EASE INTO THE MAGIC
New year, new outlook. A shelter in the storm. And a thank you to Mia Hines.
You’ll be able to tell soon enough that I’ve reworked this here newsletter of mine. But here’s the rundown: the niki newsletter is a free weekly-ish newsletter. With your support, I hope to grow a community here and offer more fiction writing, more branded content, audio experiences, playlists, etc. If you enjoy any piece of this as it evolves, share it on your social media, forward it to a friend, or even shoot me a note — I love to hear from y’all. As always, thank you for reading.
too deep for the intro:
(that one compulsive thought i’ve had in my mind all week that’s never short and sweet…)
Ngl, I’m still checked out a bit. Like, I’m in 2023 but not for real. We’re halfway through the first month of the year, and I’m still not sure what I’d like to be celebrating by the time we’re turning the page to 2024. Not fully at least. I guess that’s because my word for this year is “magic,” borrowed from Meghan Markle. The Visibly Black Woman mentioned in her and Prince Harry’s Netflix documentary, Harry and Meghan, that the year she met Princess Diana’s handsome son, she focused on enjoying the spoils of her successful career, relaxing, and having fun — and, at the urging of a friend, left a little “room for magic.”
I’ve adopted that mood rather quickly. More like, I’ve completely let it take over my brain. I’m painting the picture of this year with broad strokes, not caring much for the tiny details. Like, I know I want to travel more this year, but I’m open to wherever I end up and whatever experiences fall into my life. I’m committing to fun and letting life happen in between all the things. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a full-blown Type-A Taurus girlie, so I’ll never throw all plans and precautions to the wind. It’s just not in my nature to wander about aimlessly. And for manifesting purposes, I must call things in specifically.
But if my word for last year, “ease,” taught me anything, it’s that surrendering to what life is doing for you offers so much peace. In 2022, I wanted certain things too much. Oprah has told us to meet the vibration, but I was too eager, too wanting. Since I’m not not a person who gets what they want, I received a bunch of shit (and people) I actually didn’t need. So this year, I’m not holding on so tightly to what I want to happen — I simply want to enjoy the beautiful life I’m building, spoil myself a lot more, and allow space for what will be; for who and what is best for me.
And when the magic comes in, I’m sure I won’t miss it.
never again:
(things i’m letting go of…)
body party
Sex has a beautiful way of bringing you back to yourself, believe it or not. At the end of 2021, I started to explore my body in ways I never had before. I began to further my understanding of sex spiritually, play around with my previously semi-vanilla boundaries, and push the sweet, sweet limits of lust with a trusted friend. That was the first seed planted of what is now the fully bloomed love I have for my body.
The second? Surgery. An emergency open myomectomy, if you wanna get technical.
Back in June, I had roughly 13 fibroids (and counting). Pesky, incredibly fucked-up lil’ (or massive) tumors that take root in uterus-bearing persons. My amazing surgical team removed nine, but not without life-threatening complications that made secretly hating my body for decades seem petty as hell and, frankly, the dumbest shit ever.
Before the relief, I suffered in silence from all the symptoms. Excruciating periods, painful sex depending on the position, a rollercoaster of hormonal imbalances, aggressive mood swings, and a distended belly that looked like I was a few months pregnant. (Shoutout to those who noticed and didn’t make me feel like shit for it.)
Before the big incision, though, sex helped me deal with a lot of the mental darkness of feeling like my body was constantly fighting against me. On social media, I mostly hid my body from every shot for almost a full year before surgery, but my friend, though, was such a gentle but adventurous partner, reaffirmed me, and made me feel sexy. And that plus a traumatic surgical experience unlocked a newfound, honest-to-god confidence.
For the first time in my life, I don’t carry around that silent self-loathing and low self-esteem that used to burden me. For that, I have the deepest gratitude. My body could have given up on me and it didn’t. She may have needed a bit of assistance, but she endured and had herself some fun in the process. Who am I to groan when I go into the gym like she’s not good enough? What kind of ungrateful lil’ shit would I be if I were to cower in the presence of other women or envy what they look like over me? From now on my body only gets princess treatment — the love and praise she deserves.
Some might argue that my collection of shapewear directly contradicts my admiration for my love handles and thick thighs. But I’m sorry, if the doll wants to look snatched in a dress, so she shall. I could also use some mo’ ass that the ancestors forgot to pass down to ya girl, but overall, hating or feeling self-conscious about my body is dead. Haven’t seen a mirror I don’t like since, and I wouldn’t trade bodies with nobody.
My new motto? Thank God for great sexplay and surgery.
sound and color:
(the songs playing in my mind this week…)
read my mind:
(a snippet of a story i’m working on, or the full story, or a poem. pretty much what’s rattling around in my head…)
“storms”
“That’s an incredible sauce. What are you making, beautiful?”
It wasn’t rare for a creep to pull up on me on the street or while I popped into the corner store, but I thought I was safe from unwelcomed pickup lines in the brightly lit condiments aisle of Trader Joe’s. The last thing I wanted was to entertain some fool over my dinner selection, so I swung around to give him every ounce of time I had left from this shitty week. Instead, there he stood, not a random stranger — but my husband.
“Ty, what are you…” I started.
But before I could get my words out, he interrupted my wrath with more about the green bottle in my hand.
“I’ve tried it before with roasted chicken but it’d probably go great with lamb. Like that Hot Ones show,” he smiled. “You ever seen it?”
He knew I’d seen it. It’s one of the things we bonded over instantly when I met him. We’ve probably rewatched every episode twice. At least.
“You know I’ve seen it,” I said, still confused about what was happening. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, I know this is kind of forward, but I’d love to invite you to my store after hours and try this at-home kit Hot Ones created. “I’ll take care of everything. My spot’s industrial with these huge floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s gorgeous during the sunset…”
He was talking with his hands now, using them in tandem with his imagination to set the scene. This is why I loved him. He was expressive. He drew you into his world with his words. His hands. He was warm and invited any person he was talking to into his word. His mind. If only for a little while. For some, it was intense. But for me, it was never too much. He was always a place I could run to.
“I…”
My words got caught and stacked in the back of my throat. He was doing it again: Being completely wonderful when I needed him most. Through what started as a smile, I began sobbing. Ridiculously so. He put his empty basket down — a prop for this little stunt I’m certain — and held me tight.
Before he walked up, my black shades were doing the Lord’s work to shield my teary eyes from the world. But here I was crying in the club — well, TJ’s.
I called him twenty minutes ago from the car venting about the shitty situation my father was in. The lightning was cracking through the sky and rain pitter-pattered against my windows as I detailed what would become our new life as newlyweds: My dad would move into our spare bedroom, insurance would cover round-the-clock care, and we’d have to sort out a schedule for school pickups, work travel, and date nights. I was undone, but he knew I wouldn’t ask for a hug and just soldier up til I got home.
Instead, true to his nature, he rushed the 10 minutes from our house to swoop in so I could fall apart safely.
“It’s OK. I got you.”
thank you:
(a salute to the people and characters who get me…)
thank you, mia hines!
At this point, HBO is goated. Yes, even despite the bullshit merger. We can reach back to all the classics like The Wire or The Sopranos, dive into Euphoria, which has our adult asses in a chokehold, and happily hate-watch And Just Like That. (But seriously, Carrie's wardrobe and home decor are still to-die-for luxury.)
With all the God-level programming, though, the show that flew a little further under the radar but had the biggest impact on me was Love Life. I was fashionably late to this show. It kept bubbling up on my timeline, so right around Thanksgiving of 2021, I figured I'd check it out — not knowing that Mia Fuckin' Hines would unearth some of the trauma I’d been too pussy to touch in therapy. Ya know, all those lovely things you wrestle with but are too shook to name because it makes the monsters real: seeking validation from men, parental wounds, and good ol’ self-sabotage.
Played by Jessica Williams, Mia Hines is and forever will be my president for being the closest thing to an identical representation of me (emotionally) on screen. She isn’t an auntie like Gabrielle Union’s Mary Jane or some quiet pick-me. She is a smart, slick-mouthed, confident force of nature. She can dish it out and take it, and still be anchored in her softness (after going to see the lady, lol). She doesn’t have her shit together but love finds her; meets her where she’s flawed. That episode, her episode, where her cool nature finally cracks, leaving her vulnerable and raw; where the connection between her relationship with her parents and struggles with Will are finally exposed. Awards, OK. She deserves AWARDS, especially for how her performance finally opened me up, too.
my obsessions this week:
I only want to smell like Amouage Honour Woman for the rest of my life. Ok, that’s extreme. But it’s my scent of the season. That and NEST New York Madagascar Vanilla. Bury me in either.
I’m shook that I wasn’t invested in Yellowstone sooner. Can’t believe I wasted precious hours watching The Best Man: The Final Chapters when I could’ve been eating up every sharp, witty clapback by my new favorite, delightfully unhinged gal, Beth. I’m late to the barn party. But I’m fully tapped into this new yeehaw agenda now — not to be confused with Solange’s 2019 movement. Branded and all.
Some of the perks of being an entertainment and culture writer are that I get to watch things early. This time Poker Face, starring the scarily talented Natasha Lyonne, slid into my inbox and it took me less than a second to press play. I can’t say much because official reviews are embargoed. I will say, however, that you won’t want to skip this one. Familiar faces. Household names. Twisty murder plots. Good, good laughs.
the shit that really matters:
(a highlight of important stories, events, and subjects i’ve come across…)
Thank you for your vulnerability Nicole! I was so excited to see you writing here again. Favorite section was Body Party! Also shout out to the black girls being loved and loved well. The added bonus: finding affirming and compassionate partners to stand by us through the health and wellness journey as we come back home to ourselves.
❤️❤️❤️ always love getting to experience that pen of yours!