Welcome to Atlanta

Once upon a time in 1989, a young woman from Philly met a young man from Brooklyn in Providence — and the rest, as they say, was history. Fast forward to February 2020. News was beginning to circulate about a mysterious virus emerging from China. I had just left New York City and returned to my favorite little village in Atlanta: Buckhead. (Cue Welcome to Atlanta.) I came back with every intention of reacquainting myself with my favorite bougie borough — the food, the lifestyle, the trees, the fashion, the people. I was excited to rediscover it all. But more importantly, I came home to support my father, who had mysteriously fallen from the third floor of a parking garage. Then the world stopped. Suddenly, I wasn’t just hopelessly single — I was isolated. Or, as we all began to call it, self-quarantined. One tragedy had nothing to do with the other, yet they both weighed heavily on my spirit. The timing was almost laughably ironic. But in hindsight, it was also divine. With no social distractions, no escapades to quiet my thoughts, I was left to sit with myself. And to my surprise, that time became one of the most pivotal and therapeutic seasons of my life. I began to rediscover who I was. Instead of curing late-night cravings with late-night company, I turned inward. I read more books. I meditated. I started diving into astrology, numerology, and my ancestry. I spent intentional time in nature. I reconnected with family and close friends in a more meaningful way. I even went on solo adventures to places I’d never been. I collected new experiences. I made new memories. And somehow, that felt more fulfilling than any night out or long-lost love ever had. As life slowly began to return to normal — restaurants filling back up, city streets humming again — I found myself seeing the world with new eyes. I’d been granted access to experience people and places with a deeper understanding of myself. That isolation, while painful, had taught me to prioritize self-preservation in a society that often rewards burnout and emotional chaos. That’s not to say I didn’t stumble. When I felt myself slipping back into that familiar desperation for love, I developed a guilty little obsession: watching wildly inaccurate YouTube tarot readers. I’d fall into rabbit holes, trying to decode their vague predictions, wondering if the stars were finally going to align for me. Sometimes I ask myself the question I’ve held since I was a teenager: Is astrology real? Are decades of celestial study our last hope at understanding love and fate — or are we all just getting gaslighted in a world too cynical for magic? I think back to my days as a fragrance associate at Macy’s. Many of the women I worked with were married — and strangely enough, most of them were married to men of the same zodiac sign. Their relationships had longevity, sure. But happiness? That was another story. It made me question what really matters in a partnership. Compatibility? Chemistry? Destiny? As fate would have it, I too have a deep, unexplainable love for someone who shares my own sign — a fellow Pisces. Ten years ago, he was just a quiet Trini boy starting at Kennesaw State. Today, he’s on his way to becoming a VP at a multi-billion-dollar company. Lately, I’ve been dreaming about him again. And the thing is… my dreams have a strange way of making sense later. Back here in my paycheck-to-paycheck reality, I try not to dwell on the home we once tried to build — or the many failed attempts before that. I know my tendency to wear rose-colored glasses. It’s a Pisces thing. So, I try to stay grounded. I focus on what’s real. Still, today’s horoscope said: Single Pisces will be approached by a Taurus. Here’s hoping.