34: Metamorphosis Is Not a Destination

A birthday testimony by ThatGalStorme

Life will try to kick your ass, don’t it?

Happy Solar Return to MEEEEEEE!!! 🥳🦋

This blog is a little long, so pull up a seat, light your blunt, and grab your favorite munchie snack.

To my family and friends: I apologize in advance if anything I say offends you. These are my experiences, told from my perspective. Some of this shit ain’t pretty. Some of it you may remember differently. Some of it you may not agree with.

Oh fucking well. 😂

Should’ve been better fucking human beings.

Nah, seriously. It’s all love, because I love God, and I can genuinely appreciate everyone who played some type of role in shaping this badass on a mission for equity.

But healing requires honesty.

And sometimes the first step toward healing is simply acknowledging:

Some shit happened.

So here is my truth.

At 34, I’m laying it all down so that for the rest of my life I can feel lighter, love harder, create freely, and enjoy everything God has for my family and me.

And baby…

Life sholllll tried to take me up through there.

Growth Will Take You Up Through There

Boy, this year hits different.

Growth has been the word of the entire year.

Idk if it’s because I work in psychology, because I’m gearing up for yet another career shift, or because I’m finally old enough to look backward and recognize patterns I couldn’t see while I was living through them.

All I know is growth is uncomfy.

It will take you up through there, actually.

I truly believe our stories are bigger than what we can see while we’re living them. Despite the unbelief of some, I have personally experienced the love of God and what I believe to be His miracles.

There are moments in my life where I can look back and say:

Nobody but God.

But before I could understand any of that, I had to live some shit.

My innocence was taken from me when I was four years old.

Talk about a veil being lifted.

Innocence—just gone.

I did my best to remain in childhood, but something had shifted. I became aware of things a child should not have had to understand yet.

I won’t make that experience the centerpiece of my identity.

But I also won’t pretend it didn’t shape me.

That was one of the first times life placed me on a road where I would eventually have to choose whether I was going to simply survive what happened to me…

or overcome it.

Thankfully, while life was introducing me to some very grown shit, God also gave me Poppy.

Poppy Saw My Brain Before Everybody Else Saw My Behavior

My Poppy—my grandmother’s husband—saw the brain I had been blessed with.

That man taught me how to read.

Write.

Do arithmetic.

Play chess.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he was cultivating.

Now?

BITCH, I’M A BEAST IN REAL LIFE. 😂

Nah, for real.

Poppy equipped me with skills no man can fuck with.

The problem was that I had all this horsepower and absolutely no idea how to drive the damn car.

I was smart.

Curious.

Intense.

Opinionated.

Questioning everything.

And I had all this power with very little control over it.

That got me in a LOT of trouble.

I remember sitting in Mrs. Thomas’s fourth-grade class and deciding:

Ima be a real-ass bitch.

My Aunty always said, “Keep it really real,” and little Symone decided THAT was going to become a core value.

😂

I was also tired of getting bullied.

Kids would talk shit but wouldn’t hit me first because everybody knew if I hit first, I would be the one getting in trouble.

Do you know how frustrating that was?!

Meanwhile, other kids were worried about clothes and whatever else, and I’m somewhere mentally trying to figure out the next big solution for world peace.

I knew my brain was different.

I just didn’t have the language for it yet.

Poppy did.

Maybe not the clinical language I have today, but he understood there was more going on inside of me than:

This child doesn’t behave.

When the rest of the world made me feel like something was wrong with me, Poppy made me feel like there was something worth cultivating.

My First Bully and My First Best Friend

My sister, Iyonna, and I were twelve and a half years apart.

That age difference mattered to everybody except me.

That was my SISTER.

Period.

I wanted what I saw other siblings have.

But she was already navigating grown-woman shit while I was still a little girl trying to understand the world.

I watched her go through situations that shaped a lot of my ideas about what I wanted—and didn’t want—for my own life.

And unfortunately, I also considered my sister my first bully.

Whew. 😭

I loved that girl down.

But she could be MEAN.

And our family dynamics did not make that shit any easier.

I remember one of the first moments where I felt our relationship shift.

I was in first grade.

Around that time, my daddy had adopted me after my biological father relinquished his parental rights.

And let me pause right there.

MY DADDY?

The love of my life.

My mama did GOOD with that one.

But again, little Symone was processing some very grown circumstances while simultaneously struggling behaviorally at school.

My teachers had this reinforcement system.

If you were good, you got to take home a disposable camera and stuffed animal in a little gift bag for the weekend.

BABY.

I wanted that damn bag. 😂

I would literally ask my teacher:

“Am I being good?”

Then one week…

I FINALLY MADE IT.

Now, I used to hang out with my sister at our cousin’s beauty salon in Riverdale.

And let me tell you something about my sister:

This woman handed two or three teenage girls their asses because they thought they were about to jump her.

She handled them heffas, dusted off her apron, and went right back to her client at the shampoo bowl.

THAT was Iyonna. 😭

Anyway.

One day at the shop, my sister bent over.

Full moon spread.

First-grade Symone had a disposable camera.

You already know where this is going.

CLICK.

I thought that shit was hilarious.

She did not.

And now, as an adult?

Okay, girl.

Fair. 😂

But she cussed me out so badly that my little feelings were HURT.

I remember asking her not to be mean to me.

She brushed me off.

That interaction hardened something in me.

From there, it seemed like we just couldn’t get right.

Everybody Had a Narrative

I was the younger one.

The one with behavior problems.

The one who talked back.

The one who questioned everything.

The one who didn’t know when to shut the hell up.

And when people don’t understand what’s happening internally, they often build narratives around what they can see externally.

Poppy remained my safe place.

Going to Grammy and Poppy’s house felt like escaping reality.

When the noise became too much, I could retreat to his den.

He saw more in me than the behaviors everybody else was reacting to.

Then my sister had children.

I was SO excited.

I wanted a sibling so badly that becoming an aunty felt almost like finally getting one.

And because I was still a kid myself, I did dumb sibling-type shit.

Like telling my nephew that white dog poop was a powdered doughnut.

😭😭😭

He didn’t eat it!

He did touch it, though.

My bad, Kishon.

Or I’d loosen his diaper so it would fall off while he walked and Grammy would have a conniption.

Little-kid shit.

I wasn’t trying to hurt that baby.

But some adults interpreted my behavior differently.

And those narratives created an even deeper wedge between my sister and me because now her mama-bear instincts were involved.

Again:

Two things can be true.

I know what my intentions were.

And I can understand why a mother might have interpreted certain things differently.

Look at me growing. 😂

Then I Lost My Safe Place

One day, my mother sat me on her bed and tried to help me process that Grammy and Poppy were getting divorced.

I lost it.

It felt like life itself was being taken away from me.

Because in my mind, divorce meant I was going to lose Poppy.

And in a way, I did.

For a couple of years, our communication became less and less.

Then cancer entered the chat.

Fuck cancer.

I was around thirteen when I learned Poppy was sick.

By then, my relationship with my sister was already complicated, but none of that compared to what was happening inside of me.

I remember driving more than an hour to Acworth to see him.

When I walked into that room, I immediately knew he wasn’t the same Poppy I remembered.

That shattered me.

The tears just flowed.

Here was the human being who knew me, loved me unconditionally and cultivated my brain instead of condemning it.

And I could feel that I was losing him.

At thirteen.

Poppy and I took our last picture together that day.

I was wearing my nephew’s Michael Vick Falcons jersey.

That damn jersey ended up causing another war between my sister and me because she felt like I stole it.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to process watching the person who felt safest to me dying.

But grief doesn’t stop everybody else’s shit from happening.

Everything compounded.

The misunderstandings.

The family dynamics.

The anger.

The feeling that nobody understood me.

Then Poppy died in 2006.

And my world came crashing the fuck down.

December 27, 2006

I lost my damn mind.

My behavior became so severe that my mother eventually sent me to boarding school.

I was fourteen.

December 27, 2006.

“Pop, Lock & Drop It” had just come out and was playing on 106 & Park.

Yes.

THAT long ago. 😂

Shout out to Teen Challenge and Columbus Girls Academy.

Mr. Bob.

Mrs. Karla.

Mrs. Sarah.

Mrs. Rebecca.

Mrs. Alford.

THANK YOUUUUUUUUUUUU.

Whew, baby.

WHEW.

Twenty months of what felt like pure hell ultimately helped me graduate high school a year early and begin developing something I desperately needed:

A sound mind.

And something beautiful happened while I was away.

My sister and I started healing.

She wrote me letters.

Real handwritten letters.

I still have them.

I still read them when I need a push.

I keep her letters close, along with my grandmother’s.

Because despite everything that happened between us, I never stopped loving my sister.

All I Wanted Was a Niece 😭

Eventually, Iyonna wanted a baby girl.

And BABYYYYYY, I wanted a niece SO BAD.

No offense to my nephew-sons, but damn.

I wanted tea parties. 😭

I remember my sister texting me that she was feeling flutters.

For whatever reason, my highly scientific conclusion was that she was having a girl because she was wearing a yellow shirt.

WTF, Symone.

😂

But guess what?

Mama, Yonnie and I went to Stockbridge to find out the sex.

The sonographer started typing a “B,” and my sister was about ready to cuss because she thought that woman was about to type “Boy.”

Then the rest appeared:

Baby Girl.

BABYYYYYYY!

WE LOST IT.

That was my sister.

That was us.

We could fight like hell and still have moments of pure joy together.

The Savage Years

Young adulthood had its own chapters.

There was a period when I identified as a lesbian.

There was a period when I danced.

I worked at Phase One and some straight clubs too.

And one situation became dangerous enough that I nearly found myself trapped in something much darker than what I thought I had signed up for. Sex Trafficking.

My biological father stepped up during that period and made sure my mother and I were heavily protected after I got out.

No more stripper girl for me. 😂

I still go to strip clubs for entertainment, though.

And one of my dreams is still to help as many dancers as possible leave that life if they want to.

Because a lot of us were just trying to get some money, stack it and build something better.

I’m grateful I got out.

But adulthood didn’t magically fix Iyonna and me.

We still argued.

BAD.

At one point, my God mom Stephanie stepped in after one of our fights and gave me words that became a mantra:

Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck this.

😭

Sometimes that mentality saved me.

Sometimes it probably needed a little regulation.

Again…

Balance. 😂

My sister and I even got into a fistfight once.

I had said:

“Next time I see my sister, it’s on sight.”

Unfortunately, the timing was fucked up.

My mama was already getting in my ass when I got home, and Iyonna happened to be there.

I cocked back and landed the only punch I managed to get in.

After that?

Iyonna turned me every which way but loose.

😂

That was us.

Intense love.

Intense conflict.

Not nearly enough healthy communication.

Londyn vs. Londyn — The Dumbest War Ever

One of the biggest blowups between my sister and me started over something so ridiculous that looking back, it’s almost funny.

Almost.

I was seeing a woman who had a dog named Londyn—the exact same spelling as my niece’s name.

One day we were joking around and I posted the dog on Instagram like:

“Meet my new dog, Londyn.”

The joke made sense in the Instagram conversation.

Except those comments didn’t transfer when the post landed on Facebook.

An aunt saw it without context.

She thought I had actually gotten a dog and intentionally named it after my niece.

I tried to explain.

Didn’t matter.

My sister eventually saw it.

And ahhhhh hell.

Social media court was officially in session.

My friends tried explaining the misunderstanding.

That made everything worse.

Eventually, my sister said if I had something to say I could call her.

So I did.

Unfortunately, the children were in the car.

I tried to end the conversation because they didn’t need to hear us going at each other.

But we kept going.

Words became weapons.

My sister knew exactly where my deepest wounds were.

And I knew how to go to hell when somebody went low.

Eventually I said:

“Fuck all y’all.”

And hung up.

My sister and I didn’t speak for about two years.

Then Cancer Came Back Into My Life

Around 2014, I reached out trying to reconcile.

My sister told me to leave her alone.

So I did.

I respected her boundary and continued with my life.

Then my mother told me Iyonna might have cancer.

Cancer.

Again.

The last time I had dealt with that word, I lost Poppy.

I didn’t want to believe it.

But I prayed.

My mother desperately wanted us to reconcile.

At first, I said no.

Iyonna had told me she didn’t want a relationship, and I was trying to respect that.

Then she had surgery.

And guess who she asked for?

Muah.

The sister.

And baby, I SHOWED UP.

It felt like our relationship mended overnight.

I would go to the hospital whenever her husband needed a break or whenever I simply wanted girl time with my baby.

One day I was putting lotion on her back and she said something like:

“Look at my sister putting lotion on my back like I used to do when she was a baby. Now I’m the baby.”

I told her:

“Shut up. I’m still the baby sister, and you still gotta protect me.”

For a while…

We were good.

Until we weren’t.

The Words I Can Never Take Back

About a year before she passed, my sister, her husband and I were together in the hospital.

At that point I was a baby Christian.

Not religious.

I was developing a relationship with God.

And I was still learning.

Still questioning.

Still trying to understand scripture, history and how the hell all of it fit together.

The conversation turned toward why I had returned to Christianity.

I explained it in the raw way I understood it at the time.

I got some things wrong.

The conversation became disrespectful.

I felt laughed at.

I felt stupid.

I felt like my sister was siding against me again.

And I cried.

Then something in me switched.

I fought back with words.

And here’s something I’ve learned about myself:

I was never particularly good at roasting or talking shit because when people went low…

I went to hell.

That day was no different.

Eventually my sister told me to get the fuck out of her hospital room.

And I said something I would carry with me for the rest of her life.

“Fine. I’ll see you at your funeral.”

I didn’t wish death on my sister.

But those words were cruel.

They broke everybody in that room.

Including me.

I left.

And for a long time, I didn’t look back.

Until My Spirit Wouldn’t Let Me Look Away

March 5, 2017.

3:05 a.m.

I woke up and sat on the side of my bed.

I knew something.

I couldn’t explain it.

I felt like this would be my sister’s last birthday.

And suddenly I was desperately trying to figure out how to fix everything before it was too late.

For months I struggled mentally because I felt something coming.

I just didn’t know when.

Then the Friday before she passed, I felt a strong push in my spirit to make a peace offering.

I didn’t want to visit.

I didn’t want the final visual memory I carried of my sister to be of her dying in a hospital.

So I brought something for the nurse to give her.

My favorite purple blanket.

The blanket NOBODY was allowed to use.

I gave it to her.

I brought Froot Loops even though I knew she couldn’t eat them.

It wasn’t about eating them.

Froot Loops meant something to us.

And I wrote my sister a handwritten letter telling her how much I loved her and how grateful I was that God gave me her as my big sister.

I cried so hard writing it.

Something in me knew:

This was it.

That Monday morning, my sister died.

My mother and her husband were with her.

I was driving back from Savannah on I-75 North, passing Exit 228 on my way to work, when I got the call.

My sister died on a Monday.

I was born on a Monday.

We both had eight as our life-path number.

You don’t have to believe what I believe.

But I don’t believe in coincidences.

Iyonna

I loved me some Iyonna Minrell.

I hated how disconnected we could become in communication.

I hated the time we lost.

I hate that hurt sometimes spoke louder than love.

But make no mistake:

You better not fuck with me.

Because my sister was coming HARD AND HEAVY behind me.

Even when we weren’t speaking.

Even when we were fighting.

Even now, in spirit, I feel that protection.

And to my nephews—Kishon, Kamren, TJ and Ryan:

I love y’all.

I was young too.

I was navigating my own shit, and unfortunately some of that stole precious time from relationships I wish had been different.

I understand why you ride for your mama.

You’re supposed to.

I pray that as life continues, there is room for healing wherever healing is supposed to happen.

And shout out to Kishon for being somebody’s HUSBANNNNNDDD.

Now I got TWO nieces. 😭😂

God rest your soul, sissy.

I need you.

I miss you.

I look forward to our heavenly reunion.

And maybe that brings me to one of the biggest questions people ask me:

Why do you believe in Jesus?

There are a lot of reasons.

But one is incredibly simple.

The people I love who left this earth?

I want to see them again.

That is a promise I hold near and dear.

So I walk this Christian walk as best I can—in spite of calamity, questions, mistakes and some really fucked-up religious thinking.

Because through everything I have experienced, one truth keeps meeting me:

God is gracious.

Remember that.

And That Brings Me to 34

After writing all of that shit out, I realized something.

I wasn’t just telling y’all what happened to me.

I was looking at every version of myself that had to exist for this version of me to be sitting here writing this today.

The little girl.

The bullied girl.

The brilliant girl nobody quite knew what to do with.

The grieving girl.

The angry girl.

The boarding-school girl.

The dancer.

The sister.

The estranged sister.

The reconciled sister.

The grieving sister again.

The mother.

The wife.

The clinician.

The advocate.

The Christian who still asks questions.

All of her.

And baby…

That’s metamorphosis.

Metamorphosis Is Not a Destination

The craziest part about writing who I am at 34 is knowing this version of me isn’t permanent either.

I am still changing.

I used to think metamorphosis was this grand, one-time transformation.

You go through some shit.

Learn the lesson.

Emerge as the butterfly.

Boom.

You’ve arrived.

Baby, please. 😂

I can count at least five times in my life when everything I thought I knew was disrupted and I had to submit to the order of life.

And every time there was a choice somewhere in it:

Is this going to make me bitter or better?

Life sholllll tried to kick my ass.

But when I look backward, my testimony isn’t that I was strong enough to overcome everything thrown at me.

My testimony is that God kept me through it.

There were versions of me that didn’t know how we were going to make it to the next version.

There were things I prayed to be delivered from that God instead gave me grace to walk through.

There were situations I thought were destroying me that were actually changing me.

Some prayers were answered exactly how I wanted.

Some weren’t.

Some answers didn’t even look like answers until years later.

Yet here I am.

That’s the testimony.

Balance Over Perfection

If one word describes this season of my life, it is:

Balance.

Not perfection.

Not having all the answers.

Not being right all the time.

Balance.

I have learned that two things can be true at once.

Sometimes we need equality.

Sometimes we need equity.

Facts matter.

Humanity does too.

Boundaries can coexist with compassion.

Accountability and grace don’t have to be enemies.

And maybe most importantly:

My mind is allowed to change.

New information can change my perspective.

New experiences can challenge what I thought I knew.

Growth sometimes requires admitting:

Damn. I didn’t see that correctly before.

That isn’t weakness to me.

That is metamorphosis.

I don’t believe God requires me to stop thinking in order to have faith.

If anything, my relationship with Him has taught me to seek wisdom harder.

Pray and pay attention.

Have faith and look at the facts.

Use discernment and common sense.

Trust God and do the work sitting in front of you.

That’s balance.

For me?

That’s freedom.

The Natural and the Supernatural

In the natural world, parts of my story probably look crazy, stupid or downright ridiculous.

I have carried diagnoses and labels from childhood into adulthood.

I have had behaviors, reactions and ways of processing the world that don’t always make sense from the outside looking in.

I have idiosyncrasies.

So do you.

Everybody does.

Some people have just learned to mask theirs better than others.

For a long time, I thought thriving meant learning how to appear “normal.”

I am no longer interested in that.

I am interested in understanding myself well enough to function, generalize, grow and thrive without abandoning who God created me to be.

There is freedom in unmasking.

But freedom does not mean living without order.

That’s where balance comes in again.

I am learning how to take what I understand in the natural:

Facts.

Behavior.

Consequences.

Patterns.

Psychology.

Evidence.

Experience.

And balance it with what I know in the supernatural:

Faith.

Grace.

Discernment.

The Holy Spirit.

There are things I cannot quantify but have experienced too deeply to deny.

I have watched things align that I could not have orchestrated myself.

I have watched closed doors redirect me.

I have watched painful endings become beginnings.

I have watched things I once cried about become part of the testimony I thank God for today.

So yes.

I believe in evidence.

And yes.

I believe in God.

Those things do not fight each other in my world.

I am learning harmony between the two.

Looking Back, I See God

At 34, I can look backward and see how experiences that seemed completely unrelated were building something.

Some taught me advocacy.

Some taught me to separate facts from feelings.

Some taught me behavior.

Some taught me motherhood.

Some taught me marriage.

Some taught me boundaries.

Some taught me what happens when I don’t have boundaries.

Some taught me how badly I wanted to be understood.

Others taught me that being misunderstood will not kill me.

WHEW.

THAT ONE RIGHT THERE. 😭

There were moments I thought were detours that I can now recognize as preparation.

That is one of the beautiful things about getting older.

Sometimes you finally have enough distance from something to look backward and say:

Ohhhhhhh.

Okay, God.

I see what You were doing there.

But hear me clearly:

Not everything that happened to me was good.

I don’t need to call pain good to acknowledge that God brought something out of it.

That distinction matters to me.

There were things that could have hardened me.

Things that embarrassed me.

Things that broke my heart.

Things I wish had happened differently.

Choices I would absolutely make differently today.

But God didn’t waste them.

Every version of me contributed something to the woman writing this today.

Even the versions I don’t particularly like.

Especially those versions.

Growth does not require pretending my past self never existed.

I can love her.

I can forgive her.

I can learn from her.

I can thank God for keeping her.

And I can still decide:

Girl, you don’t get to run today’s show.

😂

I Go Where the Love Is

Someone recently said something to me that hit deep:

“You weren’t nurtured the way you needed.”

Whew.

So now?

I go where the love is.

Where I am celebrated.

Not merely tolerated.

Shout out to my husband.

That man was made just for me.

Love is a beautiful thing.

And love wins.

To the people who truly know me, love me and have taken the time to understand me:

Thank you.

To the people who didn’t require me to perform perfection before extending love:

Thank you.

To the people who corrected me without condemning me:

Thank you.

To the people who gave me room to process, learn, fuck up, apologize, recalibrate and try again:

Thank you.

To the people who prayed for me when I didn’t even know I needed prayer:

Thank you.

And even to the people and experiences that challenged the absolute hell out of me:

Thank you too.

Some of those experiences became catalysts.

Necessary doesn’t always mean pleasant.

Sometimes the blessing wasn’t what stayed.

Sometimes the blessing was what leaving taught me.

Sometimes the blessing was the boundary I learned to create afterward.

And sometimes the blessing was simply discovering:

Damn. I survived that too.

We all go through shit that shapes us.

I pray you were shaped for the better.

I surely was.

And if you haven’t healed yet?

Be gentle with yourself while you do.

Fuck people.

Fuck the noise.

Love yourself the way you need.

Unapologetically.

My Relationship With God Does Not Look Like Religion

Above everything else:

Thank You, God.

My testimony would be incomplete without making that clear.

I am not talking about religious performance.

I am not talking about checking boxes.

I am not talking about pretending I am perfect enough to earn proximity to God.

I am talking about relationship.

A real one.

One where I have questioned.

One where I have cried.

One where I have been confused.

One where I have been angry.

One where I have gotten things wrong.

One where I have had to surrender my own understanding.

And somehow…

Grace kept meeting me there.

Thank You for the Son You gave.

Thank You for the Holy Spirit You left.

Thank You for grace that I can actually apply to my life.

Thank You for allowing me to discover what freedom in You feels like.

I am learning to rest more in the finished work instead of living like I have to earn something God already gave freely.

That changed me.

And even that understanding is still evolving.

Because apparently God isn’t finished with me either.

😂

34

So no.

I have not arrived.

I am not presenting 34-year-old Symone as the final version.

Please. 😂

She might read this at 40 and say:

Girl, you still didn’t know shit.

And I hope she does.

Because that will mean I kept growing.

At 34, I am seeking harmony.

I am learning when to fight and when to surrender.

I am learning when my feelings deserve space and when facts need to take the wheel.

I am learning when to speak and when to shut the hell up—which, if you know me, is a testimony all by itself. 😭

I am learning that peace does not require everybody to understand me.

I am learning that changing my mind does not mean I never had conviction.

I am learning that becoming better does not require hating who I used to be.

I am learning that faith does not require abandoning reason.

I am learning that grace is not permission to remain stagnant.

And I am learning that metamorphosis is not a destination.

It is part of the trip.

Maybe nirvana is not some magical point where everything finally makes sense.

Maybe, for me, it is harmony.

The natural and the supernatural.

Faith and facts.

Grace and accountability.

Strength and surrender.

Who I was.

Who I am.

And whoever God is still shaping me to become.

I don’t know everything.

Ask me again at 40.

My mind is allowed to change. 🤸🏽

But today?

I am 34.

I am here.

I am still becoming.

After everything life has thrown my way, I can look backward and see evidence that I was never walking through any of it alone.

Life tried to kick my ass a few times.

And yeah…

I grabbed that shit by the lapels.

But God?

God kept His hands on me the whole time.

That is my testimony.

Tomorrow, I will wake up and choose again.

Bitter or better?

Better.

Not because life has always been good.

But because God has been good to me through it all.

And now that I have laid some of this weight down, I am ready to get back to creating.

I still have a song sitting in the vault trying to get out.

Ohhhhhhh, Brandin Jay and Mrs. Natarshaaaaaaa…

👀😂

Happy 34th birthday to me.

Metamorphosis continues. 🦋

— ThatGalStorme