Tricky Sol

"I don't wanna kiss you, I just wanna feel you." This Snoh Aalegra line finally makes sense to me. I want someone to experience life with—palm trees, beach views, Innervisions on replay. Some level of consideration? Yes. But am I taking you into consideration when making decisions about my life's direction? No. And that's not cruel—that's honest. There's a difference between wanting someone and needing them, between experiencing and possessing. I just want you around. Not nee

There is a kind of legacy that doesn't announce itself with fanfare. The Clark Sisters built that kind—the kind that lives inside the way other people sound, move, and understand what it means to give everything to something that matters. Five sisters from Detroit who refused to shrink, turned reggae grooves into gospel anthems, and proved that legacy isn't built in moments of fame. It's built in the dailiness of devotion.

At five years old, Tina Knowles heard: "You don't belong here." Her first teacher looked at this pretty, poor Black child and decided to break her spirit. Decades later, while creating iconic costumes now in the Smithsonian, fashion insiders told her the same thing. But Tina transformed that wound into wisdom: "You deserve to be anywhere you want to be...you got to welcome yourself." This is what it looks like when someone decides the wound stops with them—and builds a legacy

Halle's "because i love you" captures something we don't talk about enough: when love becomes permission for chaos. Watching Olivia and Fitz spiral through Scandal, I see it clearly now—their chemistry wasn't the problem. The problem was letting "I love you" excuse their worst behavior instead of inspiring their best. Real legacy means asking: what am I doing because I love you? Testing patience or protecting peace? Proving you'll stay or proving I'm worth staying for?