Chapter 13: "The Mic Drops… But I'm Still Talking"
When the invitation arrived, I almost didn't believe it.
An email from the Sisterhood Rising Empowerment Summit , asking if I'd be interested in speaking on a panel about body positivity and cultural pride.
Me?
Onstage?
In front of hundreds of people?
I stared at the screen like it had asked me to walk on water.
But then I remembered the emails.
The poems.
The stories.
The laughter in Grandma's backyard.
And I knew.
I couldn't say no.
So I practiced.
I wrote.
I rewrote.
I stood in front of the mirror and spoke aloud until my voice stopped shaking.
On the day of the event, I wore my favorite black lace-trimmed granny panties — the ones I wore when I needed to feel brave.
I paired them with a silk dress that shimmered like confidence.
As I walked onto the stage, the lights were blinding at first. Then I saw the crowd — hundreds of faces, many smiling, some familiar, all waiting to hear what I had to say.
I took a deep breath.
And I began.
I told them my story.
From the breakups.
To the betrayal.
To the moment I almost burned my panties in a fit of shame.
I told them about the commercial that changed everything.
About the blog that gave me purpose.
About the party that reminded me of home.
And I told them this:
"Loving yourself isn't about perfection. It's about showing up — even when you're scared. Even when the world laughs. Especially when the world tries to tell you who you should be."
The room erupted in applause.
Some people cheered.
Some cried.
All of them listened.
And when I walked offstage, I didn't feel nervous anymore.
I felt free.
Because I had done it.
I had turned my pain into power.
My shame into strength.
And I hadn't done it alone.
I had done it for all the girls still hiding their cotton.
For the women still apologizing for who they are.
For the dreamers still waiting to be seen.
And I wasn't done yet.
Because the mic may have dropped…
…but I was still talking.