The Whole Damn Show

They told me,
“Contain yourself.”
As if my joy were a rogue balloon,
floating too high for their comfort.
But I was never meant to sit still,
folded like a napkin on someone else’s table.

I cackled anyway.
Threw my head back
like my crown belonged in the stars.
And guess what?
It did.

And we laugh—
not politely, but from the womb.
From the soles of our feet
to the galaxies in our gut.
We laugh, our chakras rise,
and ancestors joyfully toast to life
like they’ve been waiting for this moment
since the first drumbeat kissed the earth.

My joy is not a negotiation.
It’s a ritual.
A liberation.
A seasoning passed down
from hands that knew struggle
but chose dance anyway.

You say,
“You’re too much.”
I say,
“You haven’t met enough of me yet.”

I’m the tambourine in your meditation,
the jiggle in your stillness,
the divine fool who knows
God has a belly laugh
and a soft spot for women who love themselves
out loud.

I’m not here to whisper my worth.
I am a full-bodied, shoulder-shaking,
hallelujah of a woman.

And when I enter the room—
grace-first, hips next—
the air shifts,
not because I demand it,
but because joy this real
can’t go unnoticed.

So if you feel me laughing,
don’t hush me—
rise with me.

The world doesn’t need more quiet women
pretending to be fine.
It needs more of us
giggling with the ancestors,
twerking with our truths,
and sipping tea with our shadows.

I am the whole damn show.
And sweetheart,
this laugh is the standing ovation—

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