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“Girl, guess what?!” My friend texts me. It is the day after Christmas and despite it being my favorite holiday, I was not feeling well at all. On top of being a bit sick, I was dealing with the same grief I have felt for the past five Christmas holidays without my grandma. Not to mention, I tried making my Auntie’s mac and cheese recipe the night before and it came out horribly.

Home alone, feigning for some sort of good feeling, I replied immediately, “whattttt?”

“I might have an opportunity, girl! I submitted myself for this commercial audition and I was selected to submit a self-tape.”

My friend is absolutely gorgeous. After expressing to me that they wanted to get more into beauty or hair content, I encouraged them to put themselves out there. We would joke about me managing their possible content career and they had been searching for their thing, and this could be such a great entry way to that.

“OMGGGGGG yessssss!!!! What’s the commercial for?” I said. I could already see them perfectly on a natural hair care commercial or beauty campaign.

“Yeah, about that, lol. Call me back when you get a chance.” They replied.

Why do they want to say it over the phone and not through text? It must be porn or even better… CÉCRED?

In my mind, we are one self-tape away from meeting Beyoncé. Not sure why my mind went there, but like I said, I needed to feel something good. They laugh and say no to both possibilities. Either way, I was ready to help them get any and every angle for that self-tape.

Of course, it takes hours for us to find time to talk on the phone and when I saw their final call coming in, I immediately answered with excitement. I do not say “Hello, how are you”, or anything a normal person should say when answering the phone.

“What is this opportunity?!” I say, almost yelling. With slight hesitancy and softness in their voice they say, “I am submitting a video for a project featuring people living with HIV.”

“Oh? Okay!” I say in a tone somewhere between shock and as if they said something casual.

It was then that I realized this conversation would be about something much more important than an audition tape. I did not take it lightly that my friend decided to disclose their HIV diagnosis with me, and I instantly understood the importance of approaching the conversation over the phone as opposed to text.

An HIV diagnosis holds so much more than just a medical reality; there is a social one. Although there have been amazing advances in treatment that have changed what it means to live with HIV, stigma continues to shape what it means to talk about it.

These advances have made it possible for people who are diagnosed early and take HIV medication consistently to suppress the virus and live long, healthy lives. Before that conversation, I didn’t know that people living with HIV who take their medication consistently can reduce the virus in their bodies to levels so low that they cannot sexually transmit HIV. This is known as having an undetectable viral load, a breakthrough called Undetectable = Untransmittable, or U=U. (CDC, 2025; Prevention Access Campaign, n.d.). Learning that challenged many of the assumptions I’d unknowingly carried about what it means to live with HIV.

The reality is that HIV is a manageable chronic condition, period. (CDC, 2025). When my friend later shared that they were undetectable, I couldn’t help but hope they weren’t telling me because they thought it would soften the weight of their diagnosis in my eyes. It didn’t. Whether they were undetectable or not never changed how I saw them.

It did, however, transform how I understood the lives of people living with HIV. I realized that stigma is not solely found in ignorance. Sometimes it exists internally long before you tell someone. It lives in wondering whether family or friends will see you differently once you tell them. It lives in rehearsing the conversation before you have it. It lives in the quiet hope that a medical fact, like being undetectable, might make your story easier for someone else to receive.

We concluded our conversation how we always do, with laughs and banter that always leaves me grateful for this friendship. Once we hung up, I could not help but reflect on how much of what I knew about HIV was through statistics instead of people with lived experiences. HIV was a topic I learned about rather than from. I knew a bit about prevalence rates, disparities, and public health campaigns, but I had rarely been invited into the everyday realities, humor, ambitions, relationships, and dreams of someone living with HIV.

Too often, stories about HIV begin and end with diagnosis, tragedy, or fear. Rarely do they begin with a text saying, “Girl, guess what?!” They don’t often include the joys of seeing your friend pursue their dreams or our friends excitedly preparing audition tapes. These ordinary moments are just as much a part of living with HIV as the diagnosis itself.

Though it is important, reducing stigma is not solely about countering misinformation. Reducing stigma has to be about creating safe spaces that give room for fuller, more joyful, and more embodied stories.

Sources:

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2024). Stigma and HIV. https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/health-equity/

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2025). About HIV. https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/about/index.html

Grasso, J., Taylor, K. P., & Cisneros, N. (2026). HIV stigma is pervasive and increasing among U.S. adults. The Williams Institute, UCLA School of Law.

Prevention Access Campaign. (n.d.). Undetectable = Untransmittable (U=U). https://preventionaccess.org/

I think it’s time we stop pretending that “ideal” marriage, love, and motherhood was ever constructed with Black women in mind. I remember anticipating all of what I would have to learn to eventually become someone’s wife. Growing up with a single working mom looked very different from what I saw in the homes of friends whose moms were married or able to stay home. My mom’s time and energy had to stretch across work, running the household, raising me, and taking care of herself. The domestic ideal was never really on the table and it worked for us, but somehow I still absorbed the idea that I would eventually have to learn how to be someone’s wife.

When I read that Black women coined the term “pick me” I chuckled. Because of course we did, the American mold of marriage and motherhood was never built for us. And as a Black woman raised in the South, I fear that this reality has become lost on so many who grew up similar to me. I’m not here to condemn pick me’s though. I understand the idea behind the arrangement. Marriage can mean financial security, physical protection, social status, and be the picture perfect American dream on paper. I understand why women want to be married and live a “soft life” with a partner, and I would be lying if I said I never wanted versions of it myself.

I would also be lying if I did not point out the illusions of it all, especially for us. Because dare I say that for Black women, marriage does not always afford us the soft and feminine life we are told it will. And while there are Black women who have been able to achieve it, for a lot of the Black women I know, getting close to that life has always come with a sacrifice that I don’t think should be the price of building a family. I have observed women constructing their relationship around an ideal instead of constructing it around their individual values, needs, and autonomy.

The thing about the pick me ideology for Black women is that it is rooted in the lie that adhering to the patriarchal definition of motherhood and wifehood will grant you respect by both society and men, and I hate to be the one to tell you that this respect is almost always conditional. Women who are “wife material” earn more respect than women who do not fit that mold. Like damn, where is the love for the women who don’t want to play into respectability politics? And why must the worthiness of a woman being a wife be purely contingent on her service to others? The worth and respect of Black women has always been measured by our service to others and the performance of this lie convinces other Black women that it is real. That they can submit their way into being free. That by deciding to pursue a life of marriage and motherhood, they can finally step into their “femininity” and escape stereotypes that position Black women as masculine, unmarriageable, and promiscuous. That by being married, you have to assimilate into how an “ideal” wife looks and performs, which leaves many exchanging their identity for their titles to others.

One of the main purposes of this male-centered idea of femininity is to be docile, submit to your husband, live a soft life, and be a woman of service. The kind of woman who cooks dinner, serves her husband first, then her kids, and eats last. I didn’t grow up seeing that. My mama cooked, made her plate, and I went and got my own. When I started dating I felt the pressure to mold myself into a traditional role that felt foreign to me because not many of the women I grew up around were in traditional marriages or married at all. I know plenty of women who have committed so deeply to the optics of being in a marriage or relationship and have to silently deal with infidelity and disrespect to maintain an image. The soft and submissive life a lot of women feel the need to perform ends up requiring them to be the same “strong Black woman” archetype they believed their “femininity” would protect them from. I also know plenty of women who are the breadwinners of their households or in relationships that fall outside the traditional ideal. These relationships are also often seen as less respectable by society and in public opinion, which can lead to an internalized feeling of shame around having a less “ideal” relationship. I have seen how this ideology leaves Black women blind to the freedom we have to build a life around our personal identity and desires.

Maybe that’s why Black women were the ones who gave us the language of the “pick me.” We’ve always known that chasing proximity to an ideal that was never built for us comes at a cost. Black women were never given the option to perform “femininity” or “softness” in the ways in which they were defined by society. During slavery, Black women worked the fields alongside men, then worked white women's kitchens and nurseries on top of running their own households. Let’s not forget that at one point, Black women had no legal claim to their own bodies and that violence did not end with emancipation. Performing domesticity and femininity could not grant us a safety we were never afforded in the first place. Whether you're queer, whether you work or have to work for your household to be comfortable, whether motherhood looks different for you and you need help from your mama or your child's grandparents, none of that makes your relationship less successful or your family unit less beautiful.

I don’t believe our liberation is found in rejecting marriage, motherhood, or partnership. I believe it’s found in reclaiming our authority to define them for ourselves. To build families rooted in mutual care instead of performance. To choose relationships that honor our full selves instead of asking us to shrink. To recognize that the most beautiful thing about Black families has never been how closely they resemble an American ideal, but how creatively and lovingly we’ve always made a way for each other.

I instantly thought about all the moments I had people on their KNEES for this pussy. All the times I heard, “you got the best pussy in the world.” All the times past romantic partners couldn’t leave me alone because this pussy was just too good.

But then I paused. That frame of thinking actually centered everyone else’s experience of my body instead of my own. Let me explain:

So many of us have grown up thinking our vaginas are nasty, complicated, and even unclean. We imagine a world where our vagina smells like flowers and looks like the cartoon images we saw in that book. Y’all know exactly what book I am talking about: The Care and Keeping of You: The Body Book for Younger Girls. It was a book published in 1998 that sought to teach young girls about their periods and puberty. I think I begged my grandma for it because I wanted to see naked girls. I loved the boob page.

Our first instincts are to emulate what we think our vaginas are supposed to smell and look like, leaving us with shame, limited language around vaginal health, and limited knowledge on what is deemed “normal”. Simultaneously, we are also told that our vaginas were to be cherished and kept to ourselves.

Around middle school age, I remember learning also about the power of my vagina. Somewhere between watching late night TV I probably should not have been watching, discovering and consuming female rap, and being around my aunties nem’, I knew the power pussy had to influence the minds of boys and men. They would do anything for it and it was my duty to make them earn it. I knew the way in which I decided to use my pussy could change my entire life. Having sex meant giving up my pussy. Giving up my pussy meant putting myself at risk. In my mind, I could end up pregnant, harmed, emotionally abandoned (because why would a man buy the cow when he can get the milk for free), or left with the reputation of being “fast”. These ways of thinking were the genesis in discovering the power of my pussy, but it was so misinformed.

We hear about and acknowledge “pussy power” all the time and yes, our pussies ARE powerful. But what is the source of that power? In reflection, the power I was being taught operated through the lens of men. My pussy was powerful because men desired it, and so much so that it could cost me my respect and value. It was never defined in the context of my own bodily autonomy and pleasure. It was never defined as a source of knowledge.

I used to be afraid to look at my vagina. It was actually my mom who would encourage me to do so. She would say, “make sure you look at it so you know if you feelin’ off down there.” Though reluctant, after doing it a couple times, I figured it wasn’t so bad. I actually became kind of obsessed with looking at it, smelling it, and when I became sexually active, even tasting it. It led me to take a sort of pride in how I cared for my vagina. Just as I knew it was good to eat healthy and move my body for my physical health, I believed that my vaginal care was just as important. I became so obsessed with inspecting my own vagina that I knew exactly what my “normal” looked, smelled, and tasted like - and that felt powerful.

I remember the first time I realized I had good pussy. Though this moment happened after I became sexually active, it had nothing to do with sex. It was one of those routine times when I was looking, smelling, and tasting it to make sure nothing was off balance and… I liked it?

Yeah, I liked it! I felt like it was healthy which made me feel attuned to my body. In that moment, “good pussy” stopped being about desirability or access and became about knowing myself well enough to trust what my body was telling me.

My pussy tells me everything. Even before physical symptoms start, I can tell when my pH is off. There was a period of time when I was dealing with Bacterial Vaginosis, and that experience taught me how early my body starts communicating imbalance. Before discharge, before odor, before physical discomfort, my desire shifted. I did not have any desire for sex, how I had in the past. On the surface, I think much of my sexual confidence comes from whether or not my pussy is healthy and balanced. If I wouldn’t want to smell or taste it, why would anyone else? In digging deeper, I discovered that there is a connection between your immune system and your desire. When something like BV is present (or starting), your body is dealing with a low-grade infection and inflammation which activates the immune system. This leads your body to deprioritizing sex so that it can prioritize protection and repair.

Have you ever kept getting vaginal infections with the same partner, only to realize later that person wasn’t good for you? Chile, you not trippin’. Research shows that Bacterial Vaginosis often isn’t random and is frequently linked to certain partners, not hygiene. Many women report that BV shows up with specific partners, disappears when they stop having sex with them, and returns when sex resumes. A science brain might call this microbial compatibility. An emotional brain might call it intuition. Either way, our bodies often notice patterns before our hearts or minds are ready to admit them. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe our pussies punish us with infections. But I do believe stress and emotions matter. Chronic stress, emotional unsafety, and constant vigilance can lower the body’s resilience, making it harder to maintain balance when something is already being introduced.

So what is good pussy? Good pussy is healthy pussy. Good pussy is emotionally aware pussy. Good pussy requires listening. It’s not just about wetness, grip, or desirability, it’s about attunement. Good pussy is a major source of wisdom, one that tells the truth early and often, if we’re willing to listen.

If you are new here, which all of you are because this is my first post, allow me to introduce myself a little bit. My name is Ajia Symone and I am a creative, a community educator, a bad bitch, a scholar, and truly a lover to my core. Here are 3 things you should know about me and my work!

This is a space where I can really chat with you all and get into both my personal and informed commentary on topics around both sexual and non-sexual pleasure. I bridge the gap between academic knowledge and real-world application, ensuring that sexual health information is not only accurate but also culturally relevant and affirming. Essentially, I’m your freaked out homegirl who always has her 2 cents to add. You can also view me as your personal sex educator. And because y’all know I love to mix story with receipts, here’s what the research says:

As a sex educator, I spend time reading sexual health research articles so y’all don’t have to. I found this article that explores how college students learned about masturbation, the stigma and shame often attached to it, and the ways gender shapes attitudes toward self-pleasure. Here are my 4 main takeaways:

• Most of us didn’t grow up with parents openly talking about masturbation, especially girls. Even in otherwise open households, the silence around it often sent the message that it was wrong, dirty, or simply not meant for us to explore.

• Without guidance, people turned to peers, media, or romantic partners to figure it out. For women, this often meant first learning about masturbation from boyfriends or same-sex partners rather than from family or school sex ed.

• Many women grew up knowing that masturbation felt good but carried shame. While boys were expected to do it, girls were judged for it, which created a double standard that left a lot of women conflicted about their own pleasure.

• When shame is stripped away, self-pleasure can build body confidence, deepen self-knowledge, and even improve intimacy with partners.

You know them nights when you might have had a few drinks, you out with your people looking and feeling fine as fuck, and you get that little tingle - that urge to call that one person who you know will pull up and lay it down every single time? What would it look and feel like to lean into yourself for that instead? I began with telling y’all I started masturbating at 12 because I now recognize how formative it has been in my own journey with self-love and pleasure. I was in the practice of exploring my body and my desires from a young age and I can see how it has directly impacted my sensuality today. Without knowing, I was learning that I did not need to seek outside of myself to receive my desires. I promise, it translates far beyond just sex. This is an energy and power I hold for all things and I believe part of the reason I can always come back home to myself when I feel like I am losing my shit.

Does choosing pleasure ever feel like resistance to you? In general, I think it can be hard for Black women and femmes to believe that pleasure is our birthright. Why though? It may be because this country has never treated our bodies like they belonged to us in the first place. It could be that we have been hypersexualized, shamed, and policed while being told our desires don’t matter. I think of my grandmothers, aunties, and cousins who have spent their lives as caretakers, expected to give but not to receive, to work but not to rest, to love but not to be loved on. So, it could be that when we try to lean into softness, into pleasure, into the joys of the erotic, there are silent whispers telling us that space is not for us.

These topics do not exist in their silos, because while I may be talking about masturbation, the principles of self-pleasure, knowing yourself, honoring your needs, and embracing your desires, carry into every other part of life. It doesn’t have to look like sex. It can be a slow morning, a good meal, a deep laugh, allowing your body to just be. The more we honor those moments, the more we chip away at the lies we’ve been handed about what we deserve. Pleasure is not something to earn; it’s something that already belongs to us.

Before I let y’all go, I want to leave you with a little diary moment of just me and my thoughts, Moesha style. Consider it a love note to self, and maybe to you too. ♡︎