“Why did you tempt him?”
“What were you wearing?”
“Why didn’t you just leave?”

It always starts with a compliment, and oftentimes, we hope it ends there too. But as women, we know all too well that it doesn’t matter how covered we are, how many precautions we take, or how many times we say “no.”

They don’t care.

Not because women aren’t clear — but because men are taught that desire is pursuit, persistence is flattering, and restraint is optional.

They push boundaries.
They test limits.

And when it’s over, they get to move on: untouched, unexamined, and unchanged.

Because the price of their entitlement is paid in our fear, our vigilance, and our humanity.

This is the cost of pretty.

Constant Reminders Everywhere

News cycles and social media timelines are flooded with coverage of the Epstein files.

For some men, it’s an opportunity — a chance to publicly condemn behavior they don’t want to be associated with. A way to say, “I am not that guy.”

But for many women, this is more than news.

It’s a reminder.

Epstein didn’t invent this type of violence. He didn’t create entitlement, exploitation, or silence.

He just had the power and resources to exploit something women have been navigating long before his name became public.

What’s more unsettling than the crimes themselves is how comfortable we are condemning harm when it’s distant, and how quiet we become when it’s close.

When the abuser is a headline, outrage is easy.
When the woman is someone you know, neutrality suddenly feels acceptable.

Showing Up When it Matters

Neutrality is NOT passive. It’s a choice, and one that protects proximity, comfort, and reputation.

And, it becomes especially dangerous when it comes from people who publicly align themselves with values that condemn this behavior.

Posting is easy.
Retweeting is easy.
Condemning harm when the villain is already decided is easy.

What’s harder is responding with care when harm interrupts your real life — your friendships, your relationships, or your self-image as “a good guy.”

I learned this not through theory, but through proximity — by watching how quickly values collapse when accountability becomes inconvenient.

It’s one thing to condemn exploitation online.
It’s another to show up when a woman says, “I wasn’t okay.”

What accountability actually looks like

Accountability doesn’t require heroics. It requires acknowledgement.

Believing before questioning.
Responding instead of retreating.
Choosing care even when it costs comfort.

This isn’t a call for men to be perfect. It’s a call for them to be present — offline, in real life, when it matters.

Silence is not neutral when harm is close.
Reposts don’t replace responsibility.

You don’t get to condemn exploitation online and disappear when it shows up in real life.

UnPRETTY Me, Please! is not about taking beauty away from women.
It’s about taking entitlement away from those who have never had to carry the consequences.

Because until accountability lives offline, beauty will always to feel like a liability.

Moving Forward

For generations, women have been told to adjust:

Cover up.
Be careful.
Don’t provoke.

So we shrink, strategize, and survive; all while being told this is the price of being beautiful.

UnPRETTY Me, Please! is not surrender.
It’s a refusal.

A refusal to believe that womanhood must come with fear.
A refusal to keep teaching girls how to endure instead of teaching boys how to behave.

Pretty was never the problem.

Silence was.

There’s a certain responsibility you carry when you know the sacrifices that made the life you live today possible. When you know that your people spent 400 years enslaved, survived oppressive systems and racially motivated violence, and still kept going, there’s really no excuse not to take advantage of the opportunities their sacrifices made possible.

But to be Black and a woman adds another layer to that responsibility. Not only were our mothers facing the same injustices as their male counterparts, the violence and scrutiny directed toward them, and now toward us, was doubled.

And that intersection, where race and gender meet, creates an experience uniquely shaped by both. Black men understood the weight of racial injustice. White women understood the barriers of sexism. But Black women have historically had to navigate both at the same time.

Because of that history, Black women today inherit more than stories of survival. We inherit expectations — to excel, to endure, to succeed in spaces that were never built with us in mind. The opportunities available now didn't appear in a vacuum. They exist because generations before us fought to expand what was possible.

That is the paradox of inheritance for Black women in America. The same history that imposed limits also created the conditions for possibility. Because of them — the women who endured, organized, created, and persisted — we now stand in spaces they could only imagine.

As someone who’s really just entering adulthood, when I think about dating, I feel completely unprepared.

Our generation didn’t grow up dating seriously.

We grew up texting. DMing. Situationship-ing. Talking for months without labels. Saying “something like that” when people asked if we were in a relationship.

When my friends and I talk about relationships, it genuinely feels like the blind leading the blind. We’re all trying to figure this out in real time, without examples that feel realistic or rules that actually work.

So now that we’re actually trying to date with intention — as young adults, thinking about partnership — it feels harder than we expected.

It’s almost like a job interview with an unspoken list of rules.

Don’t come on too strong.

Don’t show you care too soon.

Make sure to show what you bring to the table.

Don’t do this. Don’t do that.

And somehow, it still goes absolutely nowhere.

That sense of unpreparedness isn’t just personal. According to recent Harris Poll data from Match Group and The Kinsey Institute, while 80% of Gen Z believe they’ll find true love, only 55% feel ready to commit to a relationship.

With social media being such a prevalent part of our lives, we see relationships constantly — what they look like, what they cost, what they require. Love becomes something we consume instead of something we experience. So we come into dating already comparing, already cautious, already halfway out the door.

The 2026 Dating Truth Report, published by popular dating app Hily, describes this as a “dating-reality disconnect,” where social media distorts expectations of what dating should look like versus how it actually feels.

Dating apps intensify that disconnect. When the possibilities feel endless, it becomes easier to disengage, to ghost, and to move on — because there’s always another option waiting.

This isn’t everyone’s reality. I know that. I’ve seen healthy relationships. I’ve seen people fall in love, get married, and choose each other every day.

Still, I’m confident many people would agree that dating has started to feel like a humiliation ritual.

I don’t go into it hopeful or even cautiously optimistic. I go into it expecting to be thrown for a loop. It’s the same feeling you get right before a drop on a roller coaster — when you know your stomach is about to fall, but you don’t know exactly when or how.

It doesn’t help that we’re part of a generation that often pretends we don’t need love. Like wanting it is a distraction. Like it gets in the way of ambition, self-discovery, or success. But I don’t think that’s true. I think multiple things can exist at once. You can want love and want more for yourself. You can build a life and still want someone to share it with.

So the question becomes: where do we go from here?

I don’t have the answers. I’m still figuring it out.

I do know that I want to approach dating differently — with curiosity, honesty, and a willingness to embrace mistakes as part of the process. Because even in a world where love feels complicated, transactional, and constantly on display, even in the awkwardness and uncertainty… it’s still worth trying.

The older I get, the more I realize our parents were right — it really is that phone.

Growing up, I brushed off my mom’s constant reminders to put it down, always insisting she was just being old-school. At the time, her comments felt less like concern and more like nagging — something easy to ignore.

But when you take a step back and really look at it, it becomes harder to dismiss. Not because of generational differences or personal opinions, but because the research confirms what many of us didn’t want to hear.

Screen use has increased steadily over the past decade, especially among teens and young adults. Recent studies by the Pew Research Center revealed that about 46 percent of U.S. teens report being online “almost constantly,” while roughly 63 percent of adults ages 18 to 29 say the same.

We live in a digital environment where information is always available and always updating. Social media platforms, news apps, and video feeds are intentionally designed to keep us scrolling, making it easy for ten minutes on your phone to turn into an hour before you know it.

What once felt like occasional entertainment has become a near-constant presence in daily life, shaping how we process news, relate to others and even regulate our emotions.

I think about how different things felt when I was younger. Even though I had a phone, I didn’t spend nearly as much time on it as I do now. I read books, painted and played outside. That isn’t to say kids don’t still do those things today, but we’re also living in an era of “iPad kids” — where screens are introduced earlier and used more often, making constant digital engagement feel normal. But normal doesn’t always mean healthy.

Over time, that constant exposure starts to show up in how we feel — especially for teens and young adults, who are in a sensitive stage developmentally. According to mental health professionals at Relief Mental Health, frequent social media use is associated with increased stress and anxiety, in part because the brain is required to process a rapid stream of emotionally charged information without meaningful breaks.

This can lead to social comparison, mood swings, anxiety, depression and sleep disruptions. One behavior that has received growing attention in recent years is doomscrolling, a term used to describe the repeated consumption of negative or distressing news content online.

Honestly, getting caught in a loop of negative news is easy, especially because news outlets and media platforms know that negativity grabs attention. During times of uncertainty, it’s natural to dig deeper, trying to stay informed and understand potential risks. I know I’m guilty of it myself — it feels important to know what’s happening around you. But we also have to prioritize our health.

According to experts at Harvard Health, doomscrolling doesn’t just affect your mind; it can take a physical toll too, causing symptoms like nausea, headaches, muscle tension, neck and shoulder pain, low appetite, difficulty sleeping and even elevated blood pressure.

Recognizing these patterns isn’t about blaming anyone for habits that are practically built into the design of our phones and apps. It’s about understanding how constant connectivity shapes our minds and making intentional choices about how we engage with it. Set limits on how long you spend on your phone or certain apps. If scrolling makes you compare yourself to others, consider unfollowing accounts that bring you down. Taking occasional digital detoxes or just being aware of how long you’re scrolling can help too. Small changes like these make it easier to stay connected without letting your phone take over.

Our parents might not have had words like doomscrolling or digital overload, but they weren’t wrong. Constant exposure really does change us. The phone is that powerful. Now the challenge is learning to use it in ways that actually work for us and our mental health.

He told me it was about slavery, something I'd heard about in history class, of course, but it never felt real to me. It was always presented like some distant, unfortunate fact in a textbook. Something to memorize for the quiz, you know? Something that happened a long, long time ago.

Or at least I thought it was.

But this year marks 160 years since Juneteenth — 160 years since the final enslaved people in Galveston, Texas were told they were free. And even then, it didn’t mean true freedom. Not really. Not when Jim Crow followed. Not when segregation lingered. Not when generational trauma quietly wrapped itself around our family trees.

The First Time I Saw Slavery

Nothing could've prepared me for the horrors I saw in that film. I dreaded coming home every day until we finished the series. I was only 10.

It was graphic. It was violent. It was sobering. But I now realize, it was necessary.

Because some children never had the chance to dread it. Some were born into chains.

Some were born into silence. Some were born into systems so cruel they couldn’t even imagine what freedom looked like.

All they knew was the brutality. All they knew was the rape. All they knew was the pain. All they knew was bondage.

What We Inherited

And yet, they dreamed… They passed down names. They carved joy out of sorrow. They found rhythm in suffering. They became us.

Juneteenth is often described as the day the last enslaved people found out they were free. But that definition is too polished. It doesn’t account for the heartbreak in the waiting, the rage in the deception, the audacity of a government to delay a dream for two extra years after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed. Juneteenth wasn’t just a beginning.

It was a reminder: Even freedom can be late.

And yet, our people still rose. Still, they created.

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Still Here

And we’re still here — living, loving, building, breathing life into what our ancestors were never allowed to imagine.

But being here doesn’t mean we’re free from all of it.

Because I’ve seen how racism disguises itself — not always in chains, but in the smirks, silences and systems that still surround us.

I remember walking through the hallways in high school and hearing the N-word roll off the tongues of non-Black classmates, like it was just another joke.

I remember how some painted themselves in blackface, sharing it online and captioning it like a punchline, like our pain was a costume they could try on for fun.

I remember sitting in classrooms led by teachers who told us white privilege didn’t exist, who refused to attend the Black History Month assembly, who made it clear that our stories weren’t worth their time.

And these weren’t strangers. These were people we had to sit next to, learn beside, work with, all while trying to shrink ourselves small enough to stay safe.

That was my normal. And that’s why I can’t talk about Juneteenth without talking about now.

It’s Ours Now

Because truthfully, the trauma didn’t stop in 1865. It just learned how to code-switch. It put on a suit. It went corporate. It got elected. It rewrote the textbooks. And still, we’re expected to smile through it. We’re expected to lead, to rise, to represent, to perform.

But we remember.

We remember the way they talked about Michelle Obama. We remember how they questioned Kamala’s every move. We remember the pain of watching George Floyd’s last breath, not as a moment, but as a mirror. We remember Freddie Gray, and how close that hit for those of us from Maryland. We remember how Black Lives Matter didn’t just “trend.” It shaped our childhoods, our worldview, our rage and our resilience.

Even now, I watch as our schools are threatened, our stories erased, our funding slashed and our voices dismissed.

My heart aches for my beloved HBCU, Florida A&M University, where those in power are quick to take over what we’ve built.

So no, this isn’t just history. This is inheritance.

It’s a reminder that every day we still get up to stride towards the lives our ancestors fought for, the ones they’d never get to see. It’s our responsibility to honor them and continue upholding their legacies.

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Blue, pink and purple ones, just like the colors I carry in my brand now. It wasn’t intentional at the time, but it stayed with me.

As I got older, I started to love butterflies not just for how they looked but for what they represented. Back then, they marked a transformation in my life from a little kid to a big kid. Now, they symbolize transformation in my artistry as I learn how to grow, evolve and become better.

But the same butterflies that shaped my imagination as a child and now shape the visuals and storytelling behind my brand are disappearing right in front of us.

The monarch butterfly is officially endangered. Its population has dropped more than 90 percent in the past two decades. And yet, most people still don’t know. We see them as decoration, not as a signal. We forget they are pollinators. We forget they are necessary. We forget they are real.

That is why I named my first project Metamorphosis. It is my caterpillar season. The beginning. The potential. The part where change hasn’t fully taken form, but the need for it is clear. That season only works if the ecosystem supports it. If the world around it survives long enough to hold space for its growth.

And that is the part we all play in.

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I’ve spent the last few weeks reading through resources from conservation groups like Save Our Monarchs and the Xerces Society. I watched videos. I studied migration patterns. I learned that monarch butterflies travel thousands of miles every year, from forests in Mexico to fields in Canada and back again.

They remember the journey without ever being taught. It’s instinct. Legacy. But that legacy is now endangered—literally.

In 2022, the migratory monarch butterfly was officially declared endangered by the International Union for Conservation of Nature. According to their research, the population has dropped more than 90 percent in just the past two decades.

This is not a small shift. It’s an ecological emergency.

Butterflies are not just beautiful. They are pollinators, like bees. They help more than 75 percent of flowering plants reproduce. That includes many of the fruits and vegetables we eat, the wildflowers we admire and the ecosystems that keep our planet balanced.

But what makes their story even more urgent is the way monarch migration works.

The butterflies that leave Mexico in the spring are not the same ones that reach Canada. And the butterflies that reach Canada are not the ones that return. Monarchs only live about four to six weeks, so it takes several generations to complete the full journey.

Each new generation depends on one thing—milkweed.

Female monarchs lay their eggs exclusively on milkweed plants. It’s the only food their caterpillars can eat. Without milkweed, there is no reproduction. No growth. No next generation.

And yet, milkweed is being removed across the country. It’s often mistaken for a useless weed and cleared out of yards, farms and fields before it has a chance to support life.

Without milkweed, monarchs cannot survive. That is the reality.

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As someone who calls herself a storyteller, this hit me deeply. Butterflies have been present in my life since childhood. They’re part of my bedroom walls, my creative vision and my brand identity. But I never want to use their image without honoring their reality.

To me, they’ve always symbolized transformation—the quiet kind. The kind that takes patience and pressure and stillness. The kind that happens in the dark, when no one is watching.

That’s what Metamorphosis, my first project, represents. It’s the caterpillar phase of my artistry. The part where I’m still growing, still becoming, still working toward something bigger. And one day, I’ll reach that cocoon stage. The pause. The necessary in-between. The time where the most powerful parts of change begin to take form, even if no one else can see it yet.

But here’s the part that stays with me. Transformation can’t happen if the environment that supports it is being destroyed. Caterpillars cannot become butterflies if they don’t survive long enough to grow. If we ignore what’s happening to these creatures in real life, we lose more than a metaphor. We lose a piece of nature’s rhythm. A part of ourselves.

It would feel wrong to use butterflies in my visuals, my lyrics, and my rollout plans without also speaking up for the very real version of them that is vanishing.

It’s easy to fall in love with symbols. Harder to protect the source.

So what do we do with all of this?

We start small. Like the butterflies do.

Plant milkweed. Not just any kind—native milkweed, specific to where you live. That’s the only kind monarchs will recognize and lay their eggs on. You don’t need a full garden. A pot on your porch, a patch by the sidewalk, a few wildflowers in a sunny spot—that’s enough to begin.

Stop spraying pesticides and herbicides. They kill more than pests. They poison the plants butterflies rely on and disrupt the balance they’re already struggling to keep.

Reconsider what you call “weeds.” Some of the most important species for pollinators don’t fit into the landscaping trends we’re used to. But butterflies don’t need perfection. They need survival. They need milkweed. They need rest stops along their thousand-mile journey. They need us to stop making beauty the enemy of life.

Talk about it. Share what you’ve learned with someone who wouldn’t have known otherwise. Mention it to a neighbor. Post it on your story. Advocate in your local community. The more people understand what’s really happening, the harder it becomes to ignore.

If we want transformation—in our lives, in our art, in our future—we have to protect the conditions that make it possible.

I think a lot about what it means to change. To evolve. To grow into the version of yourself you were always meant to be.

But change doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in ecosystems. In conditions. In community. The same way a caterpillar becomes a butterfly only if the environment allows it to. Only if it has what it needs.

We are all in our own version of metamorphosis. We are all trying to become.

But if we don’t protect the world around us while we’re growing, what are we becoming for?

So this Earth Day, I’m choosing to care. I’m choosing to plant. I’m choosing to protect the muse.

Not just for me, but for the generations of wings that still deserve a chance to fly.

And I hope you will too.

With care,
Mycah

I thought the muses were the girls with all the glitz and glamour. The ones on the front of the magazines. The girl in the songs that all the rappers talked about.

Not the girl with her pen, a spiral notebook and a radio. Not the girl who struggled with the fear of perception.

But, when I wrote my fourth single, “How We Do,” it created a shift in me.

It’s crazy to think that the line which shaped my entire brand identity—and inspired the name of this Muse Letter you’re reading now—almost didn’t make the final cut. At the time, it was something that I wanted to say, but didn’t feel like I had earned yet.

“You see you’re the perfect muse.”

I remember recording one of the first demos of this track at my friend Lucid Luunar’s apartment in Tallahassee. When I got to that line in the song, I paused. It was a declaration that felt too bold for 20-year-old me, who felt like she didn’t have the track record to back it up. Too certain.

Lucid looked at me and said, “Nah, don’t overthink it. Say that.”

And I’m so glad I listened. Little did he know that moment created an internal shift in me, now accepting that even through my imperfections I could be the muse of my own story.

That one line gave life to this entire movement: the Muse Letter, my Muse Starter Kit, and truthfully, the version of me that you see today. Not the girl who was too shy to say what she wanted, so she wrote her thoughts in a notebook, but the one with a name, a vision and a voice.

I didn't find the muse, I became her... one lyric at a time.

But, that’s only one part of the story, because “How We Do” isn’t just about me.

It’s about the people in my inner circle. The muses who inspire me with their relentless ambition, simply by existing in their excellence.

My best friend Kelley was just accepted into her top doctoral programs this year and is well on her way to becoming a Ph.D. certified scientist. Next year, my homegirl Maya is graduating with her master’s degree in entomology. It always gave brains and beauty.

And my homeboy? He’ll have his law degree by the time he turns 22. If that’s not muse energy, then tell me what is.

In writing this song, I realized that I was always surrounded by muses. A generation of young Black visionaries, who are building, growing, studying and becoming icons in their own right.

So when I said, “You see you’re the perfect muse,” I meant exactly that.

For me. For them. For all the dreamers reading this right now.

We are the muses. Not because we’re flawless—but because we show up.

And now that I see the muse in me? I’ll never let her go.

Tell me: When did you realize you were the muse?

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Until next time…

Another Page in the Digital Diary.