(ThySistas.com) Somewhere between that first sleepless night and the fifth grade science fair, a lot of us quietly agreed to vanish. We handed over our names. Suddenly you were only somebody’s mama. Just the ride. The name they scribbled on the emergency card at school. Remember the girl who painted ...

(ThySistas.com) My mentor Miss Everlyn kept a set of china wrapped in tissue paper for thirty years. Rosebuds along the rim, gold trim that caught the light just so. She fed me off chipped everyday plates in her kitchen while those pretty things sat behind glass in the dining room, ...

(ThySistas.com) There was a season I told everybody everything. New job, straight up it went. Found a good man, and up he went too, the two of us grinning over overpriced brunch beneath a caption about blessings. When Miss Josephine passed, an old family friend who half raised me, I ...

(ThySistas.com) That lie got handed to us early, and a lot of us swallowed it whole. A woman is supposed to peak around 23, it says. Whatever shine she has then is the high point, and the years after just drain it out of her slow. Nobody announced this to ...

(ThySistas.com) Miss Josephine kept her copy of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings pressed right up against the Bible, and I didn’t take that placement for an accident. She carried a lifetime around in her, and most of it the folks two streets over never thought to ask about. ...

(ThySistas.com) Loyalty and self erasure are not synonyms, though the romance script handed down to most of us treated them like interchangeable words. My family kept a version of one story on damn near every branch of the tree. One aunt paid a light bill eleven years running on hair ...

(ThySistas.com) Most of us picked up a rule about ambition without anybody ever handing it to us directly. Pick one thing. Get good at it. Let that be the whole of who you are. Nobody says it to be cruel. It tends to come from people who love you and ...

(ThySistas.com) Let me start with a confession before anyone comes for me. I watch. Every season, glass of something cold in hand, group chat lit up, my sister texting me theories at eleven at night about who is playing a game and who is genuinely soft for somebody. So this ...