I spent 20 years confusing being needed with being loved.

"Healing doesn't always arrive as a breakthrough. Sometimes, it arrives so gently that you almost miss it." - Latay Moultrie

Hello beautiful baddies!

Pull up and let’s chat!

I’m so happy we finally made it to the table. Lately, I’ve been thinking about all of the versions of ourselves that we become while trying to figure it out.

Girl, I’ve lived so many lives this year, and it was time for me to do some reflecting and refreshing.

The beautiful thing is that we get to journey through this world becoming and unbecoming as many times as we need to.

We have the power to choose over and over again without asking for permission.

Of course, it’s a lot messier than what we may want it to be, but that’s where the magic is.

In the healing.

In the learning.

In the trying.

In the versions of ourselves that are still making sense of it all.

That’s where I’ve been these last few years. Somewhere in the middle. I’ve spent so much time there that I eventually gave it a name.

“The In Between.”

I lived in the “in-between” my entire life. The “in-between” is the crawl space between “I’m a grown ass woman” and “I have absolutely no fucking clue what I’m doing”.

Survival was the only currency I had in the in-between.

Home was love, but with conditions.

It was present, but sometimes lost in the clutch of addiction.

Even at a young age, I understood. It partied on Friday nights. It blended in with all of my aunties and uncles on the block. It laughed and danced to every song and knew every word,

well,

almost every word.

The rest was some made up words stitched with liquor and confidence.

My mom is that auntie that hugs you as if it’s been years since you have last seen her. Her shots of vodka and perfume that linger even after you’re a block away. She was the life of the party, but often unrecognizable once the music stops and the goodbyes are slurred.

I matured quicker than most girls my age, and I was proud about it.

I loved that I had freedoms that my friends didn’t. I was able to party, stay out all night, and hold space in conversations I had no business being in.

The “In Between” had its perks. I was able to see life with fresh eyes and experience.

When I caught glimpses of my friend’s childhoods, the bonds that they had with their parents, the structure, the expectations, those were the things that I never thought were meant for me.

I was so grown, I forgot what it meant to be a child.

I told myself I wasn’t jealous, but the truth is I was.

I wanted to have someone to call when the world often felt too heavy to hold by myself.

So I adapted.

I became useful.

Because somewhere along the way I started to believe that usefulness was synonymous to love.

By seventeen, I was working, stocking the fridge, and making sure we had toiletries. I spent so much time tending to everyone’s needs, and I did it well. So well, that in the midst of it all, I also forgot about what I needed.

And somehow… the cycle kept moving.

The liquor still poured.

Life still spun.

And I was the one still holding it together, even as I came undone.

So when I left for college, it felt like freedom. I tucked my trauma between the clothes in my suitcase, with pride. The weight of it all was almost unbearable, but I strutted, with stutters in my step, like confidence was still learning my name.

I once considered Harlem to be the start and the end of my world, but now it was shrinking in my rearview mirror. My dreams were no longer confined to my imagination. I could feel the grass growing greener beneath my toes. I then understood that the power of choice is the catalyst to freedom. I walked through campus free to choose who and what I wanted to be.

I was a grown ass woman.

At least, that’s what it felt like.

I thought leaving would be the end of my story, but the distance between my past and my healing remained the same. The “In-Between” was no longer a memory of my childhood. It became a prisoner inside my body, trapped there like a monster fighting to get out.

I was stuck between who I was and who I wanted to become. That trauma stuck to my skin like lotion too thick to spread.

At times, it felt like the crawl space kept getting smaller. I shrank in the same rooms that I taught my friends to be bold in. I second-guessed my intuition and screamed into mirrors:

“YOU ARE BRAVE.”

“YOU MATTER.”

to someone that had no clue who I was talking to.

The stench of a motherless child became a mask glued to my face. I carried it everywhere. It showed up in my relationships, friendships, and my insecurities.

As I got older and often colder to the idea of being mothered, I stopped expecting it.

Then I met her.

She was different. She saw the mask and knew there was a girl behind it, locked in walls that she had spent years building.

I admired her. Her kindness. She was soft, but still nothing to be played with.

I now know that if I would have met her at a different point in my life, I would not have recognized her as the keeper of the keys to unlock the lessons I’ve missed.

Life is so tricky that way.

She entered my life without knocking first. Her presence didn’t demand attention, it assumed it. She didn’t speak to me like I was fragile, and she never made me feel like I had to prove that I could handle everything on my own.

Eventually, she taught me a lesson that I had been ignoring for years:

As crazy as it sounds, self-love starts with you.

Patience, intention, and grace are biblical to the journey towards who you are destined to be. It can be built in one moment, in one decision, one choice to choose you.

This first lesson still carries me through my adulthood.

I remember the fluorescent lights in the dressing room made it impossible to hide. Shame exposed itself in lights like these and settled in. It made me hyper-aware of every inch of myself as if I were being seen for the first time.

The measuring tape came next. It danced between the saleswoman’s fingers as she wrapped it around my body. My body stood stiff. There were women in the store who had lived entire lives in their bodies. Women who had carried children, fed them, known themselves in ways I was still learning.

In that room, I felt like I was arriving late to class in a building I had never seen before. Even though the space was tailored to me, I felt inadequate.

I was being fitted for a bra at nineteen, long after most girls had already had this moment with their mothers.

Instead, I was sharing this moment with the mother of my boyfriend.

That shame clung to me, heavy and sticky, like something dried and refusing to let go, but she did not treat it like anything to be ashamed of.

My shame found someone who refused to mirror it back.

The moment was normal. She was normal. I was fitted, we shopped, and we went home. I did not have to hang it up on the wall of shame and revisit it later. It stayed where it belonged, between us, and nowhere else.

And when it was over, I cried.

Not because of shame or embarrassment, but this was my first peek into life outside of the “in-between.”

It wasn’t a grand gesture that shifted everything into perspective for me, but it was a small moment in our relationship. A realization that healing doesn’t always arrive as a breakthrough.

Sometimes, it arrives at a bra fitting. Sometimes it arrives as someone refusing to make you feel ashamed of something you’ve spent years carrying.

Sometimes, it arrives so gently that you almost miss it.

She taught me that healing happens in ordinary experiences like cooking a meal, watching movies together, eating at the table, and being cared for, without it being converted into debt.

I am still unlearning and unmasking, but I trust myself to make decisions and make mistakes without allowing them to define me.

It’s not a perfect life, but it’s grounded. It’s real.

So if you’re still in the in-between, I hope you notice them: The victories that don’t come with a marching band and fans cheering on the sidelines.

Slow down for a moment and look at all of the flowers blooming around you.

The healing that you are searching for is already finding its way to you.

So if you’re still finding yourself navigating through the “In-Between,” start by allowing yourself to receive.

Let someone help you.

Accept the compliment without diminishing your light.

Give yourself the softness you have given everyone else.

I’ll see you soon, my baddie friend! Until then, take care of yourself.

With love,

Latay

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A special, special thank you to Latay for sharing her wisdom with us this morning and for being the brave first contributing writer for Free the Baddies Magazine.

Latay is a passionate and charismatic advocate who believes in living boldly and loving deeply. She values honest conversations, meaningful connection, and creating spaces where people—especially Black women—feel seen, empowered, and free to become who they’re meant to be.

Whether she’s writing, building community, or simply sharing her story, Latay leads with authenticity, compassion, and the belief that choosing yourself is always worth it.

You can find Latay on Instagram at @blvckgrlilvn