When the Cookies Crumbled: How I Remembered Who I Really Am

Hey Friend!

In this manifesto, I’m sharing the deeply personal unraveling that led me to stop baking cookies (for now) and start brewing truth. If you’ve ever felt like your 9-to-5 was draining your spirit,
if you’ve been questioning your identity,
your purpose,
or wondering why everything feels just a little bit off
—this post is for you. Here’s how I unearthed the real reason I’ve been feeling so misaligned—and how a bath, some herbs, and a long-forgotten tea ritual brought me back to life.

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When the Cookies Crumble, Pay Attention

I’ve been in a strange limbo for a while now.

I knew I wanted to keep this blog going, but I also kept flirting with other ideas—new projects, new platforms. Substack had its moment (twice). I tried on the idea of a cottage baking business like it was a cute little apron, imagining myself delivering cookies to neighbors with powdered sugar kisses and homemade charm. I wasn’t a baker by trade, but I was willing to learn. It felt warm. Nostalgic. Possible.

I told myself, “I’ll start when I move.”

And I did move. And over this past weekend, I baked. I tried to perfect my cookie recipe. And it was… meh. The flavor was fine, the texture okay, but something inside me felt hollow.

That night, as I prepped for the work week, something hit me like a ton of gluten-free flour: I was miserable. On the edge of what I can only describe as depression. I didn’t want to go to work. At all. (that’s nothing new these days!) I felt drained. Powerless. Like something essential in me was withering.

Why Do I Feel This Way?

It wasn’t just the Sunday blues.

It was the weight of everything—my age, my unmet goals, the past businesses that didn’t soar, the pressure to plan for my retirement (with no money), and leave a legacy. I wasn’t just tired. I was spiritually exhausted. And I didn’t see a way out.

But this isn’t a sob story. This is the moment before the bloom.

Because something shifted. And I want to share it with you—not as an expert with a 10-step plan, but as someone who's still very much in the middle of it. Someone who just figured something out and hopes it helps you too.

Business (and Life) As Personal Practice

Every business I’ve ever started was born from something I needed in my own life. For a long time, I thought that made me unstable. Like I was flaky or unfocused. I watched others pick one lane, build empires, and stay the course.

But that’s never been me.

I’m a multi-passionate Virgo. A 3/5 Manifesting Generator. I am the flow. And my life isn’t linear—it’s spiral, circular, seasonal.

What I realized is this: my “problem” was actually my gift. My personal life is the blueprint. My healing is the business. My joy is the marketing. My curiosity is the strategy.

When You Don’t Know Who You Are

There’s another layer to this that goes deeper than cookies or job dissatisfaction.

I’ve been struggling with a quiet question for a while now: Who am I?

It’s hard to put into words, but it feels like disconnection. Like a low, dull ache. I know I’m not the only one. I think a lot of Black women feel this—especially those of us in our 40s and 50s. It’s not that we don’t know how to function. We do that exceedingly well. It’s that we weren’t taught to love where we came from.

I wasn’t raised to understand the power and beauty of being a Black woman of African descent. I didn’t grow up with stories that made me proud of my lineage. If anything, we were taught to disconnect from it. To assimilate. To avoid.

And that erasure? It leaves a mark.

But the Internet—bless it—has made something undeniable. Our real history is here. Our culture. Our brilliance. Our traditions. And I’ve been slowly, tenderly reclaiming all of it.

The Return to Ritual

For the last 20+ years, I’ve practiced Islam. And I’m still anchored in many of those spiritual beliefs. But there’s always been something quietly calling me: herbs, baths, oils, teas.

Even as a child, I felt magic in the plants. In the water. In the earth.
In my late 20’s, early 30’s, I found a love for herbs, a connection.

Over the weekend, as I was elbows deep in cookie dough and soul-level dissatisfaction, I remembered something: I used to sell teas. Years ago, in Georgia, I had a little company called Hey Goddess. I made herbal blends, went to farmers markets, and loved every minute of it.

That joy? It’s been whispering to me again.

From Flour to Flowering

This morning, I woke up feeling the same dread. I had to drag myself out of bed to face a job that feels like it’s swallowing me whole. But instead of forcing myself into productivity, I did something different.

I ran a bath.

I grabbed herbs—whatever I had on hand that felt right. I poured them into the water like a prayer.

And I remembered: this is who I am.

Not so much a baker.

Not a corporate worker.

Not someone who has to force herself into roles that don’t fit.

I am someone who makes tea with intention. Who crafts mojo bags. Who brews spiritual baths. Who honors her ancestors through ritual and rhythm. I am someone whose lineage comes from Togo and Benin—lands rich in Vodun, tradition, and healing. I am someone who knows now that those ancestral stirrings are not just whims. They’re instructions.

What I’m Choosing Next

So, no—I won’t be selling cookies after all (or not any time soon).

I’ll be making herbal teas. For sipping and for bathing.

Bath rituals.

Mojo bags for the purse and the altar.

Offerings rooted in love, lineage, and my own need for healing.

Because the things I’m drawn to? The things I crave? They’re not random. They’re divine.

And if you’re feeling a little cuckoo, off-kilter, depressed, or disconnected—I want you to know: you’re probably standing right on the edge of your next becoming. Sometimes, it takes being brought to our knees to hear the clarity that’s been whispering all along.

You’re not broken. You’re remembering.

Come Sit With Me in the Remembrance

This journey isn’t tidy. It’s not always aesthetic. But it’s true. And I want to keep sharing all things with you here, on this blog and in the magazine.

Because your journey deserves witness. Your rediscovery deserves space. Your unraveling is sacred.

So here’s to ditching the cookies and following the breadcrumbs of our own sacred longings.

We’re not behind. We’re blooming.

Right. On. Time.

✨ Call to Action

If this manifesto touched you in any way, please:

• Leave a comment and share your story

• Forward this post to a sister who’s been feeling “off”

• Subscribe to the newsletter so you never miss a post

Your presence here matters. Your journey is valid. And I’m so glad we’re walking this path—remembering forward—together.

Live Pleasurably,

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