, mainly because I didn’t trust myself to remain composed and not raise my voice. However, maintaining my poise came at a cost, I lost the opportunity to find out why he went to the trouble of having me over if he had no plans to spend time with me. At the very least he owed me an explanation but months later, time has taught me that my frustration was misdirected. As much as I was mad at him, I was more annoyed at myself for allowing the night to go in that direction.

I’ve found that people treat you the way you allow them to, the more nonsense you tolerate, the longer it will continue for. I should have left Leo’s place the moment he ditched me to go somewhere else but because I stuck around I allowed the disrespect to progress. Essentially, I settled for less than I was worth just because I wanted to get back into dating when in reality, I was better off waiting for someone who suited me better. I hope this post encourages others to demand respect when dating, there’s plenty of fish in the sea so why settle for less?

xo