**Separation Anxiety Is a B*tch** (But so is growth, sometimes.)

I do not know who needs to hear this, but just because you wrote the poem does not mean you’re healed. That is merely the first receipt. Step one. Congratulations—you wrote it down. You cracked open the journal, pulled out the scar-tissue alphabet, and bled metaphors onto the page. A+ for effort. Gold star for vulnerability. Standing ovation at the open mic. Now what?

Now, the real work begins.
Now, you have to practice the poem.

And I do not mean perform it—I mean practice it. Live it. Sit inside it. Wrestle with the lowercase and the line breaks and the ugly parts you edited out. Because some of us are not writing to impress the Academy. Some of us are writing because it is the only thing between us and self-destruction. And even that—even that—is not enough to finish the healing.

Not even close. I learned this while writing my new album, A Hurricane in Heels: Healed People Don’t Act Like This (up for Grammy consideration, it’s extremely hard work thank you very much),

and my new book, Clemency: poems to help you accept the apologies you will never receive. Let me say that last part again for the people still hung up on revenge plots:

You know this is going to start conversations - so just get it…

Clemency = poems to help you accept the apologies you will never receive.

Because you may never get them. And guess what?
You still have to let the storm pass. You still have to heal.

You write it down. You cry in the studio. You put the finishing touches on the track or the chapter. And then you walk back into the kitchen and realize that your abandonment issues are still very much in the fridge, sitting next to last night’s regrets and a half-used jar of trust issues.

I am someone who has been abandoned more than once. Who was put up for adoption. Let’s not romanticize that. Who has been left on read. Left on steps. Left wondering what I did to deserve the exodus this time. So, yeah—separation anxiety? That clingy little shadow that shows up when your person is not next to you? That thing that makes the bed feel wider than the Grand Canyon?

She’s a b*tch.
Capital B. Lowercase I will spiral by 2PM if I do not get a hug.

And while I know distance is sometimes necessary, helpful even, for artists and lovers and inner children alike—it does not make it easier. And it certainly does not make it glamorous. Because everyone thinks the road is shiny and full of champagne and stadium lights. They see the Instagram photos. The sold-out show. The merch line. The reel where I am floating in a designer trench coat looking like I have healed completely.

But let me tell you something:
It is lonely as hell on I-85 South.

Even when I am with Charlie (my 75 lb German Shepherd who's currently my non-murderous ottoman as I write this), it still feels like I am constantly navigating memory and absence like some kind of poetic GPS rerouting through grief.

So here’s what I want you to know:
The writing is holy. The healing is harder.
The poem is a lifeboat. The coping is the ocean.
And separation anxiety? She ain’t loyal to nobody.

Whether you are missing your mama, your partner, your peace of mind—or yourself—it is okay to admit that you are not “there” yet. That the poem did not fix it. That you are still unraveling in between the commas and trying not to lose yourself in the ellipses.

I wrote Clemency to stop performing forgiveness.
I wrote A Hurricane in Heels because I was tired of pretending the wind was not ripping my sh*t up.

And I’m still writing.
Because b*tch... healing has a part two.
… and three … sigh… lol

Separation Anxiety Is a B*tch