Category: Positivity

Columbus, Ohio, like most cities I assume, has a hierarchical process for removing snow. Major highways get cleared first, then state routes, then minor thoroughfares, and finally the local neighborhoods.

Now, I bring this up because I’ve had moments where I’m sitting at home, looking out my window, needing to go somewhere, but feeling completely stuck. Outside my window, the snow is piled in my driveway, the streets look untouched, and it feels like the whole world has come to a standstill.

But here’s the interesting thing: just beyond my neighborhood, the roads are cleared. Life is moving on. People are driving to work, grocery stores are open, and traffic is flowing. From where I sit, it looks like everything has stopped, but the truth is, the world is still moving.

And that’s when it hit me, sometimes life feels just like that snow piled on my driveway.

We get stuck in our own “driveways” those small areas of life we can see from our perspective. It might be our circle of friends, our neighborhood, our news feed, or even our comfort zone. And when all we see is snow piled up in front of us, we start to believe that nothing is happening, that progress has stalled, that the whole world is frozen.

But the truth? Just beyond what we see, the road is clear.

This happens when we only listen to one source of information. We get trapped in a single voice, a single perspective, or a single narrative. Maybe it’s what “they” say on social media. Maybe it’s what “they” have decided is true. Maybe it’s just the story we’ve been telling ourselves. And from that narrow vantage point, it looks like the whole world has stopped moving.

But here’s the reality: life is moving on. Opportunities are happening. People are working, learning, growing, connecting. Just because we don’t see it from our window doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

That’s why I say: don’t listen to what “they” say go see.

Take the risk of stepping outside your own snow-covered driveway. Venture beyond your block. Be willing to be uncomfortable for a short while so you can discover the cleared roads where life is happening.

Because if you wait for the city to shovel your block, you may be waiting a long time. If you wait for other people to change your perspective for you, you might be stuck for years. Sometimes the only way forward is to move even when it feels risky, even when you’re nervous, even when the snow is still deep right outside your door.

And here’s the good news: that fear doesn’t last forever. The stretch between your snowy driveway and the clear road may be short, but it requires courage. Once you take that step, you realize the world never stopped it was moving all along.

So, here’s the question for you: Where in your life are you stuck staring out the window, believing the whole world has shut down? And what would happen if you stopped listening to what “they,” say, stopped waiting for permission, and just went to see for yourself?

The snow in front of you might look overwhelming. But just beyond it, the path is already cleared.

In your own quiet time think about your honest response to these questions: 

Why do some white people mock or mistreat Black people, yell go back to Africa, yet pay to plump their lips, tan their skin, and enhance their curves?

Why do some white people roll their eyes at Hispanic immigrants, yell mass deportation, yet can’t wait to post selfies from Cancún, Puerto Rico, or Cozumel?

It’s a contradiction, but it’s also a pattern. Because what’s really happening is this: They want the culture, not the community. They want the flavor, not the faces. They want the beauty, but not the burden.

Let’s start with the Black culture. For centuries, Black features full lips, dark skin, natural hair were ridiculed, even criminalized.
Yet today, those same features are copied, filtered, and celebrated when they’re on someone else.

What does it say when the world profits off your style, but ignores your struggle? When Black people wear box braids or speak boldly, they’re “too ghetto.” But when someone else does it? It’s “trendy,” “fearless,” “high fashion.”

Let me be clear: Being black is not a costume it is a culture and a daily experience you cannot take off at the end of the day. 

And the same is true with Hispanic culture.

White people flock to Latin America for the music, the food, the sun, and the salsa. They sip margaritas in Cancún while demanding walls at the border. They praise the hospitality of Puerto Ricans on vacation then ignore the lack of representation and resources they face back home.

How can you vacation in a place… but vote against the people who live there? How can you eat the tacos… but disrespect the hands that made them? It’s not appreciation if it doesn’t come with respect.

Here’s the truth white people need to face:  You cannot truly love the culture if you do not love, honor, and protect the people behind it.

It’s not just about what you wear, where you travel, or what music is on your playlist. It’s about what you believe. How you act. And who you’re willing to stand up for when it matters most.

So, if you love Black music, support Black lives. If you love Latin food, respect Latin families. If you admire the rhythm, honor the roots.

Because admiring someone’s culture, while rejecting their humanity, is not admiration it’s exploitation.

I’ll leave you with this: Don’t just enjoy the flavor learn the story. Don’t just borrow the beauty embrace and stand up for the people. And if you truly love the culture prove it by loving the community.

I say this as a dog lover.

If we woke up to headlines that shooters were targeting kennels or doggie daycares, and veterinarians were only seeing dogs whose owners could afford the treatment, I have no doubt we would see swift action. Legislation would move overnight. Because as a society, we deeply value our pets. And rightly so. They bring us love, loyalty, and comfort.

But when it’s people, our kids in schools, our families in grocery stores, our neighbors in churches, we stall. We debate. We delay. Reforms that could save lives are treated as too controversial to act on.

Make that make sense!

Americans spend billions every year on their pets: on gourmet food, on plush toys, on doggie clothes, on health insurance. We fight fiercely for their safety. And I understand that. I have done and will do the same for my dog.

But here’s what we can’t ignore: while we’re investing billions in our animals, the NRA and gun manufacturers are making billions selling the very weapons that devastate our communities. Their bottom line is measured in profit; our bottom line is measured in funerals.

And on top of that, families face crushing medical costs just trying to keep their children healthy. Parents ration insulin. Kids skip treatments. Healthcare has become a barrier instead of a lifeline.

So let’s be clear: this isn’t about whether we have resources. We do. It’s about how we choose to use them. Right now, we’ve allowed profit from the gun lobby and from broken healthcare systems to outweigh the value of human life.

Sensible gun legislation saves lives. Accessible healthcare saves lives. Neither is radical. Neither is impossible. They are the bare minimum of what a society should do if it claims to value its people.

If we can insure our pets, we can insure our kids. If we can legislate for Fido and Princess, we can legislate for Johnny and Janet. If we can rally to protect animals, we can rally to protect human beings.

The question before us is not can we act? The question is will we act? Will we act to put people before profit, children before corporations, and lives before lobbies?

I am my church’s official photographer and in that role each Sunday I try and look for at least one shot that is unique. The other Sunday, I read a slogan on the back of a sweatshirt that stopped me in my tracks it read:

“Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it. Love, the person in front of you.”

I wasn’t prepared for the emotion that rose up in me. What a powerful message tucked into such a simple line of clothing. Think about it how often do we walk through our day without realizing that the person standing behind us in the checkout line, driving in the next lane, or sitting quietly in the waiting room might desperately need that reminder?

We don’t always know the battles people are fighting. Some are carrying grief, some are weighed down by doubt, and others simply feel invisible. And yet, a message like this sweatshirt offers a gentle nudge: You matter. Your presence makes this world richer, brighter, and more beautiful.

Dr. Myles Munroe said:

           The wealthiest place on earth is the cemetery, because there you will find the books that were never written, the songs that were never sung, the inventions that were never shared, the cures that were never discovered, all because someone was too afraid to take that first step, keep with the problem, or determined to carry out their dream.

Imagine the many books, songs, inventions, and cures that would miss the cemetery and would make it out into the world if we each lived out that sweatshirt sentiment, Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it. Love, the person in front of you. Not just a catchy slogan, but a way of being. A smile instead of a frown. Patience instead of frustration. Kindness instead of indifference.

The world doesn’t need more critics it needs more encouragers. And sometimes encouragement is as simple as reminding the person behind you that their life has value.

So today, whether you’re in line at the coffee shop, at work, or even scrolling online, take a moment to “sign your name” with love. Because I need you to survive, the world really is a better place with you in it.

Have you ever had one of those everyday moments that stops you in your tracks and makes you question what is really going on in our country?

That happened to me recently. And it all started with water and glue.

I’m a photographer and a crafter. Some days I’m taking and editing photos or developing film; other days I’m at the craft table. On this particular day, I needed supplies, distilled water and rubber cement. And being me, I never just buy what is needed, I always buy a little extra because my ideas don’t always work out the way I imagine them and sometimes that means wasted material.

So, there I am at the checkout. The cashier scans my items, looks at the screen, and then looks at me.

“I need to see your ID.”

Now I’m standing there confused. “My ID? For water and rubber cement?”

She nods seriously. “Yes. The register says you must be 21 to buy multiple bottles of these items.”

So, I hand her my license. She checks it. I pay. I leave.

And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Here’s why.

In America today, you can buy a gun at 18. Some are even pushing to lower that age. And in many cases, you don’t need to show ID. You don’t need a background check. No one stops you at the counter.

But me? I had to prove my age to buy water and craft glue.

WATER and CRAFT GLUE! Think about that.

What does it say about our priorities when distilled water and rubber cement are treated like a greater threat than a firearm? I’ve never heard of distilled water or glue used in a mass killing. But guns?  Too many times to count. 

Now, I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this: little contradictions like this should make us pause. They should make us ask hard questions. They should make us think about what we value, and what we’re willing to change. Lastly, they should make us ACT!

So, I’ll leave you with the question that’s been ringing in my mind ever since I left that store:

What’s up with the guns, America?

Imagine this. You’re a kid again. It’s art time, which was my favorite time. The teacher hands you a brand-new box of Crayola crayons. You open it with anticipation… only to find out every single crayon is white.

No red for hearts. No blue for skies. No green for grass. No yellow for sunshine. Just… white.

You’d probably stare at that box, wondering, “What kind of boring messed up art project is this supposed to be?” You’d start coloring, but no matter how much you press, scribble, or layer everything looks the same. Lifeless. Bland. Missing its spark.

Friends, that’s what our world would look like if we all were the same.

What makes a masterpiece isn’t a single color it’s the contrast, the depth, the vibrancy that comes from difference. Diversity isn’t just a buzzword. It’s the very essence of creativity. Whether we’re talking about race, culture, ideas, or perspectives the magic happens when different “colors” come together on life’s canvas.

Yet, too often, we try to live like that all-white crayon box. We stick to what’s comfortable. We label what’s unfamiliar. We build walls instead of bridges. And the result? A world that’s not living up to its God-given potential.

But imagine if we embraced every shade. Every hue. Imagine the beauty of a world where we don’t just tolerate differences but celebrate them. A world where the unique color you bring is valued, not feared.

Crayons don’t argue over which color is superior. They understand that together, they complete the picture.

So today, I challenge you and me, I challenge us: When we meet someone who doesn’t “color inside our lines” we shouldn’t reach for the eraser. We should reach for another crayon. Add their shade to our masterpiece. Because the world doesn’t need another white crayon box. It needs the full, beautiful spectrum that only comes when we appreciate every color, every person, every story.

Let’s not settle for a world without color. Let’s create a diverse vibrant masterpiece, and live up to our God-given potential.

I want to tell you about a word. A word so powerful, it can make people laugh, cry, or even cause a fight at its very mention. A word so controversial now, although it shouldn’t be, it makes most people break out in a cold sweat just thinking about it. 

I’m here to tell you, from my perspective, it wasn’t always that way come with me to a time when the N word was cool.

Growing up on the mean streets of the southeast side of Chicago, everyone used the N word. It was a descriptive word an endearing word a word that gave you a certain status. As a matter of fact, growing up in my neighborhood if you were not called the N-word you were a loser, straight-up full stop.

My parents and the other parents in their circle prided themselves on raising N word kids because they called themselves the old Gs of N word parents and everyone on the block knew this was the case.

I can remember a time my mom had to go up to the school for an early morning meeting, so she decided to walk with us. In order to get to our school, we had to walk pass a pool hall which seemed to never close always some shady people hanging around there no matter what time day or night. This particular morning there was a huge crowd of the shadiest of shadys hanging out. 

I said to my mom, “mom lets cross the street”

She said, “why”

I said, “so we don’t have to walk pass those shady people”

She said, “those people are not making me go out of my way I’m not scared of them, but they better be scared of me”.

We proceeded down the street and as we got closer to the crowd, I heard one of the guys say

“y’all straighten up and move out of the way here comes Ms. Hibbler and her kids, she’s an N word don’t mess with her”.

I witnessed something amazing happen then the shady guys parted like the Red Sea to let us walk through each saying to my mom,

“Good morning Ms. Hibbler”

and her saying back, “Good morning and have a nice day”.

It was that day that I knew being called the N word was something powerful.

Fast forward to today it seems the N word has lost its power no longer meaning a positive descriptive and endearing word it now means something nasty and awful; how did that happen?

The N word got its start in the 13th century, and it meant: foolish, ignorant, frivolous, senseless, weak. However, By the time it had reached my block in the 1980s and 90s the word had a totally different meaning. It meant cool, powerful, smart and kind. Today, it seems some would rather take us back rather than move forward.

Words have power, they can heal, they can hurt, and they can change the course of history. The N word is an example of this. Its history is a testament to how language can evolve for the good or for the bad.

So, the next time you hear the word NICE, remember it’s up to all of us to choose our words carefully, to listen, to learn and to be more mindful of the impact we have on one another.

The other day I was running some errands, nothing major just the normal runs: credit union, gas station, grocery store, post office, Michael’s. Exhausted but determined, I was stopped at a light and caught in the usual musings of my mental to-do list when I glanced to my right. There, standing on the corner, was a young white man holding a cardboard sign.

It read:

“My family and I are homeless. Anything you can spare is appreciated. God Bless.”

He looked clean, presentable, and tired. But his expression wasn’t angry or desperate. It was something else It was expectant. As though he truly believed help would come. That someone would stop and help. That someone should stop and help.

And in that moment, a powerful realization swept over me: There are two Americas. And I live in the “other” America.

That might sound dramatic, but if you’ve ever lived in the “other” America, you know it isn’t a metaphor. It’s reality. It’s waking up every day knowing that no matter how hard you work, how well you speak, how thoroughly you prepare, the system wasn’t designed with you in mind.

I’m a Black woman. Educated. Hardworking. I’ve played by the rules. Earned my degrees. Showed up early, stayed late, raised my hand, stayed in my lane. And still, I live in the America where my credentials are questioned before they are respected, where my presence is policed before it’s welcomed, and where I’m taught to work twice as hard just to be seen as “equal.”

So, when I looked at that man on the corner, I didn’t feel anger toward him. I didn’t judge him. But I couldn’t help but notice what his presence represented. Even at his lowest, unhoused, unemployed and expecting a handout he may still receive more sympathy, more benefit of the doubt, more perceived value than I do with all my achievements in hand.

That is the quiet cruelty of the “other” America.

In the America I live in, I’ve been followed around stores while wearing a suit and heels. I’ve had my ideas repeated by someone else and watched them receive the credit. I’ve been told I’m “Too intense,” “too confident,” or “too much” while others are celebrated for the exact same traits.

I have been told you don’t have enough, you don’t know enough, you are not enough. You are a diversity, equity, and inclusion hire (DEI) while others with less fail up. 

In the “other” America, I have to think carefully about how I speak, how I dress, how I drive, even how I exist in certain spaces. Because missteps here aren’t just mistakes they can be disqualifying. Or worse.

And yet, this isn’t about playing the victim. It’s about exposing the truth. It’s about recognizing that privilege doesn’t always look like mansions or money. Sometimes, it’s simply the expectation that the world will see you, hear you, or help you. That the system will catch you when you fall.

The man on the corner reminded me of something uncomfortable: in America, even empathy has layers. Compassion is often rationed based on appearance, on assumptions, on deeply rooted beliefs about who deserves what.

But here’s the deeper truth we’re all hurting in different ways. Economic insecurity. Racial injustice. Generational trauma. Unmet potential. These are not isolated experiences. They are interconnected threads in the fabric of this divided nation.

So where do we go from here?

We start by naming what we see. By refusing to gaslight each other or ourselves into pretending everything is fair and balanced. We begin to have the hard conversations. We choose empathy and accountability. And we stop acting like the things going on today are normal and the cracks in our American foundation are imagined when we have been falling through them for years.

That red light didn’t just stop traffic. It stopped me. 

It forced me to confront the truth of where I live not just my address, but the America I navigate every day.

There are two Americas. One with safety nets and one with trapdoors. One where misfortune is temporary and one where it’s meant to be permanent.

And yet, I believe in another possibility. Not just two Americas. Not even one America. But a better America one built with honesty, humility, empathy, compassion, and the courage to change.

But first, we must see each other. Truly see each other. Even if it takes a red light and a cardboard sign to open our eyes.

What if the only thing keeping us from connecting…is the first word we never say?

I was walking in Blacklick Woods on Saturday morning like I do most Saturdays when I don’t have much to do.

The trail was quiet except for the crunch of gravel under my feet and the distant chatter of birds who seemed to be having a better conversation than most people these days.

Up ahead, I saw an older lady walking toward me. As she drew near, I did what I always do: I smiled, looked her in the eye, and said, “Good morning!” in my usual cheerful tone.

Normally, in Blacklick Woods, that’s all it takes. A smile back, a “Good morning” in return, and both of us keep it moving. But not this time.

She stopped. Looked at me. And said, “Do I know you?”

I laughed a little and said, “I don’t think so.”

Then she asked, “I was just curious as to… why you spoke to me?”

I replied, “Well, you were another human being passing by me, so I spoke. It’s the way I was raised.”

She said, “Oh, okay,” and went on her way.

After I made sure she wasn’t stalking me because, old lady or not, you never know these days I started thinking about what she asked me.

Why did I speak to her? What made her question it? And that’s when it hit me…

Have we really gone so far down that we can’t speak unless we know each other?
Have we reached a point where kindness is suspicious? Where acknowledging someone’s existence feels strange?

When did “Good morning” become an intrusion instead of an invitation?
When did a simple smile become an act of bravery?

We are living in a world with more ways to connect than ever before phones in our hands, voices in our ears, messages in our pockets and yet, we pass by living, breathing souls without a word.

Humanity isn’t just in grand gestures. It’s not only in volunteering, or donations, or heroic acts.
It’s in the small things, a greeting on a walking trail, a nod to a stranger, an anonymous card in the mail, a smile that says, “I see you.”

So, the next time you’re out there whether you’re walking in Blacklick Woods or just standing in line at the grocery store don’t wait until you “know” someone to speak to them. Because here’s the truth: You do know them. They’re human. Just like you and me. And maybe, just maybe, a “Good morning” could be a bridge in the woods or the seed of a little more humanity in this world.

The other day, I was putting together a simple shelf. You know the kind you get halfway through and suddenly realize the instructions are in some ancient language that even Google Translate can’t comprehend. Frustrated but determined, I gripped my screwdriver, aligned it with the screw, and twisted. That’s when it happened the screwdriver slipped, and instead of connecting with the screw, it connected with my finger. A sharp sting. 

A drop of blood. I flinched. Not because of the pain I’ve stubbed my toe on enough furniture to handle a jab. No, what got me was the sight of blood. My own blood. It startled me, made me squeamish. I rushed to the sink, rinsing my wound under cold water. As I watched the steady red stream spiral down the drain, an odd but profound thought struck me: we all bleed red.

Every single person. No matter your race, religion, gender, political beliefs, income, or education if you’re cut deep enough, you will bleed red. The president bleeds red. The man sleeping under the bridge bleeds red. The celebrity in the mansion and the cashier at the corner store. We all carry the same crimson signature of humanity within us.

And isn’t that something to think about? In a world so quick to divide by skin color, by ideology, by zip code or last name this small, physical truth has the power to remind us of something much bigger: our shared humanity. The differences that seem so insurmountable suddenly feel a little smaller when we realize the most fundamental parts of us are the same.

Maybe this truth could serve as a bridge. If we could hold on to this idea that beneath our labels and lifestyles, we are stitched together by the same biology, the same fragility we might look at one another with more grace. More kindness. More equality. We might actually start living out that timeless command from scripture: “Treat others the way you would want to be treated.” with dignity, compassion, and fairness.

We all bleed red. That truth doesn’t just connect us it obligates us. It challenges us to stop seeing people as “them” and start seeing them as “us.” Because when you strip away the layers, we’re not all that different.

So maybe next time I see someone who doesn’t look like me, think like me, or live like me, I’ll remember the pain in my finger and the red that came from it. And I’ll remember that we share more than we think. We share the wound. We share the blood. We share the responsibility to care for our fellow man.