I give thanks

I know about the power of gratitude journals, but I hate them. (Okay, hate is a strong word.) My list of things I’m grateful for always ends up being basic: I am grateful for my apartment, I am grateful for air conditioning (a must in both Kingston and Lagos), I am grateful for my mom, I am grateful for my friends. These pronouncements stir nothing in me. When you write them like this—like flaccid platitudes meant to buoy you through boredom and underwhelm—they do nothing for your spirit. It’s like rote recitation in school: one times seven is seven, two times seven is fourteen. I feel nothing.

In her book Heart Talk, Cleo Wade helps us understand the alchemy of gratitude.

Through a practice of gratitude, we see our lives transform in subtle yet profound ways. It shifts our focus from scarcity to abundance, from what’s missing to what’s present. Gratitude alchemizes the ordinary into the extraordinary, allowing us to experience deeper appreciation for the small, overlooked moments—like the warmth of sunlight through a window or the laughter of a friend. It roots us in the present, reminding us that contentment is not found in chasing after what’s next but in embracing what already is. By consistently cultivating thankfulness, we change the narrative from longing to fulfillment, turning our lives into a testament of quiet joy and peace.

So let me try this gratitude thing again:

I am grateful for this year of difficulty because, without it, I would not have started Productive Purpose.

I am grateful for the pent-up resentment I held toward my colleagues over a year of failed business and no-to-low paychecks. I am grateful for the release of that righteous indignation and the shift in consciousness around the not-enoughness of money.

I am grateful for my mother, who has been my lighthouse—a never-ending supply of you-can-do-anything-Anna, your dreams are possible, even in this state of seeming impossibility.

I am grateful for my pragmatic sister—the one who felt more and more like my real sister after our dad’s passing. The sister to whom I sent a love letter at age seven because I had not met her yet. The sister who opened her bank account when I couldn’t pay rent.

I am grateful for my health, my capacity for deep breaths, my growing muscles and athleticism, and my healthy heart.

I am grateful for Prime, my black-black chow chow cocker spaniel, who is adoring and doting—the loving presence I needed to keep me afloat in moments of depression.

I am grateful for the outpouring of love I received during my father’s remembrance. Friends who flew in from Germany and New York. Friends who caught me before I collapsed in grief when I returned to the spot where my father collapsed at the bottom of the steps. The shirt he was trying to put on while descending still in place—a reminder that he fell and died while trying to help me.

I am grateful that my mother is still alive.

I am grateful that my 102-year-old grandma is still alive. That when she sees me and remembers who I am—her granddaughter living in Nigeria—the twinkle of recognition and her smile remind me that I have always, always been deeply loved, just for being me.

I am grateful that my friends and family in America are safe, and I pray that this remains true.

I am grateful for my brother—the gentle giant who could have easily chosen resentment but chose love. I got the attention he didn’t, the doting, the support, and the care. But he never ever held it against me. He loved me as “Puss,” his baby sister.

I am grateful that I come from Jamaica. I am grateful for the amazing oxtail my sister-in-love made me this week and the curry goat patty I’ll get from Devon House as soon as I land in Kingston. I am grateful for Hampshire House, my forever home, where I learned to swim, climb mango trees, and ride a bicycle.

I am grateful that when the Department of Health called to say someone on my flight from Lagos to D.C. had monkeypox, I knew deep in my soul I was fine. That I had nothing to fear. That I was protected somehow, and everything would be alright.

I am grateful to live in a place where the whole spectrum of female bodies, shapes, and sizes is revered. It’s the first place I felt beautiful, wanted, sexy. I’m grateful for the shift in worthiness that affords me.

I am grateful to have seen the little Black boy with his neon-orange fishing pole, walking from the reservoir pond to his home early in the morning—a beautiful way for a small human to reconnect with nature in an age of Instagram depression and Snapchat attention spans.

I am grateful to my friend Nadine, who, ten years ago, held me when I cried my eyes out over a boyfriend who dumped me for someone else. We laid down on my childhood double bed, and she held space for me to be utterly utterly vulnerable. I will never forget that.

I am grateful to have reconnected with Abby, my oldest friend, who spent every Christmas with my family, ate my precious chocolates from Germany, and asked my permission to call my daddy “Daddy” (I said NO). She choreographed and performed Michael Jackson with me in my living room, healed her mother-wounds, and opened space for us to reconnect in adulthood. I am grateful to have her back in my life.

I give thanks for travel and the kaleidoscopic experience of living across continents. I have lived in San Francisco, Chicago, Lagos, Kingston, Kampala, and Paris. I carry my Blackness, my Jamaican-ness, my Doreen-ness, my Wenty-ness everywhere I go (Doreen and Wenty are my mother and father). I am grateful that my perspective has been shaped by them and altered by my experiences.

I am grateful for every lesson, every stretch mark, every note written, every song sung.

I am grateful for Kendrick Lamar and his voracious hatred of what Drake represents. It gives me an example of someone standing in their power, wielding swords to defend Black women and protect Black culture. Enough of the pandering and PC diplomacy that neutralizes activism’s efficacy. I needed that aggression.

I am grateful for writers who feed my soul: Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, Mark Nepo, Audre Lorde, Cleo Wade, Brianna Wiest, Marianne Williamson, Wayne Dyer, Anne Lamott, Shirin Vossoughi, bell hooks, Walter Rodney, Carl Jung, Ernest Holmes.

I am grateful for little Anna, who couldn’t wrap her mind around the concept of infinity and spent years writing out numbers to reach the end of the number line. Little Anna, who knew she was powerful and magnetic and never doubted her capabilities.

I am grateful for this fledgling community of subscribers. All of you who have reached out to say that my writing resonated with you and shared your own stories of growth, challenge, and triumph.

Deeper Dive

Create your container of contentment. Light your candle, pour some tea, and find your fluffiest blanket and favorite journal.

I only have one question for you this week:

What are you grateful for?

P.S. I bawled my eyes out writing this letter. It’s only fair that you write a similar list, bawl your eyes out, and share it with me 😉.

👋🏾 tee tee afen, ta ta for now