Finding Comfort in the Chaos: An Offline Update

I’ve accepted that I am not in control. That life’s unexpected happenings aren’t meant to break me; they're meant to grow me. That patience is the precursor to unleashed blessings.

Offline is where the real magic happens. 

Sweat dripped down my spine and pooled under my breasts in the sticky heat of the south. Summer hadn’t quite hit yet, but hits were spinning from the DJ's laptop and turntables, the stage behind him was just as crowded as the throng in front. Hands waving, bodies gyrating, a sea of brown shades whooping and bellowing along with the lyrics. Black joy.

I pushed through the masses and beelined my way to the stage to join the “chosen ones”— friends and acquaintances basking in the feeling of being connected to the conductor of the crowd. It’s a scenario that has become all too familiar for me, having worked in the media and entertainment industry a good chunk of my life. We all want to feel special, even if it’s just for a moment amongst our peers on a stifling hot day.

I exchanged greetings with friends I hadn’t seen in months—years even—a feeling of joy filling up inside of me as I carved yet another memory with them to later reflect on. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, I realized that libations weren’t the only thing that had me feeling good. Being amongst those who were genuinely happy to see me as we swayed to the rhythms of pop songs and Afrobeats is a simplicity that’s often overlooked but is greatly fulfilling.

Offline was meant for me to disconnect from it all to get back to who I am. But who I am consists of the moments of stillness in which I replenish, and the encounters with pleasure which come from living. It’s the little things, I’ve discovered, that make me feel most alive. Seeing Andre 3000 too-da-loo on his flute in a crowded park, downing funnel cakes on picnic blankets, discovering new vinyl shops, and planting bare hands into the cool soil of potted herbal plants.  

This past month reminded me of the beauty of simplicity. I didn’t have any grand plans or premeditated activities. I went with the flow and was met with delight with every encounter. And that’s the beauty of living offline. It allows you to get back to the magic that’s around you.

But offline is also where the soul goes to heal. 

Unbeknownst to social media, I do not have it all perfectly together. My frustrated cries have echoed throughout a home that’s supposed to be my safe space, and I question if I had made different decisions two years ago, would I be in the same situation that has me falling to my knees in fervent prayer? Is every sacrifice that I’ve made worth the impending reward? Is the promise of a payoff truly coming? It’s hard to trust one’s vision when the outcome is blurry.

I’ve pulled out my journal to pen down feelings on life and love that need a healthy outlet, but reading back over them my thoughts are conflicting.

Should I stay?

Should I go?

Should I release or should I hold?

And why, for God’s sake, do I keep attracting the married and soon-to-be-married beaus? 

“Don’t send me anyone who’s not my husband,” I exasperatedly tell Him. 

And then all goes quiet for months at a time, leaving me to wonder if it’s God’s protection or if it’s the fact that I live in a city where men have the pick of the litter despite that many of them are broken, unfaithful, still holding on to lover’s past or positioning us as placeholders as they search for someone they instinctively know is “the one.” 

In conversations with my girls, this is not a geographic phenomenon, but a worldwide epidemic. We’re somewhere between single and settling for what we can get, redefining our standards and adjusting our values to make someone fit who, perhaps, was not meant to be here for a long time, to begin with. *deep sigh*

It’s offline that I’ve accepted that I am not in control. That life’s unexpected happenings aren’t meant to break me; they're meant to grow me. That patience is the precursor to unleashed blessings, and that it’s also the virtue that I dislike the most. The unknowing, the waiting, the attempts to grasp something concrete—a time, a date, a dollar amount. Something. It’s a season in which I have to get comfortable with discomfort. Trust the process and know that at the end of the day, I’m still here. I’m still moving forward. And the objects that I desire in the mirror are closer than they appear.