When my friend Chi Chi told me to ask Oji to be my date to her wedding, I laughed.

Not because I didn’t want him to come.

Because I knew football.

And football coaches don’t exactly have flexible schedules in October.

Still, I asked.

And true to form, Oji gave me the most Oji answer possible.

“If I’m available, I’ll be your date.”

At the time, neither of us knew that by the time the wedding arrived, being my date wouldn’t matter anymore.

We were already a couple.

Chi Chi Saw Something Before I Did

I’ve often wondered whether Chi Chi knew something I didn’t.

Not in a mystical way.

Just in the way good friends sometimes recognize a story before the people living it do.

Chi Chi and I met when we were ten years old in junior high school.

We grew up together.

By the time she suggested that I ask Oji to be my date to her wedding, she wasn’t simply a friend.

She was one of the people who knew my history, my heart, and my habits.

She knew me.

She knew Oji.

And when I told her we had reconnected, her response was immediate.

“Ask him to come to my wedding.”

At the time, it felt like a simple suggestion.

Looking back, it feels like one of those moments that became meaningful later.

A Wedding Unlike Any I’d Ever Seen

Chi Chi’s wedding wasn’t simply an event.

It was an experience.

She is first-generation Nigerian and proudly Igbo.

Her parents immigrated from Nigeria to New York when she was five years old and built a life for their family in Flatbush, Brooklyn.

Chi Chi is the eldest of six children—five daughters and one son.

As the oldest daughter, she carried a unique responsibility within her family. While her parents worked, pursued their education, and built careers, Chi Chi often helped care for her younger siblings.

Long before she became a physician, she had already learned how to nurture, guide, and lead.

Looking back, it makes perfect sense that she chose a profession dedicated to caring for others.

Service was already part of who she was.

The wedding itself lasted all day.

There was the traditional wine-carrying ceremony.

The wedding ceremony.

The reception.

And later, a more intimate gathering with family.

It was one of the most beautiful celebrations I had ever attended—filled with tradition, family, laughter, music, and joy.

One detail surprised me.

I learned that Chi Chi and her husband were already legally married.

Their son, Ugo, was nearly one year old at the time, and they had chosen to formalize their marriage before God, family, and community as part of honoring both their faith and their family.

Watching them celebrate their union wasn’t just witnessing a wedding. It was witnessing the continuation of a family story already in progress.

A few years later, their family would grow again with the arrival of their second son, Emeka.

Today, Emeka holds a special place in our hearts as our godson.

One of my favorite memories is from his christening, which took place just a month after Oji and I were married. By then, I was still traveling back and forth, shutting down the final pieces of my life in Brooklyn and preparing for my move to Texas.

Oji flew in from Texas to be present for the occasion.

Looking back now, that season feels like a bridge between two lives—the one I was leaving behind and the one we were beginning together.

Life has a way of weaving people together in unexpected ways.

The Groomsman

There is one detail that still makes me laugh.

Oji wasn’t there.

Football won.

As expected.

At the time, he was coaching professional football as an offensive line assistant.

Before his game that day, we spoke.

Nothing dramatic.

Just one of the countless conversations we shared during those early years.

But during the wedding, I discovered something amusing.

The groomsman I was paired with looked remarkably like Oji.

Not identical.

But close enough that several people noticed.

Even now, years later, it makes me smile.

The date never happened.

Yet somehow there was a reminder of him standing next to me anyway.

The Same Woman Who Planned Her Wedding Helped Plan Mine

One of the things that makes me smile when I think about Chi Chi’s wedding is what happened a few years later.

When it was my turn to get married, Chi Chi served as my Matron of Honor.

Looking back, it felt perfectly natural.

She had spent much of her life helping care for others.

As the eldest of six children, she had long ago developed the ability to notice what was needed and quietly make things happen.

And when my wedding day arrived, she did exactly what she had always done.

She made sure the pieces came together.

Mine wasn’t a large wedding.

It was intimate.

Simple.

Filled with the people who mattered most.

But every wedding has moving parts, and Chi Chi helped ensure that what needed to happen happened.

She brought calm where there could have been chaos.

She coordinated details.

She filled in missing pieces.

She helped me enjoy the day rather than manage it.

In many ways, she loved me the same way she had loved her sisters.

By taking care of what needed to be taken care of.

My Village Showed Up

Of course, Chi Chi wasn’t the only friend standing beside me.

Nicole served as my Maid of Honor.

By then, we had already walked through some of life’s hardest seasons together.

She had been there during the uncertainty.

She had been there during the rebuilding.

And now she was there for the celebration.

She also did my makeup that day.

She was there when I found my wedding dress.

By the time I walked down the aisle, she had already been part of the journey for years.

My friend Merissa completed the picture.

She was my hairstylist and helped me feel beautiful on one of the most important days of my life.

Looking back, I realize my wedding wasn’t just a celebration of Oji and me.

It was also a celebration of the friendships that had helped carry me to that moment.

The women who prayed with me.

Encouraged me.

Showed up for me.

And reminded me that none of us arrive at our happiest moments alone.

The Story God Was Writing

At the time, I didn’t think much about any of it.

I was simply attending my friend’s wedding.

Celebrating her happiness.

Watching two families become one.

But looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t see then.

The invitation was never really about the wedding.

It was about possibility.

About friendship becoming something more.

About recognizing that God was writing a story while I was busy living it.

Maybe that’s why Chi Chi’s wedding remains so meaningful to me all these years later.

I thought I was attending a friend’s wedding.

I had no idea I was watching the opening scenes of a chapter that would eventually lead to my own.

What I Know Now

Sometimes we spend so much time focusing on how we think a story is supposed to unfold that we miss what is actually happening.

I thought I was asking Oji to be my wedding date.

God was introducing me to my future husband.

I thought I was attending my friend’s celebration.

God was quietly showing me what partnership, commitment, family, and community could look like.

The date never happened.

But the relationship did.

And in the end, that mattered far more.

Scripture Reflection

“Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.”

Ecclesiastes 4:9–10 (NIV)

Selah.

Pull Quote

“I thought I was asking Oji to be my wedding date. God was introducing me to my future husband.”

Closing Reflection

The older I get, the more I appreciate the people who helped me become who I am.

Some were friends.

Some became family.

Some stood beside me during uncertain seasons.

Others stood beside me on wedding days.

All of them became part of the story.

And if there’s one thing these old memories keep teaching me, it’s this:

Sometimes the most important moments in our lives don’t announce themselves when they’re happening.

They simply become obvious years later, when we finally have the perspective to see what God was doing all along.

Found in the Margins is a memoir series exploring old journals, Bible study notes, friendships, faith, family, and the surprising ways God reveals His fingerprints on ordinary life.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post The Date That Never Happened: How a Wedding Invitation Led Me to My Future Husband | Found in the Margins Part 5 first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

When I was nineteen years old, I wrote a list.

Not a prayer list.

Not a vision board.

Not a Christian exercise.

Just a handwritten list of qualities I hoped I would someday find in a husband.

At the time, I hadn’t yet rededicated my life to Christ.

I wasn’t trying to hear from God.

I wasn’t trying to manifest anything.

I was simply trying to learn from a relationship that I knew wasn’t right for me.

So I sat down and wrote down the qualities that mattered.

Then I tucked the list away.

And life happened.

The Relationship I Couldn’t Let Go Of

The ironic thing is that even though I knew the relationship wasn’t healthy, I eventually went back.

If I read my journals from that season today, the red flags are obvious.

The younger version of me saw them.

She wrote about them.

She questioned them.

She even tried to walk away.

But then my father died.

And grief has a way of changing the questions you’re asking.

Instead of asking:

Is this healthy?

I found myself asking:

How do I survive this loss?

Looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t see then.

I wasn’t simply returning to a relationship.

I was trying to fill an absence.

Somewhere along the way, I had transferred affection, dependency, and emotional security from my father to someone who was just as broken as I was.

I needed to feel needed.

I needed to feel chosen.

I needed to feel like someone could help hold together pieces that felt shattered.

The problem was that neither of us was equipped to do that for the other.

The Work Had Already Started

One of the things I’ve learned over the years is that healing is rarely a single moment.

It’s usually a process.

Long before Oji and I rekindled our friendship, I had already begun doing the work.

I had rededicated my life to Christ.

I was learning who I was apart from my past relationships.

I was beginning to understand that no person could carry the weight of healing wounds that only God could heal.

That didn’t mean I was finished.

Far from it.

But the foundation was already being laid.

The year before Oji and I reconnected was a year of intentional growth.

A year of rebuilding.

A year of prayer.

A year of learning how to be okay with myself.

A year of becoming.

Then Oji Reappeared

Oji and I had known each other since 1992.

We graduated high school together in 1996.

Then life carried us in different directions.

Years later, after both of us had spent nearly a decade in long-term relationships, we found ourselves in similar places.

Single.

Healing.

Growing.

Learning who we were as adults.

We reconnected as friends.

Nothing more.

At least at first.

Before We Were Us

One of the things people often assume about long marriages is that the relationship began with romance.

Ours began with conversation.

Daily conversation.

When Oji and I began talking again, many of our conversations centered around faith.

He was growing in his walk with God.

I was growing in mine.

We exchanged books.

Shared teachings.

Discussed Scripture.

Recommended authors.

Talked about purpose.

Talked about life.

What started as friendship became a place of encouragement.

Not because either of us had all the answers.

But because we were both growing.

Before we fell in love, we learned how to talk to one another.

Looking back, that may have been the most important foundation of all.

Why I Didn’t Fall Apart

Several months after Oji and I reconnected, I entered one of the most difficult seasons of my life.

I lost my job.

The future became uncertain.

There were moments when I had more questions than answers.

But looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t fully appreciate then.

I didn’t completely fall apart.

Not because I was strong.

Not because I had all the answers.

And not because Oji somehow rescued me.

I didn’t fall apart because Christ had already begun rebuilding me.

The prayers.

The Bible studies.

The journaling.

The difficult lessons.

The healing work.

The friendships God had placed in my life.

All of it had been preparing me for a season I didn’t know was coming.

By the time the storm arrived, the roots were already growing deeper.

And during that season, Oji became a steady anchor.

A friend.

A listener.

A source of encouragement.

Someone who consistently showed up.

Chi Chi Saw Something First

One of my best friends from high school, Chi Chi, knew both of us.

At the time, she was planning her wedding.

One day she gave me what seemed like ridiculous advice.

“Ask Oji to be your date.”

I laughed.

Her wedding was in October.

Oji was a football coach.

Anyone who knows football understands that October and football coaches rarely mix.

But she insisted.

So I asked.

His response was simple.

“If I’m available, I will most certainly be your date.”

At the time, it felt like an ordinary conversation.

Looking back, it feels like one of those moments God quietly tucked into the story before either of us knew where it was headed.

Then I Found the List

At some point during that season, I came across the list I had written years earlier.

I remember reading it.

Then laughing.

Not because it was unrealistic.

Because it was unexpectedly familiar.

One by one, I realized the qualities I had written down years before described the man I had been talking to every day.

Not perfectly.

Not magically.

Not like a movie.

Just honestly.

The things that mattered most to nineteen-year-old me had somehow found their way into the character of the man sitting on the other end of those phone calls.

And I hadn’t even noticed.

What I Know Now

One thing Oji has always said is that a person will never truly commit until they are ready.

You can’t force readiness.

You can’t manufacture commitment.

You can’t build permanence out of pressure.

Neither of us was trying to force a relationship.

Neither of us was trying to rescue the other.

Neither of us was looking for someone to complete us.

We were simply becoming ourselves.

And somewhere in that process, friendship became something more.

The List Knew Before I Did

Today, we are celebrating fourteen years of marriage.

Later this year, we will celebrate seventeen years together as a couple.

And sometimes I think about that nineteen-year-old girl sitting down to write a list she would eventually forget.

If I could talk to her now, I wouldn’t tell her who she was going to marry.

I wouldn’t tell her how the story ends.

I’d simply tell her:

Keep healing.

Keep growing.

Keep trusting God.

Keep becoming.

The right person won’t require you to become someone else.

He’ll recognize who you’ve been becoming all along.

Looking back, I don’t think the miracle was that Oji matched the list.

The miracle was that by the time we found each other again, we had both become the people we needed to be.

God wasn’t just preparing my future husband.

He was preparing me.

Scripture Reflection

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.”

Psalm 37:4

Selah.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post The List Knew Before I Did: How a Forgotten List Led Me Back to Love | Found in the Margins Part 4 first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Recently, while sorting through old notebooks, I found a page I had completely forgotten about.

At the top was a simple heading:

Goals — Improve on All

Underneath were seven things I wanted to work on:

1. Communication skills
2. Trust
3. Understanding
4. Financial wisdom
5. Good relationship with the opposite sex
6. Weight loss
7. Peace within my family

When I wrote that list, I wasn’t creating content.

I wasn’t preparing a blog post.

I wasn’t imagining that nearly two decades later I would be reading it again.

I was simply trying to become better.

The Woman Behind the List

The list was written during one of the most uncertain seasons of my life.

I was rebuilding after a major transition.

I was trying to find stable employment.

I was healing from disappointment.

I was asking hard questions about my future.

What strikes me now is that I wasn’t focused on changing my circumstances.

I was focused on changing myself.

That difference matters.

Seven Things That Still Matter

As I read through the list today, I laughed.

Not because it feels outdated.

Because it doesn’t.

Every single item is still relevant.

Communication.

Trust.

Understanding.

Financial wisdom.

Healthy relationships.

Health.

Peace within my family.

Seventeen years later, I am still intentionally working on every one of them.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

Some goals aren’t destinations.

They’re directions.

Communication Skills

I wanted to become a better communicator.

Today, I write books, blog posts, newsletters, social media content, ministry communications, and professional documentation.

Yet communication remains one of the areas where I continue to grow.

Because communication isn’t just speaking.

It’s listening.

It’s clarity.

It’s compassion.

It’s learning how to say difficult things with grace.

The woman who wanted to become a better communicator eventually became a writer.

Trust

Trust was difficult for me.

Loss has a way of teaching caution.

Disappointment teaches you to brace for impact.

Yet I knew enough to write the word down.

Today I understand that trust isn’t blind optimism.

It’s choosing faith even when certainty isn’t available.

It’s believing that God is still working when I can’t yet see the outcome.

Understanding

At thirty, I thought understanding meant having answers.

At forty-seven, I think it means extending grace.

Parenting three neurodivergent children has expanded my understanding more than any book ever could.

Understanding has become less about being right and more about being willing to learn.

The older I get, the more I realize that wisdom often begins with humility.

Financial Wisdom

This one still makes me smile.

The woman who wrote that list was trying to survive.

The woman reading it today is helping her family build a future.

I haven’t mastered financial wisdom.

But I have grown in it.

And growth matters.

I’ve learned that financial wisdom isn’t just about earning more.

It’s about stewarding well what God places in your hands.

Good Relationships

This wasn’t really about romance.

It was about learning how to connect with people in healthy ways.

Learning boundaries.

Learning communication.

Learning mutual respect.

Those lessons would eventually strengthen friendships, family relationships, ministry relationships, and yes, my marriage.

Healthy relationships begin with becoming a healthy person.

Weight Loss

This goal has appeared on more than one list over the years.

Recently, I celebrated reaching a weight I hadn’t seen in years.

But the older I get, the more I realize this goal was never really about a number.

It was about stewardship.

It was about health.

It was about honoring the body God entrusted to me.

The scale may measure pounds, but it cannot measure confidence, discipline, or growth.

Peace Within My Family

This one hits differently now.

In 2009, I was hoping for peace.

Today, I find myself helping to cultivate it.

Recently, both sides of my family have become more connected.

My Jefferson cousins have an active group text where we share updates, memories, encouragement, and the occasional family humor that only relatives understand.

My sister Thelma, her children, and I have our own family group text that helps us stay connected across busy lives and different generations.

Earlier this year, I also began intentionally reconnecting with nieces and nephews from another branch of the family.

As the youngest sister, I sometimes find myself in a unique position—close enough to different generations and branches of the family to help keep connections alive.

What I once wrote as a hope has become both a blessing and a responsibility.

Not perfection.

Not the absence of challenges.

Connection.

Grace.

Presence.

Peace.

The older I get, the more I realize that family peace isn’t the absence of conflict. It’s the willingness to remain connected. It’s checking in. It’s reaching out. It’s celebrating milestones, sharing memories, and making room for one another as life changes.

Looking back, I realize God answered that prayer in ways I never expected.

The List Was Never Finished

What strikes me most about this old page is that it reminds me of how I’ve always approached vision boards.

I’ve never believed a vision board expires after one year.

Some of the vision boards I created in 2018 are still unfolding today.

When I look back at screenshots of those boards, I see dreams that took years to develop.

Writing more was on those boards.

Being a better friend was on those boards.

Expanding my family was on those boards.

Long before Oji and I knew we would become parents to Trevor and Tyson, children were on those boards.

Long before Ella Grace was born, a daughter was on those boards.

Long before I returned to consistent writing, writing was on those boards.

God wasn’t working on my timeline.

He was working on His.

What I See Now

Looking back, I realize that list wasn’t really about fixing myself.

It was about becoming myself.

The woman I am today isn’t perfect.

But she’s healthier.

Stronger.

Wiser.

More compassionate.

More confident.

More aware of God’s grace.

And when I look at that old page now, I don’t see seven unfinished goals.

I see evidence.

Evidence that growth takes time.

Evidence that God is patient.

Evidence that some dreams require years of cultivation.

Most of all, I see evidence that God has been faithfully working on me all along.

Seventeen years later, every item on that page is still relevant.

Not because I failed to achieve them.

Because they were never meant to be completed.

They were meant to be cultivated.

Scripture Reflection

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”

Philippians 1:6 (NIV)

Selah.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Seven Things I Wanted to Fix About Myself | Found in the Margins Part 3 first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

In January 2009, I was convinced I was starting over.

Not because I wanted to.

Because life had made the decision for me.

A chapter had ended.

A role I had held was gone.

A routine that had defined my days disappeared almost overnight.

For a while, it felt like someone had erased the roadmap I had been following.

The funny thing about hindsight is that it reveals what fear tries to hide.

Seventeen years later, I can see something that thirty-year-old Lela could not.

I wasn’t starting over.

I was rebuilding.

When Loss Feels Like Identity

For several years, my life had revolved around ministry.

I loved serving.

I loved supporting people.

I loved helping build something bigger than myself.

Like many people who dedicate themselves to service, I didn’t realize how much of my identity had become attached to what I did rather than who I was.

When that season ended, I was left with a difficult question:

Who am I when the title is gone?

The answer didn’t come quickly.

But the question itself changed my life.

As I look back through old Bible study notes from that season, I see page after page filled with declarations about faith, authority, identity, and emotional health.

I wasn’t writing notes because everything was okay.

I was writing because I needed reminders of what God said about me while I was learning how to believe it again.

God Sent Me Community

One of the blessings I often overlook when telling this story is that I wasn’t walking through it alone.

Nicole and I met while serving at World Changers Church New York.

Our friendship developed through years of ministry, leadership transitions, and shared experiences.

At the time, our professional paths were different, but they often intersected. I had served in Member Care Services before moving into another administrative role within the church. Around the same period, Nicole was serving as an administrative assistant in a different department.

Over the years, both of us experienced unexpected changes, new assignments, and seasons of uncertainty.

Those experiences created a bond that would prove invaluable later.

Eventually, Nicole returned to New York after serving in Atlanta, where she had been living in temporary housing while supporting a ministry assignment.

By late 2008, we became roommates.

Looking back, I don’t think either of us realized how important that timing would become.

Before we moved in together, we shared communion and committed the next season of our lives to God.

Neither of us knew exactly what the future would hold.

We only knew that we wanted to trust God through it.

Over the next several months, both of us found ourselves navigating major life transitions.

Because we had experienced similar highs and lows, there was a level of understanding between us that didn’t require many explanations.

We knew how to pray.

We knew how to encourage one another.

And when one person’s faith felt weak, the other would help carry the load.

God’s Provision Often Has a Face

One of the people God used during that season was our friend Al-Nisa.

There was a period when Nicole and I were both trying to determine our next steps and trusting God for provision.

Al-Nisa never distanced herself from us because of our circumstances.

Instead, she drew closer.

She prepared meals for us.

She prayed with us.

She encouraged us.

She showed up.

Years later, I may not remember every detail of those uncertain days, but I remember the kindness.

I remember the food.

I remember the prayers.

I remember the feeling of being seen.

Sometimes we talk about God’s provision as though it only arrives in the form of a job offer, a financial breakthrough, or a miraculous opportunity.

But sometimes provision looks like a friend standing in your kitchen with a meal and a prayer when you’re not sure what tomorrow holds.

To this day, I remain grateful for Al-Nisa.

If she ever reads this, I hope she knows I still remember.

I remember the meals.

I remember the prayers.

I remember being cared for when life felt uncertain.

And I remain grateful.

Becoming Brand New

Something else happened in 2009.

I began paying attention to myself again.

Not in a vain way.

In a healthy way.

I focused on my appearance.

I worked on my health.

I released my first book, Poetry of a Black Girl: The Darkness and the Light.

Little by little, confidence returned.

People began saying something that I heard over and over:

“You look brand new.”

At first, I assumed they were talking about weight loss.

Now I think they were seeing healing.

The grief I had carried after losing both of my parents at a young age had shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand.

For years, I had survived.

In 2009, I began living again.

The shell of a woman that had emerged after loss was slowly giving way to someone stronger, healthier, and more hopeful.

Healing had finally become visible.

The Future Was Already Knocking

What amazes me now is how many things were already taking shape while I was busy worrying about what I had lost.

Oji had already re-entered my life.

We had known each other since 1992.

We graduated high school together in 1996.

After years apart, we reconnected around 2008.

At the time, I didn’t know where that friendship was headed.

I certainly didn’t know I was talking to my future husband.

I only knew that God was bringing familiar people back into my life at exactly the moment I needed reminders of who I was.

Today, as I write this, we are celebrating fourteen years of marriage and looking forward to seventeen years together as a couple later this year.

Sometimes restoration doesn’t arrive as something new.

Sometimes it arrives as something God preserved.

I Wasn’t Starting Over

That’s the biggest lesson these notes have taught me.

In 2009, I thought I was starting over.

I thought I was standing at the end of something.

But looking back now, I realize I was standing at the beginning.

The beginning of healing.

The beginning of authorship.

The beginning of restored confidence.

The beginning of a relationship that would become a marriage.

The beginning of a family I couldn’t yet imagine.

The beginning of a woman becoming herself again.

And maybe that’s why old journals matter.

They remind us that God was working in seasons that felt uncertain.

They remind us that what looked like an ending was often construction.

And they remind us that some of our greatest blessings begin disguised as disruption.

Scripture Reflection

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

— Isaiah 43:19 (NIV)

Selah.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post The Year I Thought I Was Starting Over | Found in the Margins Part 2 first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Recently, while sorting through a box of old papers, I found something I hadn’t seen in years.

Not photographs.

Not letters.

Not official documents.

Bible study notes.

Stacks of them.

Some were written during Wednesday night Bible studies at World Changers Church New York. Others came from Saturday evening services taught by Dr. Creflo Dollar. A few were personal reflections scribbled onto notebook paper after church.

The pages were worn. The ink had faded in places. My handwriting alternated between neat and hurried, depending on how fast I was trying to keep up with the teaching.

As I sat on my living room floor reading through them, I realized I wasn’t just reading sermon notes.

I was meeting my younger self again.

And she had a lot to say.

January 2009

The notes transported me back to a season of tremendous change.

I had recently been released from my position with the ministry.

For a while, my identity had been wrapped around serving, producing, supporting leaders, and helping make things happen behind the scenes. Suddenly, I found myself navigating a different reality.

But here’s the interesting thing.

The notes don’t sound defeated.

They sound determined.

Page after page contained declarations about faith, authority, identity, prayer, and emotional health.

One page simply read:

I can take control of my emotions.

I have authority.

I must know who I am in Christ Jesus.

Another page listed areas I felt I had been neglecting:

• Finances
• Health
• Appearance
• Relationship development
• Spiritual growth
• Decisions
• Family

When I first reread the list, I smiled.

Then I got quiet.

Because I realized I wasn’t looking at a list of failures.

I was looking at a blueprint.

The Year That Changed Everything

What struck me most is that 2009 wasn’t just a year of transition.

It was also a year of rebuilding.

I released my first book, Poetry of a Black Girl: The Darkness and the Light.

I began focusing on my health.

I worked on my appearance.

I rebuilt my confidence.

People would tell me:

“You look brand new.”

At the time, I thought they were talking about weight loss.

Looking back, I think they were seeing something deeper.

Healing had finally become visible.

The shell of a woman that had emerged after losing both of my parents at a young age was beginning to crack.

The woman underneath was finally breathing again.

The Friendship That Became a Marriage

One of the notes stopped me in my tracks.

Written in my own handwriting were the words:

Pray over my future spouse.

Pray over my children.

Pray over my family.

Pray over future relationships.

At the time, I had already reconnected with Oji.

We first met in 1992.

We graduated high school in 1996.

Life carried us in different directions, but roughly twelve years later we found our way back into each other’s orbit.

What I didn’t know then was what that friendship would become.

Today, as I write this, we are approaching our 14th wedding anniversary on June 9.

This December, we will celebrate 17 years together as a couple.

Back then, I was praying about a future I couldn’t see.

Today, I get to live in many of those answered prayers.

God Was Building More Than I Knew

The younger version of me couldn’t see Texas.

She couldn’t see foster care.

She couldn’t see adoption.

She couldn’t see Trevor.

She couldn’t see Tyson.

She couldn’t see Ella Grace.

She couldn’t see football seasons, IEP meetings, book launches, ministry leadership, or all the ways God would stretch and strengthen our family.

But she kept praying anyway.

She kept writing anyway.

She kept believing anyway.

Found in the Margins

The older I get, the more I appreciate old journals and handwritten notes.

Not because every prayer was answered exactly the way I expected.

Not because every dream unfolded according to my timeline.

But because they remind me that God was working even when I couldn’t see it.

Those old pages are evidence.

Evidence of growth.

Evidence of healing.

Evidence of faith.

Evidence that some seasons are not endings at all.

They’re beginnings disguised as disruptions.

As I carefully placed the notes back into their folder, I found myself grateful for the woman who wrote them.

She didn’t know the ending yet.

She didn’t know how much joy was ahead.

She didn’t know how much healing was possible.

She didn’t know how many prayers God was already preparing to answer.

But she kept writing.

And maybe that’s what faith looks like.

Not knowing the ending.

Just believing God is still writing the story.

Scripture Reflection

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
— Philippians 1:6

Selah.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post The Woman Who Wrote the Prayer Didn’t Know the Ending Yet first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Recently, I asked ChatGPT a question that was meant to be lighthearted.

“Based on our conversations, what character from television or movies do I remind you of?”

I expected the answer to take some thought.

After all, we’ve talked about parenting, writing, ministry, work, leadership, neurodiversity, faith, books, football seasons, and everything in between.

Instead, the answer came immediately.

Guinan.

Not a superhero.

Not a queen.

Not a captain.

Guinan.

I laughed.

Then I paused.

Then I felt something I wasn’t expecting.

I was honored.

Because Guinan wasn’t just any character.

She was already one of my favorites.

Then later:

What surprised me wasn’t that ChatGPT chose a Star Trek character.

What surprised me was that it chose a character whose qualities I had spent years admiring.

The listener.

The storyteller.

The bridge-builder.

The keeper of wisdom.

The person who helps others find their own answers.

In that moment, the conversation stopped being about Star Trek.

It became a mirror.

Whew.

That’s the line.

“It became a mirror.”

That’s the article.

Then we can move into your Mount Rushmore, not as fandom trivia, but as evidence of the values you’ve been drawn to all along:

• Guinan → wisdom
• Picard → servant leadership
• Spock → lifelong learning
• Data → curiosity and humanity
• Janeway → resilience
• Q → growth through disruption

And then close with something that feels very much like you:

Maybe the stories we love aren’t random.

Maybe we’re drawn to characters who embody the qualities we’re developing, the lessons we’re learning, or the people we’re trying to become.

Looking back, I don’t think ChatGPT told me who I am.

I think it reflected back what years of conversations had already revealed.

A woman who loves stories.

A woman who values wisdom.

A woman who believes people can grow.

And a woman who is still becoming.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post What Character Am I Most Like? ChatGPT’s Answer Surprised Me first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Maybe it’s because school years end and transitions begin all at once. Seniors graduate. Teachers change campuses. Coaches move districts. Ministries shift leadership. Families relocate. Friendships evolve. Children grow older right in front of us while we’re still trying to catch our breath from the last season.

Life keeps moving.

And if we’re not careful, we’ll try to move with it so quickly that we never stop long enough to acknowledge what we lost along the way.

Change is inevitable.
It happens whether we are ready or not.

As an educator, a coach’s wife, and someone who has spent years serving in ministry, I understand that truth intimately. People come. People go. Seasons shift. Assignments change. New hearts enter your life while others quietly exit.

That is the rhythm of life.

But one thing I’ve learned through both personal grief and everyday transitions is this:

You must allow yourself the grace to mourn what was familiar.

Not because you’re weak.
Not because you lack faith.
But because familiarity roots itself into the soil of our lives.

And uprooting anything — even when necessary — can hurt.

Grief Introduced Itself to Me Early

I lost my father at 21 years old.

I lost my mother at 26.

I lost my grandmother before I even graduated high school at 17.

There were also godparents, relationships, friendships, dreams, and versions of myself that quietly disappeared before I ever reached 30.

People often talk about grief like it’s a single moment. A funeral. A breakup. A goodbye.

But grief is rarely that clean.

Sometimes grief lingers quietly in ordinary places.

A song.
A holiday.
A familiar scent.
A phone call you can no longer make.

Sometimes the pain outlives the actual event itself. Long after people have moved on, long after the world expects you to “be okay,” your heart is still learning how to carry what changed.

And if I’m honest, there were seasons where I thought the grief would permanently harden me.

But somehow, God kept meeting me there.

What Change Taught Me

Change strengthened me in some ways.

It made me more discerning. More self-aware. More appreciative of genuine connection and authentic community.

But it also made me cautious.

Because once you’ve experienced enough loss, you understand how deeply attached humans become to what feels safe and familiar.

Familiar routines.
Familiar people.
Familiar places.
Familiar versions of ourselves.

And when those things shift, it can feel like part of your identity shifted with them.

That’s why I no longer judge people for struggling during transition seasons.

New beginnings sound beautiful in motivational quotes.

But in real life?
New can feel terrifying.

God Is Still Present in the Unfamiliar

One thing I know for certain is this:

God does not abandon us in transition.

Even when life feels unstable, He remains constant.

Even when doors close unexpectedly, He is still intentional.

Even when we are grieving what ended, He is already preparing what’s next.

I’ve seen Him send the right people at the right time. Open opportunities I never could have orchestrated myself. Restore joy after seasons that felt unbearably heavy.

Not always immediately.
Not always dramatically.
But faithfully.

And that faithfulness matters.

Because sometimes surviving change is less about having all the answers and more about trusting that God will guide your next steps one day at a time.

Give Yourself Permission to Grieve

So if you are entering a new season right now, I want to encourage you:

Give yourself permission to mourn what was familiar.

Grieve the friendship.
Grieve the season.
Grieve the version of yourself that existed before life changed.

You are not “stuck” because you miss what mattered to you.

You are human.

And healing does not require pretending the transition didn’t hurt.

But after you grieve, keep moving forward.

Because there is still purpose ahead of you.

There is still beauty waiting to grow from the ashes of what changed.

And sometimes the very thing that broke your heart becomes the thing that deepens your faith, sharpens your compassion, and teaches your soul how to trust God in ways comfort never could.

That kind of growth is holy work.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Sometimes the Hardest Part of Change Is Mourning What Was Familiar first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Some days don’t feel “deep” while you’re living them. They feel inconvenient. Scattered. Off rhythm. Like you’re juggling too many tabs in your brain while your gas tank and your patience are both sitting on E.

Today started at 4:30 AM with devotionals about listening to God over the noise. And all day long, every sermon clip, every message, every moment kept circling back to the same thing:

Stop performing.
Stop pretending.
Just be real with God.

David did it in Psalms all the time. One chapter he was praising God with his whole chest… the next chapter he was basically saying, “Lord, are You seeing what these folks are doing?!”

Honestly? That was me today.

I was catching up at work after being unexpectedly out yesterday for a home repair. Running errands. Trying to keep all the moving pieces moving. Then I realized I had left my purse at church after praise team rehearsal.

Not misplaced.
Not stolen.
Left on the front pew in the house of God.

And somehow, that one small inconvenience shifted my whole day.

On my drive, a car sped past me like they were headed toward an emergency, and I immediately heard: “Pray for them.” So I did.

Then I sent a video to one of my oldest friends — not casually through social media, but directly to him. He later told me he needed it in that exact moment because he had just received difficult news. The message was about God still having good things ahead.

Meanwhile, I’m over here with no wallet, no cards, my gas light glowing like a Broadway spotlight, and only my phone and keys.

But God had already made provision.

I used an app to put gas in my car. Got through the workday. Picked up my children. Fed my babies. Then headed back to church for Bible study and children’s ministry setup.

And because I had to return for my purse, I was in position.

Position to pray for one of my teachers who wasn’t feeling well.
Position to prepare the Comfort Room we just launched for inclusive families on Mother’s Day.
Position to make sure children’s ministry was ready when another teacher got delayed at work.
Position to serve.

Even the details connected.

Last week, when we launched the Comfort Room, we used my personal Fire Stick because the church’s hadn’t arrived yet. This week, while buying summer shoes for the kids (because apparently children wake up overnight wearing a whole new shoe size ), I received an offer for a free Fire Stick and discounts stacked on top of clearance prices and Kohl’s Cash.

Provision on provision.

And it hit me:

Everything I thought I “needed” today was already in the house.

Not just my purse.
Not just provision.
Peace.
Purpose.
Positioning.

God was reminding me that when I leave everything at His feet — my frustrations, insecurities, exhaustion, offenses, even my successes — He can keep my heart pure enough to be used.

And tonight, three little first-time visitors got to experience children’s ministry because I was there.

Not because my day was perfectly planned.
Not because I had it all together.
But because God can use even the things we think are interruptions.

Even a forgotten purse on a front pew.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Left My Purse. Left It All With God. first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

The older I get, the more I realize that healing rarely arrives the way we imagine it will.

Sometimes it does not come through apologies.
Sometimes it does not come through closure.
Sometimes it comes through consistency. Through grace. Through people simply showing up.

And sometimes, the very place where your heart was bruised becomes the same place where God teaches it how to breathe again.

I know “church hurt” has become one of those phrases people either whisper with shame or shout with frustration. But if I am honest, I have lived through it more than once. Not in some dramatic, headline-worthy way. Not through scandal or spectacle. Just through the painful reality that churches are filled with human beings trying to serve a perfect God while still carrying imperfect hearts.

The first time happened years ago in New York.

Back then, I was young in my faith, passionate, eager, and willing to give God absolutely everything. I loved serving. I loved being in the house of God. I loved feeling useful to the Kingdom. When I accepted a church position, I even took a pay cut from my corporate job because I genuinely believed I was walking fully in purpose.

And honestly? I still believe my heart was pure.

So when that season ended and I was released, it hurt deeply. Not just because of the loss itself, but because when your identity becomes intertwined with serving, transitions can feel personal even when they are not intended to be.

But somewhere along the way, I had been taught something that anchored me:
my healing would never come from running from God’s house.

So I came back anyway.

Not to lead.
Not to prove anything.
Not to reclaim a title.

I came back to sit on the pew and heal.

And eventually, I served again.

Years later, after moving to another state but remaining planted within the same ministry foundation through World Changers, I found myself experiencing a different kind of heartbreak. This time, I was preparing to give birth to my daughter Ella. My life looked different now. I was not just a leader or administrator anymore. I was a wife. A mother. A woman trying to navigate the beautiful chaos of raising children, including two boys who had entered our lives through foster care and adoption.

My availability had changed. My priorities had shifted.

Trying to be responsible, I prepared coverage plans for my maternity leave and adjusted my level of service accordingly. During that transition, leadership changes were made by my local pastors.

And while I understood it… while I truly believed my family needed my focus during that season… it still hurt.

Because transitions still sting even when they make sense.

So once again, I stepped back.

Then COVID came.
And honestly? Survival mode came with it.

At one point, I found myself raising three children under seven years old, including a newborn. Autism evaluations. ADHD. Therapies. School transitions. Behavioral challenges. Sleepless nights. Sensory struggles. Emotional exhaustion. Work. Marriage. Ministry from a distance.

Life was lifing. Heavy.

And for several years, leadership was no longer the center of my world. My family was.

But here is the part of the story that still makes me emotional when I think about it:

When my son was struggling in school and being pushed out of spaces that did not know how to support him properly, my church stepped in and became part of the solution.

Not with empty words.
Not with shallow clichés.
With action.

My church family helped provide transportation support for my child in one of their SUVs and lovingly helped care for both him and Ella after school during one of the hardest seasons of our lives. They made room for us. They loved us practically.

And I will never forget the joy of watching Ella attend summer camp and participate in a field trip independently for the very first time without either Oji or me needing to accompany her. For many families, that may seem small. For ours, it felt monumental. It felt like trust. It felt like community. It felt like exhaling after holding our breath for years.

And somewhere in the middle of all that practical love, God quietly healed parts of my heart I did not even realize were still wounded.

That is why I cannot fully subscribe to the narrative that says, “The church hurt me, so I left forever.”

Because while people in church may hurt you, people in church may also help heal you.

Both things can be true.

The same institution connected to painful memories can also become sacred ground for restoration. The same community where misunderstandings happened can also become the place where grace shows up unexpectedly.

And now, after about six years away from active leadership, I find myself being called to serve again.

But I am returning different.

Older.
Softer.
Wiser.
Less eager to prove myself.
More willing to listen.

I realize now that I cannot return with the posture of someone who thinks they already know everything simply because they served before.

Because I am not new… but I am new.

So much has changed. Ministry has changed. People have changed. Systems have changed. And honestly? I have changed too.

Motherhood changed me.
Grief changed me.
Special needs parenting changed me.
Marriage changed me.
Surviving changed me.

The woman returning to leadership now is not the same woman who once led from pure zeal and adrenaline. This version of me understands boundaries. She understands grace. She understands that hidden seasons are not punishment. Sometimes they are preparation.

And perhaps most importantly, she understands that humility is holy.

So now, instead of walking into rooms trying to prove my value, I find myself asking questions. Learning. Observing. Rebuilding relationships. Remaining teachable.

Not because I am insecure.
But because wisdom knows when to sit quietly and learn the rhythm of a new season.

Church hurt did not get the final word in my life.

Healing did.

And maybe that healing did not come packaged the way I once expected. Maybe it did not arrive through dramatic reconciliation moments or perfectly tied-up endings.

Maybe it came through an SUV pulling up to help my child get where he needed to go.
Maybe it came through afterschool care that gave my family room to breathe.
Maybe it came through a summer camp field trip that reminded us our daughter could safely spread her wings.
Maybe it came through being embraced during hard years instead of forgotten in them.
Maybe it came through discovering that even wounded people can still become vessels God uses to love others well.

I do not know who needs to hear this, but here it is anyway:

Do not let pain make you believe that God has abandoned His people entirely.

People are imperfect. Churches are imperfect. Leadership is imperfect.

But God is still able to heal through community if we are willing to receive it.

And sometimes the greatest testimony is not that you left.
Sometimes the greatest testimony is that you returned different.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Returning Different: I’m Not New, But I’m New first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

There was a time when delayed communication had context.

You missed someone’s call because you were away from the house.
You responded to a letter when life slowed down enough to sit and gather your thoughts.
You had to physically be present to have certain conversations.

Now?

We live in a world where messages arrive instantly. Emails hit our phones before we even leave the parking lot. Text messages are read in real time. Social media tells people when we’re online, active, typing, and sometimes even when we’ve viewed their content.

And somehow, despite having more ways to communicate than any previous generation—we are becoming worse at communicating with one another.

Lately, I’ve noticed a pattern.

People will ask urgent questions and expect immediate responses. Sometimes they frame the matter as pressing. Sometimes they create a sense of urgency that spills into your day like an uninvited guest.

And then…

Silence.

Not thoughtful silence.

Not intentional pause.

Not the kind of sacred stillness scripture often reflects when it says:

“Selah.”

That kind of pause carries reverence. Reflection. Consideration.

What I’m seeing more often feels different.

People ask questions before they’ve fully thought through what they’re asking.
They seek answers before reviewing information already available to them.
They demand immediate access to others while offering very little emotional consideration in return.

And when life gets noisy?
When their emotions rise?
When the answer requires responsibility?

They disappear.

Ghosting has become normal.

Delayed accountability has become normal.

Transactional communication has become normal.

And if I’m being honest—I think technology has trained us to interact with human beings the way we interact with machines.

Ask question.
Receive answer.
Move on.

No greeting.
No patience.
No acknowledgment that the person on the other side may have a full life, responsibilities, emotions, and limits.

We are beginning to treat people like search engines.

Like customer service bots.

Like artificial intelligence.

And humans were never designed to function that way.

We are image bearers.

We are people with nervous systems.

We are souls carrying responsibilities that most people never see.

As a working mother of three children with special needs, a writer, a ministry servant, and someone balancing both personal and professional responsibilities—I deeply understand overstimulation.

I understand forgetting to respond.

I understand becoming overwhelmed.

But there’s a difference between needing time and abandoning communication altogether.

Maturity sounds like:

“I saw your message and need time to respond thoughtfully.”

“I need more information before I answer.”

“I’m overwhelmed right now, but I’ll follow up tomorrow.”

That level of communication shows respect.

Recently, someone asked me a routine question that unexpectedly triggered anxiety.

I felt frustration rise.

I felt defeated.

And in that moment, I realized I did not have the emotional capacity to respond well.

So I didn’t.

Not because I was ghosting.

Not because I was being passive-aggressive.

But because I needed more information—and I needed my emotions to settle before responding.

That pause protected both of us.

And maybe that’s what many of us need to relearn.

Not urgency.

Not avoidance.

Pause.

Intentional pause.

Healthy pause.

Holy pause.

The kind that helps us respond from wisdom instead of reaction.

The kind that honors both truth and timing.

In a world that rewards instant reactions, thoughtful responses feel revolutionary.

And perhaps that’s our modern-day Selah.

Pause.
Reflect.
Respond well.

Because people are not machines.

And relationships deserve more than automated behavior.

Scripture Reflection:
“Let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger.” — James 1:19

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post We Are Not AI: The Cost of Transactional Communication in a Convenience Culture first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Some lessons show up with a knock at your door… while you’re mid-cleanup, mid-mama mode, mid-life.

And this week?
The lesson was simple, but it stretched me:

Asking for help is my new thing.

Not because I suddenly want to.
But because I finally understand—I need to.

This is my Year of Yes.
Yes to growth.
Yes to stretching.
Yes to letting go of the illusion that I can carry everything on my own.

Because truth be told, in this season of adulthood, of marriage, of motherhood…
what I’m being called to do requires more than just me.

I’ve been married for 14 years this June.

And every year, covenant reveals another layer.

At first, it’s love.
Then it’s partnership.
Then it’s sacrifice.

And somewhere along the way, it becomes legacy.

Because raising a family together?
That’s a whole different kind of covenant.

That’s teamwork.
That’s humility.
That’s learning when to say, “I can’t do this alone.”

This week, that lesson came through something as simple—and as necessary—as a broken bathtub.

Now listen…
I tried to handle it myself.

Bought the part.
Watched a couple videos.
Had a whole internal conversation like, “I got this. No need to report it.”

But deep down, I knew better.

Because sometimes “handling it” isn’t strength.
Sometimes it’s avoidance dressed up in independence.

So I did what I’ve been practicing in this Year of Yes:

I told the truth.

I submitted the request.
I asked for help.

And baby… help showed up.

Not next week.
Not “we’ll schedule you in a few days.”

No—right then.

Doorbell ringing.
Life still happening.
Ella in the middle of potty training (because if you know, you know).
Me trying to keep everything together in real time.

And there stood the plumber.

Here’s the part that blessed me:

Because I had already done the research…
Because I had the part ready…

What could have taken multiple visits
was fixed in less than 30 minutes.

Just like that.

And I heard God in it.

Clear as day:

“Preparation meets provision when you stop trying to do everything alone.”

That moment wasn’t just about plumbing.

It was about transparency.
Admitting, “Hey, something’s broken.”

It was about accountability.
Honoring the space we’ve been trusted with.

It was about alignment.
Getting things back in order—not just in the house, but in me.

Because we’re not just renting a home right now…

We’re preparing for the next one.

Our dream home.

And I truly believe—what we do with what we have now
is setting the standard for what God is trusting us with next.

Even down to the inspection.

Because yes, part of me was like,
“Didn’t y’all already check this?”

But the bigger picture?

Compliance matters.
Stewardship matters.
Order matters.

Not just when it’s convenient—
but when it’s required.

And if I’m honest?

God has been teaching me this same lesson everywhere.

In the car rider line…
when patience gets tested and I’m reminded
that not everything moves at my pace.

In motherhood…
where every day is a balance of grace and grit.

In marriage…
where “we” has to be stronger than “me.”

This season is stretching me.

But it’s also shaping me.

Because every moment—
every inconvenience, every interruption, every unexpected knock—

is an invitation to learn.

So yes…

Asking for help?

That’s my new thing.

Not as a sign of weakness—
but as a sign of growth.

Not because I don’t have strength—
but because I’m learning where my strength truly comes from.

And if you’re in a season like mine…

Trying to hold it all together,
trying to prove you can handle it,
trying to keep everything from falling apart—

Let me say this gently:

You don’t have to do it alone.

Ask for help.
Tell the truth.
Do your part.

And trust that when the doorbell rings…
what you need will already be on the other side.

Scripture Reflection:
“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” — Galatians 6:2

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Covenant, Compliance, and Calling: What a Broken Tub Taught Me first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

The kind that doesn’t ask for help.
The kind that figures it out.
The kind that makes a way—no matter what.

I watched my mother live it.

Even in moments where life pressed hard—through disappointment, through lack, through her own physical limitations—she stood up and handled what needed to be handled. She didn’t crumble in front of us. She carried.

And as her daughter, I absorbed that lesson deeply:

Be capable. Be strong. Don’t let them see you struggle.

That mindset served me well… until it didn’t.

Because somewhere along the way, strength stopped being a tool and started becoming a mask.

Recently, I had to submit a simple work order request for my home. The closet rod in our main suite was coming loose from the wall, and the bathroom needed to be repainted after a potty-training accident with my daughter.

Normal life. Real life.

But telling the truth about it? That felt uncomfortable.

Admitting, “Hey, this happened,” felt more vulnerable than it should have. I found myself wanting to soften the details, to make it sound more controlled, more… presentable.

And that’s when it hit me:

Why is honesty so hard when it makes me look human?

Around the same time, I revisited The Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes. And something in my spirit stirred. I felt like God was nudging me into my own version of a “Year of Yes.”

But not the kind of yes that looks bold and exciting on the outside.

A quieter one.

A deeper one.

A Ruth kind of yes.

Ruth said yes to uncertainty.
Yes to unfamiliar ground.
Yes to being seen in her need before she was ever elevated.

Before favor found her, she was gleaning in the fields—working, asking, showing up in humility.

That part of the story doesn’t always get highlighted.

But it matters.

Because if I’m honest, my resistance isn’t about doing hard things. I’ve done plenty of those.

My resistance is about being seen while I’m doing them.

Seen without the polish.
Seen without the perfect explanation.
Seen without the quiet illusion that I’ve got it all handled.

But here’s the truth I’m learning in this season:

If I only let people see my capability, I train them to only bring me responsibility.

And that’s not the kind of leadership God is calling me into.

This next season requires something different.

It requires surrender.
It requires community.
It requires the kind of strength that knows when to say, “I need help.”

So yes—this is my Year of Yes.

Yes to truth.
Yes to growth.
Yes to letting go of the pressure to perform strength instead of living it.

Because real strength isn’t about holding everything together at all costs.

It’s about knowing that you don’t have to.

And maybe, just maybe…

The most powerful yes I’ll say this year
is the one that lets me be seen—
fully, honestly, and still held by God.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Ruth, Real Life, and the Year I Stopped Pretending I Had It All Together first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Earlier today at praise team rehearsal, one of the young women shared the joy of feeling her baby kick for the first time. The room lit up with excitement, the kind only expecting mothers truly understand.

But her words took me back to my pregnancy with my daughter, Ella Grace.

Because of uterine fibroids, I never once felt Ella kick.

Not once during the entire pregnancy.

While most mothers count flutters and kicks, my reassurance came in a different form. Ultrasounds. Each appointment became a sacred moment where I could see my little girl moving, stretching, and resting peacefully.

What amazed me most was how she seemed to make space for herself. Some fibroids shrank. Others calcified. And there she was on the screen, perfectly comfortable, as if she knew she belonged there.

Eventually my doctor made a life-saving decision. One fibroid blocked the birth canal completely. If labor had begun naturally, the outcome could have been devastating for both of us.

So my C-section was scheduled early.

Ella Grace entered this world at 36 weeks—six pounds, six ounces of pure promise.

Healthy. Strong. Beautiful.

When I look back now, I understand something I couldn’t fully articulate then.

I was pregnant by faith.

God had spoken to my heart years earlier that Oji and I would be parents one day. And when the time came, that promise showed up in ways I could never have predicted.

First through love and adoption with Trevor and Tyson.

Then through the miracle of Ella Grace.

Sometimes faith doesn’t feel dramatic.
It doesn’t always come with signs you can feel in your body.

Sometimes faith simply asks you to trust what God has already spoken—even when the evidence is only visible on a screen.

But when the promise finally arrives in your arms, you realize something beautiful:

Faith was carrying the story the whole time.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Pregnant by Faith: My High-Risk Pregnancy with Uterine Fibroids first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

There comes a moment in adulthood — especially motherhood — when faith has to meet spreadsheets.

Not because you stopped trusting God.

But because you realize stewardship is a form of obedience too.

Over the last few months, I’ve been in a deep evaluation season when it comes to finances. Rebuilding credit. Studying multiple income streams. Learning AI and digital strategy in ways I never imagined I would even be interested in.

And if I’m honest, I wrestled with it at first.

I had to ask myself hard questions:

Was I building income… or building anxiety?
Was I chasing trends… or answering provision?
Was I staying authentic… or becoming transactional?

Because as a woman of faith, integrity matters to me more than influence ever will.

Learning Without Losing Myself

Sitting in learning spaces, being mentored from afar by women like Alicia Lyttle, and absorbing how technology is reshaping entrepreneurship has been eye-opening.

Not in a “get rich quick” way.

But in a “get structured so you can breathe” way.

AI isn’t replacing my voice.

It’s helping me organize it.

Funnels aren’t replacing my calling.

They’re helping me sustain it.

And that realization lifted a weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

Because somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that struggle was synonymous with righteousness.

But provision has systems too.

Rebuilding Without Shame

Rebuilding credit has been humbling.

There’s no glamorous way to say that.

It requires accountability. Conversations. Strategy. Patience.

But I’ve reframed it spiritually.

This isn’t just credit repair.

It’s legacy repair.

It’s making sure my children inherit opportunity — not just testimony.

And that shift in perspective has made the process feel purposeful instead of punishing.

Faith Still Leads

Even while studying automation, income funnels, and digital business models, my anchor hasn’t changed.

Prayer first.

Discernment second.

Strategy third.

Because if God isn’t in the blueprint, I don’t want the building.

So I move slowly. Intentionally. Prayerfully.

Learning how to build income without losing integrity.

Because provision that costs your peace is too expensive.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Building Income Without Losing Integrity: A Christian Woman’s Journey into AI, Credit Repair, and Multiple Streams of Income first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

There’s a difference between disappearing and developing.

And over the last month, I haven’t disappeared.

I’ve been developing.

If you’ve noticed that I haven’t posted much here on Memoirs of a Black Girl, it wasn’t because I ran out of words. It wasn’t because the vision dried up. And it definitely wasn’t because I stopped dreaming.

It’s because I’ve been in an alignment season.

And alignment doesn’t always look loud.

Faith First. Always.

Before funnels.
Before first drafts.
Before strategies and systems.

Faith.

The Holy Spirit has been pressing me in private about how I communicate. Not just online — but in life. Tone. Intention. Stewardship of words.

I’ve increased my personal Bible study time. Not for optics. Not for content. But for correction and clarity.

Serving more intentionally at church.
Listening more.
Speaking less.
Checking my motives before I check my metrics.

Because obedience will always outrank optimization.

And if I’m going to build anything in this digital space, it has to be anchored in Him first.

Funnels Aren’t Ungodly. They’re Structure.

Let’s talk about the other side of this season.

I’ve been studying AI more deeply. Sitting in rooms — even virtual ones — that are stretching my thinking. Learning from mentors like Alicia Lyttle and others who are teaching how technology, automation, and digital systems can create real financial stability.

And here’s what I’ve realized:

Funnels aren’t manipulative when your heart is pure.

They’re infrastructure.

I’ve been rebuilding our credit. Exploring multiple streams of income. Evaluating whether I need to shift my educational focus more toward AI. Not because I’m chasing trends — but because I’m building legacy.

Three IEP meetings in one month.
After-school transitions.
Mama logistics.
Administrative excellence by day.
Creative calling by night.

Funnels help structure capacity.

Faith gives it direction.

First Drafts Are Still Holy

Here’s the part creatives don’t talk about enough.

First drafts are messy.

And sometimes when life is full, you don’t have the luxury of polishing everything before you post it. But that doesn’t mean the writing stops. It just means it incubates.

Behind the scenes, I’ve been drafting.
Ideas.
Series.
Frameworks.
A possible pivot.
Even a podcast concept.

“AI Auntie & Author.”

Because somewhere between studying automation and navigating motherhood, I realized something:

I don’t want to lose my voice while learning new tools.

I want to integrate them.

I want to be the woman who prays in the morning, studies machine learning at lunch, attends an IEP meeting at 3:00, and still drafts a blog post at night.

Not perfectly.
But faithfully.

This Isn’t a Rebrand. It’s a Refinement.

Memoirs of a Black Girl isn’t dormant.

She’s being refined.

There’s a new layer forming — where faith meets funnels, where devotion meets digital strategy, where motherhood meets monetization, and where obedience meets opportunity.

If you’ve been in a quiet building season too, let me say this clearly:

You are not behind.

You are laying foundation.

And foundations are rarely glamorous — but they hold everything.

Faith.
Funnels.
First drafts.

We’re building all three.

And I’m grateful you’re still here.

— Lela

P.S. I’ve been playing with a new idea — “AI Auntie & Author.”
A space where faith meets technology, and creativity meets systems.
If that sounds like something you’d listen to, stay tuned.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Faith, Funnels, and First Drafts: When Obedience Meets Strategy first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Today, Ella Grace reminded me of that truth in a way I did not enjoy.

Not even a little.

She attempted to problem-solve something simple. Something rooted in personal hygiene. Something I had encouraged her to do independently. What she created instead was a situation so catastrophic it felt like I had been deployed into a battle I did not sign up for.

And listen… I survived it.
Barely.

I came out the other side changed.
A veteran.
A former prisoner of war—of love.

Afterward, I gave her a bath. She fell asleep like nothing happened. Took a peaceful nap. The kind of rest that tells you someone in this situation is unbothered.

Later, as I retold the story to her daddy—still visibly shaken—this child woke up, looked directly at me, and laughed in my face.

Laughed.

The audacity.
The confidence.
The absolute clarity that she knew exactly what she had done.

And here’s the part that humbles me every single time: even in my lingering shock—borderline PTSD—I was still in awe of her.

Because what looked like chaos to me was problem-solving to her.
What felt like failure was her reaching for independence.
What exhausted me was her mind working overtime.

Was it a success?

No.

Was it progress?

Yes.

Motherhood—especially neurodivergent motherhood—will have you feeling like you survived a war and still need to cook dinner afterward. It will leave you with stories that sound exaggerated until you realize they are simply lived experience. Stories about brilliance that doesn’t arrive politely. Stories about intelligence that doesn’t announce itself neatly or verbally.

Today, I celebrate Ella Grace—not because it went well, but because she tried.

And I celebrate myself too—because I handled it, resolved it, and lived to tell the tale. She laughed.
Mommy healed.
And tomorrow… we try again.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Lack of Words Does Not Mean Lack of Intelligence: A Neurodivergent Motherhood War Story first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

When Oji and I reconnected in 2008, we began courting long-distance in 2009. And every time he saw me, I looked different.

New hair.
New vibe.
Same woman.

At the time, it felt casual—almost accidental. But looking back now, I realize it wasn’t just about style.

It was about identity in motion.

Long-distance love has a way of magnifying presence. When you don’t see someone every day, every reunion becomes a reintroduction. And somehow, without planning it, I became someone who never arrived the same way twice.

Fast forward through marriage, children, faith, deadlines, neurodivergent parenting, and the quiet rhythm of grown life.

The pattern never left.

Oji doesn’t ask anymore if I changed my hair.
He already knows.

Sometimes it’s six months.
Sometimes it’s three.
Sometimes it’s the same week.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped calling them wigs.

I started calling them hats.

Because wigs felt too small a word for what they represented.

Shoes.
Handbags.
Jewelry.
Hats.

Choices. Expressions. Mood. Language.

Not disguise.
Not insecurity.
Not performance.

Freedom.

When I tried the 30-inch bust-down for the first time—a style Oji had never seen before—it wasn’t just a new look.

It was a reminder.

I am still becoming.

Hair as Identity Language

For Black women, hair has always been more than hair.

It’s history.
Creativity.
Resistance.
Protection.
Joy.

As a writer, I’ve learned that identity is not fixed—it’s edited, revised, and rewritten across seasons.
As a mother, I’ve learned that adaptation is not weakness—it’s wisdom.
As a wife, I’ve learned that playfulness is not childish—it’s intimacy.

So when I switch my hats, I’m not changing who I am.

I’m honoring who I’m becoming.

Some people change playlists.
Some people change cities.
Some people change careers.

I change crowns.

And maybe that’s why Oji sometimes laughs and says it feels like he’s dating the same woman… and not.

Because he is.

He’s married to the core of me—
the faith,
the Brooklyn edge,
the writer’s heart,
the mama’s instincts,
the quiet resilience.

But he’s also married to a woman who refuses to fossilize.

Same Woman. Different Crown.

Under every hat is the same woman.

Rooted.
Evolving.
Faith-filled.
Creative.
Still learning herself.

The hair changes.
The crowns shift.
The silhouettes evolve.

But the core remains.

So yes—I call my wigs hats.

Because hats are not disguises.

They’re declarations.

And maybe identity isn’t about choosing one version of yourself and staying there forever.

Maybe it’s about giving yourself permission to become… again and again.

Same woman.

Different crown.

(To be continued.)

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post Same Woman, Different Crown (Part I): Why I Call My Wigs “Hats” first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Yesterday, Texas felt like spring.

Sixty-five degrees. Windows cracked open. Hoodies optional.
Then the forecast whispered something else entirely:

Twenty degrees in two days.

That kind of shift doesn’t just change the weather.
It changes a mama’s mindset.

So I did what neurodivergent mamas do best—I prepared.

Water? Check.
Blankets? Check.
Peace of mind? Almost lost… until I found Ella’s safe foods.

For a brief moment, her favorite gummies were out of stock.
And if you know, you know—that kind of moment can feel bigger than any freeze warning.

But grace showed up in the form of a backup plan.

Safe foods secured.
Crisis averted.
Mama peace restored.

People think winter prep is about temperature drops and emergency kits.
Sometimes, it’s about comfort.
Sometimes, it’s about predictability.
Sometimes, it’s about love wrapped in grocery bags and quiet victories.

In this house, preparation isn’t panic.
It’s devotion.

And as Texas prepares to freeze,
we’re already wrapped in warmth.

— Lela J. Fagan
Memoirs of a Black Girl

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post 65 Degrees Today, 20 in Two Days: A Neurodivergent Mama’s Texas Prep first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Some people learned how to cook standing at their grandmother’s side.

Me?
I learned from cookbooks.

My grandma didn’t cook.
And my mama stopped cooking when I was born —
the third and final batch of babies.
So there was no apron, no passed-down recipe cards, no “watch how I do this.”

What I had was curiosity…
and a daddy who bought me my first cookbook at sixteen,
like he was handing me a passport to a new world.

By thirteen, I was already in the kitchen dabbling —
measuring, tasting, adjusting, starting over.
By my late teens, I was haunting bookstore clearance racks,
snatching up cookbooks like they were treasure.
Later, Amazon deliveries started showing up like culinary love letters.

When I wanted something new or unfamiliar,
I went hunting —
reading food blogs, scrolling recipes,
and when the dish was outside my culture,
YouTube became my auntie in the kitchen,
showing me techniques and traditions one click at a time.

So when these collard greens went into my slow cooker this week,
they weren’t nostalgia.

They were earned.

Low and slow, these greens simmered while life kept moving —
kids with IEPs, a husband coaching,
emails, prayers, therapies, and hope.

And when I lifted that lid?

Tender greens.
Smoky meat.
Bright vinegar.
Depth you can’t rush.

These greens didn’t come from my grandma.

They came from a girl who read, tried, failed, learned, and kept going.

And that, right there,
is a legacy too.

—
Lela J. Fagan
Memoirs of a Black Girl

Lela’s Slow-Cooker Collard Greens

(Clearance-rack cookbooks. Ancestor-approved results.)

Ingredients

• 2–3 bunches fresh collard greens, chopped
  
• Smoked turkey, ham hocks, or neck bones
  
• 1 red bell pepper, diced
  
• 1 green bell pepper, diced
  
• 1 large onion, diced
  
• 2–3 cups water
  
• 1 cup apple cider vinegar
  

Seasonings

Season until your spirit says stop:

• Goya Green Seasoning
  
• Goya Sazón
  
• Tony Chachere’s or Lawry’s Seasoned Salt
  
• Old Bay
  
• Garlic & onion seasoning
  

(No black pepper — peace only.)

Prep

1. Rinse greens well.
   
2. Remove thick center stems.
   
3. Roll leaves and slice into ¼-inch ribbons.
   
4. Soak in water + white vinegar + sea salt for 5 minutes.
   
5. Drain and rinse.
   

Cook

1. Add smoked meat to slow cooker.
   
2. Add onions, peppers, and greens.
   
3. Pour in water and apple cider vinegar.
   
4. Add seasonings generously.
   
5. Stir.
   

Cook on LOW for 9–10 hours
(overnight or while you’re out conquering the world).

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post How I Taught Myself to Cook: A Collard Greens Kitchen Memoir first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.

Today was one of those.

Ella was on the couch, tucked up next to her daddy, tablet glowing, peace resting on her little shoulders.
I was in full mama mode — wiping, folding, picking up the pieces of a week that was heavy but holy.
And from the couch, I heard her voice.

It was soft.
Intentional.
But I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.

She tried again.

Still, I missed it.

Now here’s the part that made my mama heart stop.

We keep Ella’s individual alphabet blocks right on the divider of our loveseat. Since she was already seated there with Oji, all she had to do was reach over. No drama. No delay. Just purpose.

She reached.
She grabbed.
She looked me straight in my tired mama eyes and began spelling, one letter at a time:

G. R. A. P. E. S.

Then she said it again out loud.

“Grapes.”

Not fussing.
Not crying.
Not melting down.

Just… advocating.

Six years old.
Autistic.
Minimally verbal.

And yet here she was, saying:
If you don’t hear my words, I’ll show you my meaning — and then I’ll say it again so you know I meant it.

Whew.

A year ago, this would not have happened.
A year ago, she was still finding her voice.
A year ago, frustration lived where language now blooms.

But today?

Today my baby didn’t just ask for grapes.
She demonstrated agency.
She showed literacy.
She exercised confidence.

She said, in her own sweet, powerful way,
“I know what I want — and I know how to tell you.”

And I stood there holding back tears over a fruit request, because when you are the mother of a neurodivergent child, every word is a miracle. Every breakthrough is a testimony. Every small moment is a mountain moved.

God really said,
“Let there be brilliance,”
and wrapped it up in mocha skin, two afro puffs, and a little girl who spells when she isn’t heard.

So yes, I got her the grapes.
But what she gave me?

That was bigger.

That was hope.
That was growth.
That was a reminder that Ella Grace is not behind — she is becoming.

And baby… she’s doing it beautifully.

© 2026, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.

The post She Spelled It for Me: A Black Mama’s Moment of Neurodivergent Brilliance first appeared on Memoirs of a Black Girl.