Whole and Wanting | Black Gay & Lonely AF!

The signs point to truth.; Black, Gay and Lonely AF!

How the fu*k did I become the thing I used to pity?

A lonely single bitch. Writing alone in my New York City apartment at damn near fifty. After all the mistakes, all the lessons, all the drama life threw at me—I'm Carrie. And I used to be Samantha.

I was the quiet storm with brains who got hearts racing with just a look. I didn't chase—I gave them the eye from across crowded rooms and let my silence do all the heavy lifting. They came to me like moths to a flame I didn't even know I was carrying. Bathroom stalls, back bedrooms, anywhere desire led and consequences were just tomorrow's problem. I collected moments like stolen jewelry, not knowing about self-worth, not understanding that I was the crown jewel all along. I had more tricks than a Vegas magician and less sense than God gave a goat.

But here's the truth underneath the truth: I wasn't choosing freedom. I was performing it. There's a difference between liberation and survival, between desire and the desperate need to be desired. Every bathroom stall was a small death, a little murder of the self I might've been if someone had taught me I was worth more than stolen moments and swallowed pride. I was collecting mediocre men like participation trophies, giving out access to my body like free samples at Costco, and calling it liberation. Chyle, the only thing I was liberating was their conscience. I was so busy being the cool, no-pressure, low-maintenance fantasy that I forgot to ask what the fuck I was getting out of this besides a good story and regret.

See, nobody tells you that promiscuity can be a kind of prayer. A plea to the universe that says "see me, want me, prove I exist." Every encounter was me trying to write my name in someone else's memory, hoping it would make me real. But you can't fuck your way into being loved. You can't moan loud enough to drown out the silence of your own self-abandonment. I was out here doing charity work and calling it freedom, feeding hungry men with pieces of myself I didn't know I'd need later.

Then somewhere between learning to love myself and unlearning how to beg for crumbs, the script flipped.

The transformation wasn't gradual—it was surgical. Biblical. The kind of resurrection that requires you to die first, to lay in the tomb of who you were and wait for the stone to roll away. One morning I woke up and realized I'd rather dine alone at a table set for one than break bread with someone who couldn't even hold my last name in their mouth correctly. I stopped answering texts that came after midnight. Stopped pretending "we should hang out sometime" meant anything other than "I want access without accountability." Stopped shape-shifting into whatever made them comfortable. Started asking questions that made mediocre men disappear like roaches when the lights come on.

What do you want? What are you building? Where do you see this going?

Simple questions. Devastating answers. Or worse—no answers at all.

Turns out, the hardest part of leveling up isn't leaving people behind. It's realizing they were never on your level to begin with. It's understanding that you were playing chess while they were still learning checkers, and you kept letting them win because you thought that's what love looked like. Accommodation. Compromise. Slow erasure dressed up as partnership.

Now I live with authenticity and freedom, but the feast is for one.

The irony sits heavy like humidity in August, like promises God forgot to keep. When you finally become worthy of real love, you're too evolved for the games, too selective for the bullshit, too whole to need someone else to complete the sentence you already wrote. The table is set. The wine is poured. The candles flicker like prayers I'm afraid to speak out loud. But the chair across from me stays empty, night after night, like a question the universe refuses to answer.

I know he's out there. Somewhere in the cosmos, living his own journey toward wholeness. And I'm picky as shit because I earned every standard I set. Each requirement was purchased with pain—emotional availability bought with years of unavailable men, consistency earned through chaos, intentionality learned from those who treated me like an option. My standards aren't unrealistic. They're just expensive. And I've already paid.

But some nights this silence sounds like a question I can't answer.

Like a drum with no one to hear it. Like a story that hasn't figured out its ending yet. Like all the growth in the world can't keep you warm when the bed stays cold and the phone doesn't ring and the love you've prepared yourself to receive remains theoretical, philosophical, somewhere out there in the abstract future where good things happen to people who've done the work.

Because here's what they don't tell you: becoming the person worthy of love doesn't guarantee you'll find it. It just means you'll never settle for less than you deserve. And that's a kind of loneliness all its own—the loneliness of the lighthouse keeper, standing tall and illuminated, guiding ships to safety while remaining forever on shore. You become a beacon for others while wondering who's lighting the way for you.

Growth is lonely as hell. But I'd rather be alone and whole than together and broken. I'd rather eat this feast by myself than share scraps with someone who can't appreciate the meal. I'd rather write in this silence than perform for an audience of one who's only half-listening. I'd rather be Carrie writing her column than Samantha collecting bodies like souvenirs, because at least Carrie knew her worth even when love kept her waiting.

So here I am. Still writing. Still waiting. Still whole.

Not bitter, just clear. Not desperate, just honest. Not hopeless, just learning to hold hope differently—like a bird in open palms instead of a tight fist. The transformation cost me everything familiar and gave me back myself. That's not nothing. That's everything. Even if it means I dine alone a little longer. Even if the silence stretches. Even if the story hasn't figured out its ending yet.

Because some endings take time. And some tables are worth keeping set.