The Blaqq Widdow’s Rise

The therapist’s office smelled faintly of sandalwood and something vaguely floral, a scent designed, Dakota suspected, to soothe the savage anxieties that clawed their way to the surface in this sterile, brightly lit room. She hadn't come here to talk about the lavender fields of her childhood, the way the scent had become a phantom limb, a constant reminder of the idyllic past shattered by her parents' divorce and the years of instability that followed. It felt too personal, too vulnerable, even in this space designated for vulnerability. Dr. Joseph was her emergency therapist, the one she turned to when her PTSD flared up, when the past became too heavy to carry alone. It was never a regular thing—only when the memories rose up like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her. But today, the silence between them, thick and heavy, felt almost as suffocating as the lavender ever had.

Dakota traced the rim of her chipped teacup, the lukewarm chamomile doing little to calm the tremor in her hands. Today was about facing it – the past, the trauma, the festering wound that had bled into every aspect of her life, subtly shaping her ambition, her anxieties, even her approach to business. Dr. Joseph had gently pushed her towards this confrontation, suggesting a structured approach, a gradual unraveling of the knots that bound her to the past.

“The anger,” Dr. Joseph had said, her voice soft but firm, “it’s a protective mechanism. It keeps the pain at bay. But it also prevents healing.”

Dakota hadn’t realized how much anger she carried until she started unpacking it, layer by painstaking layer. The anger wasn’t directed at any one person, not really. It was a diffuse, simmering resentment towards the unfairness of it all – the instability, the fear, the feeling of being perpetually off-balance. It was anger at the loss of her childhood innocence, the stolen years, the fractured sense of self. It was a heavy cloak she’d worn for years, believing it to be a shield, but now realizing it was a cage.

She remembered the dilapidated apartment building, the constant fear of eviction, the shame of wearing hand-me-down clothes to school. She remembered the gnawing hunger, not just for food, but for stability, for love, for a sense of belonging. The memories surfaced in fragments, disjointed snapshots, like a broken film reel playing on repeat in her mind. She felt the chilling echo of the shouting matches, the slammed doors, the palpable tension that hung in the air like a suffocating fog.

Today, though, she was trying a different approach. Instead of focusing on the negative, she was attempting to find the glimmers of light, the small moments of joy that had somehow managed to pierce through the darkness. She remembered the library, its hushed sanctity a refuge from the chaos at home. The smell of old paper and ink, the quiet rustling of pages, the escape into worlds beyond her own. She remembered her grandmother’s worn copy of Little Women, a tattered treasure that had transported her to a different time, a different reality, a place where family was strong and love prevailed.

Her first stop was her mother’s, a small, tidy apartment in a quiet suburban neighborhood a world away from the chaotic energy of the city center. The doorbell chimed, a nervous tremor in her hand mirroring the one in her heart. Her mother opened the door, her face etched with a familiar blend of weariness and guarded hope. The years had etched lines around her eyes, deepening the resemblance to Dakota’s own face. There was a silence, thick with unspoken words and decades of unresolved conflict.

“Mom,” Dakota began, her voice trembling slightly, “I… I wanted to talk.”

The ensuing conversation was not a Hollywood-style reconciliation scene. There were no dramatic pronouncements, no sudden outpouring of emotion. Instead, it was a slow, painstaking process of unpacking years of resentment, misunderstanding, and unspoken pain. Dakota spoke of her own struggles, of the fear and instability that had shaped her childhood, not as accusations, but as explanations. She acknowledged her mother’s own limitations, the weight of her own struggles, the pressures that had shaped her parenting.

Her mother listened, her expression shifting from guarded suspicion to a hesitant understanding. Tears welled in her eyes, not of anger, but of regret and a long-overdue release. It wasn’t easy. Old wounds were slow to heal. But as Dakota spoke, a profound sense of shared humanity began to emerge from the debris of years of fractured communication. They didn’t erase the past; they acknowledged it, and in acknowledging it, found a path toward healing. The afternoon ended not with a triumphant declaration of forgiveness, but with a tentative promise of a future built on understanding and genuine connection. A fragile start, yes, but a start nonetheless.

Her father’s death was still a raw wound in the family, the memory of his murder lingering like a heavy fog over their lives. Finding him had required a more extensive search, a digital scavenger hunt through old phone numbers and outdated addresses. But this time, Dakota wasn’t looking for answers about his death—she was searching for her own healing, for a path forward. The grief of their father’s murder had done more than take a life; it had shattered the fragile threads that had Once held their family together. In many ways, it had made her realize how little she truly knew her father, how much of him had been a stranger.

Her father’s death had affected them all differently, but none more so than Dezmond. He had been the youngest, the one who had disappeared after their father’s murder, leaving without a word. His absence had been deafening. When he finally returned, it wasn’t with any explanation, only the heavy silence of grief and the weight of unspoken pain. Dezmond had never been one to express his feelings, especially now, after so much time apart.

Their meeting took place at his favorite bar, a dimly lit place filled with the aroma of stale beer and old wood. The conversation started off awkwardly. Dezmond, who had always been the quiet one, the brooding soul of the family, was even more distant now. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was that he couldn’t let his emotions show. His silence was his defense, his way of coping with a loss too heavy to speak of.

Dezmond hadn’t just disappeared from their lives physically; his return was marked by emotional walls thicker than ever. But Dakota, knowing how difficult it was for him to open up, started with what she knew: the pain of their father’s murder. She spoke, and as she did, she watched him closely. There was no dramatic outpouring from him, no easy answers, but there was something softer in his eyes than before. A flicker of understanding. He didn’t speak much, but his silence was no longer as impenetrable. He didn’t apologize, didn’t explain why he had left, but his presence was an acknowledgment of the past, of their shared grief.

It wasn’t a grand reconciliation. It wasn’t a dramatic moment of release or forgiveness. But it was something. They shared a quiet understanding that neither needed to be verbalized. Dezmond wasn’t ready to forgive, nor was he ready to forget, but he was there. And that, in its own way, was a kind of healing.

The journey of forgiveness and acceptance wasn’t a linear one. It was messy, convoluted, and at times, excruciatingly painful. It involved facing uncomfortable truths, acknowledging past hurts, and engaging in conversations that felt simultaneously necessary and terrifying. But each interaction, each conversation, was a step toward a deeper understanding of herself, her family, and the complexities of human relationships.

Leaving the bar, Dakota felt something shift. The weight on her shoulders was lighter. The scars remained, but they were no longer open wounds. They were battle scars, testaments to her resilience, to the strength she’d discovered within herself. The past was still a part of her, but it no longer defined her. She was finally free to embrace the present, to build a future not on escaping the past but on integrating its lessons, its challenges, and its undeniable influence on the woman she had become. The journey toward wholeness was far from over. But she was walking it, with a newfound clarity, a deepened sense of self-compassion, and the quiet confidence of someone who had faced her demons and emerged victorious. The lavender, the city lights, the scent of salt and seaweed – they were all part of her story, woven into the rich tapestry of her life, a testament to her enduring strength and the remarkable capacity of the human spirit to heal, forgive, and ultimately, to thrive.


The city that had once felt like a relentless adversary now seemed to hum with a gentler rhythm. The sharp edges of ambition had softened, replaced by a quietude that settled deep within her bones. The relentless pursuit of success, the constant striving, had finally given way to a yearning for something more profound – a sense of inner peace. This wasn’t a passive acceptance of things as they were; it was an active pursuit, a deliberate choosing of serenity amidst the chaos.

Dakota found herself drawn to the quieter corners of the city, places where the frenetic energy of the streets faded into a low murmur. The botanical gardens had become a sanctuary, a place where the vibrant colors and earthy scents of the flowers eased the persistent anxieties that still lingered. She spent hours wandering through the meticulously arranged beds, her fingers tracing the delicate petals of roses, the velvety texture of orchids, finding solace in the silent beauty of nature. The gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze became a soothing balm, washing away the lingering echoes of past traumas.

One afternoon, seated on a weathered bench beneath the shade of a towering oak, she closed her eyes, letting the sun’s warmth seep into her skin. She breathed deeply, focusing on the rhythm of her breath, allowing the tension in her shoulders to melt away. This wasn’t meditation in the traditional sense; it was an intuitive act of self-soothing, a gentle unwinding of the years of accumulated stress. She let her thoughts drift, revisiting the conversations she’d had with her family—not to dwell on the pain but to appreciate the small victories, the tentative steps toward healing.

The forgiveness she’d extended wasn’t a sign of weakness; it was an act of liberation. Holding onto resentment had been like carrying a heavy stone, weighing her down, preventing her from moving forward. Letting go wasn’t about condoning their actions; it was about freeing herself from the shackles of the past, allowing herself to breathe freely, to embrace the present, and to build a future unburdened by the ghosts of her past.

That evening, she found herself drawn to the river, the water flowing steadily, relentlessly, a constant reminder of life’s persistent forward motion. She watched the sunlight dance on the water’s surface, the reflections shimmering, ephemeral, yet beautiful. She thought of her own life, the complexities, the contradictions, the moments of joy and sorrow, success and failure. She saw them not as separate events but as interwoven strands in the tapestry of her existence, each contributing to the richness, the depth, the unique beauty of her story.

Her Interactions with her family had changed her, shaped her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. The day she had finally spoken to her mother felt like a small step, but it had carried the weight of a lifetime’s worth of unspoken words. She had talked, and her mother had listened, and while the wounds of the past were far from healed, that tentative understanding had allowed her to exhale in a way she hadn’t for years. The same was true with her father, though their meeting had left her with a sense of quiet frustration—he remained distant, a man lost to the past. But perhaps, she thought, it wasn’t for her to change him. It was enough that she had sought understanding for herself.

Then there was Dezmond. His return after their father’s death had been silent, filled with an emotional distance that stung more than the absence of his voice. Dakota had struggled with him more than anyone else. Yet, sitting across from him at his favorite bar, the air thick with unspoken words, something shifted. Their conversation had been quiet, tinged with the weight of loss, but it had been real. No apologies. No grand declarations. But they had found a moment of connection, something fragile and raw. The brotherly bond, though not immediately restored, had been rekindled, a quiet understanding simmering beneath the surface of their silence.

She began journaling again, not to chronicle her business successes but to explore the complexities of her inner world—the feelings, the fears, the hopes. The words flowed freely, unburdened by the need for perfection or the pressure to impress. It was a raw, unfiltered outpouring of her thoughts and emotions, a cathartic release that helped her make sense of her experiences, to understand her own resilience, her capacity for growth, her remarkable ability to survive and thrive in the face of adversity. The pages filled with her handwriting became a testament to her journey, a tangible record of her transformation.

The process wasn't always easy. There were days when the old wounds flared up, when memories returned with their sharp, stinging pain. There were days when she felt overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what she had endured. But she learned to approach these moments with a newfound gentleness, a self-compassion she hadn’t allowed herself before. She recognized that setbacks were inevitable, that healing was a process, not a destination. She allowed herself to grieve, to mourn the loss of the life she had imagined, to accept the reality of her circumstances.

She started incorporating mindfulness practices into her daily routine, finding solace in simple acts like mindful eating, mindful walking, and mindful breathing. These practices grounded her in the present moment, helping her break free from the cycle of rumination and self-criticism. She learned to appreciate the small joys, the everyday miracles: the warmth of the sun on her face, the laughter of a child, the beauty of a flower in bloom. These moments of simple awareness became anchors, helping her navigate the turbulent waters of her emotions.

The city continued to be her canvas, her stage, but now she painted with a different palette. The vibrant colors of ambition were still there, but they were tempered by the softer hues of self-acceptance, gratitude, and peace. The city’s energy no longer felt like a threat; it was a source of inspiration, a backdrop against which she could paint her new life, a life built not on escaping the past, but on integrating its lessons, its challenges, and its profound influence on who she had become.

She found herself volunteering at a local women’s shelter, offering support and guidance to women facing similar struggles. This act of giving back was deeply fulfilling, reminding her that her pain had a purpose, that her journey had meaning beyond her own personal healing. By helping others, she helped herself, finding a profound sense of connection and belonging.

One evening, while sitting on her balcony overlooking the city lights, she realized she’d finally found what she had been searching for. It wasn’t a grand revelation, a sudden epiphany; it was a quiet, profound understanding that peace wasn’t the absence of pain, but the acceptance of it. It was the ability to hold both the light and the shadow, the joy and the sorrow, without letting either define her. It was the ability to embrace the complexity of her life, her experiences, her self, without judgment or condemnation. It was, in essence, a profound and abiding self-love.

The lavender she’d planted on her balcony continued to thrive, its delicate fragrance a constant reminder of the journey she had undertaken, the strength she had discovered, the peace she had found. The city lights, once symbols of relentless pressure, now twinkled with a gentle, reassuring light. The scent of the sea air, a distant memory from her visit to her father, carried with it the echoes of forgiveness and acceptance. It was a tapestry of memories, woven together with resilience, perseverance, and ultimately, a profound sense of peace. The journey toward wholeness was an ongoing process, but she was walking it, one step at a time, with a newfound clarity, a deepened sense of self-compassion, and the quiet confidence of someone who had faced her demons and emerged stronger, wiser, and finally, at peace.

The salty tang of the ocean air, a phantom scent from her childhood visits to her father, clung to the memory of that day. It wasn’t a dramatic moment, no sudden burst of enlightenment or tearful confession. The letting go happened gradually, subtly, like the slow receding of a tide. One minute, the weight of resentment was a palpable thing, pressing down on her chest, constricting her breath. The next, it was lighter, less insistent, a dull ache instead of a searing burn.

It began with small acts of defiance against the bitterness that had taken root. She stopped replaying arguments in her head, the venomous words stinging anew each time. She deleted old emails, those digital tombstones marking the decay of fractured relationships. She didn’t burn bridges – she simply stopped looking back at them. The act was strangely liberating, like clearing debris from a cluttered mind.

Yet, letting go wasn’t easy—not when the hurt ran so deep. Her father had been cruel, his abusive nature a shadow that loomed large over their family, ever present, suffocating. Destinee had never forgiven him, her anger a constant, raw ache. Their father’s cruelty had scarred her in ways that words couldn’t fully capture. It wasn’t just the physical abuse, but the emotional manipulation, the power games that left them all feeling small. And it wasn’t only him—her mother had stood by, passive, silent. Her mother never intervened. Never protected them.

Dakota remembered the many nights she’d watched her father’s outbursts unfold, the way her mother would turn away, pretending not to hear, her eyes glazed over. And then, there was Destinee, her older sister, fierce and passionate, but too hurt to know how to deal with the aftermath. Destinee had once thrown a glass at their father after one particularly vicious argument. “I hate you!” she had screamed, her voice a mixture of rage and deep, unhealed pain.

It wasn’t just the loss of their father that had broken them—it was the loss of their mother in a different way, the loss of the protector they so desperately needed. Destinee was angry with her mother as much as she was with their father. And in that anger, she had buried her own trauma, channeling it into her art, her colorful, chaotic world where emotions could run wild but never be understood.

When Destinee had come to visit a few weeks after their father’s death, her arrival had felt like a jarring collision of emotions. Her voice, typically full of color, was now tinged with something darker. “You’re still holding on to that man,” she had said one night, her tone tight. “I don’t get it, Dak. I hate him. I’ll never forgive him. But you’re letting his ghost keep you from breathing.”

Dakota had looked at her sister, the artist who had always seen life in a spectrum of colors, and felt a swell of grief. It was impossible to explain to Destinee—who had, in many ways, exploded with emotion as a defense against their father’s torment—that for Dakota, letting go wasn’t just a simple choice. It was a slow, excruciating process of healing, a way of trying to create a life outside the pain. “I’m not forgiving him, I’m trying to understand him,” she had said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to forgive me.”

But it wasn’t just Destinee who struggled. Donovan, the older brother who their father had entrusted with the family business, was lost in his own way. He had chosen to handle everything the same way their father would have: cold, calculated, detached. Business was business, and emotions were a weakness. He had inherited their father’s drive for control, a desire to keep everything under wraps—his emotional life, their father’s legacy, their broken family.

“I’m handling this like a business deal, Dak,” Donovan had told her flatly after their father’s funeral, his eyes not meeting hers. “I don’t have time for your… whatever this is. I’m moving forward, and I need you to be with me on this.”

His voice was hard, emotionless. But Dakota heard the cracks beneath it, the walls he was building to keep the grief at bay. She had tried to reach out, to tell him how much their father had hurt them, how impossible it was to act like everything was fine. But Donovan had always refused to show any weakness, and her words fell on deaf ears.

Her heart ached, but she knew now—Donovan couldn’t heal in the way she could. His way of surviving was about control, but she couldn’t hold on to that model any longer. So, she stopped trying to fix him. She stopped expecting him to be who he once was. Instead, she began taking steps toward her own peace.

The process wasn’t linear. The anger and the hurt still popped up, unbidden, like a flare in the dark. There were days when memories of her father’s abuse haunted her, when the sound of a raised voice or the sight of a certain gesture would pull her back into those suffocating moments. But now, she had learned not to run from it. She felt the pain, acknowledged it, but let it pass through her without letting it define her.

She found solace in long walks through the city’s quieter streets, the rhythmic thud of her footsteps grounding her in the present. In these small moments of peace, she realized that forgiveness wasn’t about erasing the past; it was about freeing herself from it. It wasn’t a grand act of absolution, but a subtle shift—a willingness to choose healing over anger. And she began to see that forgiveness was not something she owed her father—it was something she owed herself.

One evening, as she sat on her balcony, the city lights flickering below, she remembered the last conversation she’d had with her mother before her death. Her mother had apologized, her voice shaking. But it was too little, too late. Dakota realized she didn’t need her mother’s apology to heal. She could heal on her own, without anyone else’s validation.

In that moment, the lavender she had planted on her balcony seemed to bloom even more brightly, a fragrant symbol of her growth. As the city hummed quietly around her, Dakota closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the peace settle in her bones. She had found the strength to move forward, even if it meant moving forward alone.

She had let go of the anger, not for her father’s sake, but for her own. The scar was still there, etched into her soul, but it no longer held her captive. It was a reminder, not of pain, but of her resilience. And as she gazed at the stars twinkling in the night sky, she knew this was just the beginning—of a life built not on escaping the past, but on integrating its lessons. The ripple effect of her journey had already begun, and she was ready for what lay ahead.



As the city lights glistened below her balcony, Dakota reflected on how much had changed in recent months. The road to healing had been a long one, and while she had made great strides, there were still moments of doubt—moments when the past seemed too heavy to shake off completely. But she had come to understand that healing wasn’t a destination, it was a journey.

One of the hardest parts of this journey had been the toll it had taken on her relationships. No one had seen the full weight of her breakdown more than Billie. Billie, her best friend, business partner, and right-hand girl. They’d been through it all together: the late-night brainstorming sessions, the early morning meetings, the rollercoaster ride of building something meaningful. But when Dakota’s personal trauma began to bleed into their professional lives, things got strained.

She had been consumed by grief, by the lingering anger and hurt from the years of abuse at the hands of their father, by the haunting realization that her mother had never protected them. She had withdrawn from the world, and Billie had been left to carry the weight of their business alone. Dakota hadn’t been able to see the toll it had taken on her until it was almost too late.

One afternoon, Shayla had sat her down, her face set in determination. “Dak, we need to talk. I get that you’re going through something. But you have to know that you’re not alone in this. I can’t keep picking up the pieces while you’re falling apart. You’re breaking down, and it’s not just hurting you—it’s hurting all of us.”

Dakota had wanted to protest, to explain that she was doing the best she could, but she knew deep down that Shayla was right. Their partnership had always been built on mutual support and trust, and she had let that slip away in her quest to bury her pain.

“I’m sorry, Shayla,” Dakota had whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to pull away. I didn’t know how to carry it all anymore. I didn’t know how to keep going and still be the person you needed me to be. I thought I had to do it on my own."

Shayla had shaken her head, a soft smile breaking through her usual tough exterior. “You don’t have to do it alone, Dak. You never did.”

But it wasn’t just Shayla who had felt the strain. Izzy, Billie, and Ali—the rest of Dakota’s chosen family—had also felt the shift. Billie, the marketing genius who could weave magic out of any campaign, had always been the voice of reason. She could see through the chaos, but even she had been affected by Dakota’s withdrawal. Izzy, the quiet yet ever-witty tech girl, had done her best to keep things light, even when things weren’t. And Ali, the finance whiz who could make numbers dance, had been the one keeping everything from falling apart financially, but even she had started to feel the weight of the unspoken tension.

And yet, despite everything, there was one truth that remained—they loved her, and they believed in her.

The first time Dakota had sat down with them all, finally ready to confront the hurt and apologize for the breakdown, it had been awkward. Shayla had been the first to speak, her voice soft but resolute. “Dak, we get it. You’re allowed to have moments where you fall apart. We’re here for you. This business… it’s not just about numbers and deals. It’s about us. About the family we’ve created.”

Izzy, her quiet voice cutting through the tension, added, “We’ve always been a team. And no matter how much you go through, we’re with you. You don’t have to apologize for being human.”

Ali, ever pragmatic, nodded. “The numbers will always be there. But we’re here for you, Dak. We’re in this together. You don’t need to carry it all by yourself.”

Dakota had never felt more grateful for the family she had chosen. These were the people who had stood by her, even when she didn’t know how to stand on her own. They had believed in her, even when she couldn’t believe in herself.

“I’m sorry,” Dakota had said, her voice thick with emotion. “I let everything… the trauma, the grief, everything… spill into our work, and I didn’t give you the support you needed. I didn’t give this team what it deserved. I know that, and I’m sorry.”

Shayla, sitting beside her, had taken her hand. “Dak, it’s okay. We’re all human. And this business—it’s built on the fact that we have each other’s backs. We’re not perfect, but we’re a team. And we’ll keep winning together.”

There, in that moment of raw honesty, the weight that had hung over Dakota for so long seemed to lift just a little. She wasn’t alone. They weren’t just her team—they were her family. They understood the struggles she had faced and still faced. But they also saw the strength in her, the same strength that had built their business from the ground up.

And as they all sat there, surrounded by the warmth of each other’s support, Dakota realized something profound. Healing didn’t have to come in an instant. It wasn’t about erasing the past; it was about learning to move forward with it. She didn’t have to be perfect, didn’t have to have all the answers. What mattered was that she had her people. And with them, she could face anything.

The business was thriving, yes. But more importantly, so was she.

“We’re going to win, all of us,” Dakota said, her voice steady now. “Together. This family, this team—it’s unstoppable.”

And as they all nodded in agreement, Dakota finally understood: the past might shape her, but it would never define her. With her chosen family by her side, she was ready for the next chapter—not just of her business, but of her life.

As the city lights flickered below and the night unfolded around them, Dakota felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years. The lavender she had planted on her balcony—now blooming more vibrantly than ever—was a reminder of the growth that had taken place. From the ashes of her past, she had risen. And with her family, she would keep moving forward, stronger and more determined than ever.

This was just the beginning.

“We’re going to win, all of us,” Dakota said, her voice steady now. “Together. This family, this team—it’s unstoppable.”

And as they all nodded in agreement, Dakota finally understood: the past might shape her, but it would never define her. With her chosen family by her side, she was ready for the next chapter—not just of her business, but of her life.

As the city lights flickered below and the night unfolded around them, Dakota felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years. The lavender she had planted on her balcony—now blooming more vibrantly than ever—was a reminder of the growth that had taken place. From the ashes of her past, she had risen. And with her family, she would keep moving forward, stronger and more determined than ever.

This was just the beginning.

Then, Izzy—who had been quiet throughout the meeting, as usual—finally cracked a grin, her usual dry humor bubbling to the surface.

“Well,” she said, her voice deadpan, “as long as we’re all agreed, I think it’s safe to say… we’re about to crush it like a toddler trying to ride a bicycle. We’re gonna look ridiculous, but it’s going to be awesome.”

The room went silent for a moment as everyone tried to process the visual, before all of them burst out laughing uncontrollably.

Shyla wiped a tear from her eye, still laughing. “Izzy, that’s exactly what we needed right now.”

Billie shook her head with a smile. “Only Izzy could compare us to a toddler on a bike and somehow make it sound motivational.”

Dakota grinned, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. “Alright, well, let’s go crush it. Like toddlers… on bikes.”

And just like that, the laughter continued, the room filled with the warmth of their bond. It was a perfect reminder that no matter what challenges lay ahead, with this family by her side, everything would be alright.