Adrienne Floyd, MBA

Sometimes a song is not a confession, a subliminal message, or an ideology—it is simply the sound that helped somebody regulate, think, create, remember, or get through the day.

For AyeDNicole, music has always occupied a space larger than entertainment. Music can accompany exercise, creativity, prayer, reflection, grief, confidence, studying, professional work, and the complicated process of regulating emotions.

That relationship with music can sometimes be misunderstood.

A person hears a lyric and assumes you endorse every word. You share a song, and someone searches for a hidden recipient. You appreciate an artist, and someone interprets admiration as obsession. You discuss musical chemistry, and suddenly people are assigning romantic meaning to artistic language.

Sometimes the explanation is considerably simpler:

"It's the vibe."

And there is intellectual substance behind that simplicity.

Music as a Tool for Emotional Regulation

The term music therapy has a specific professional meaning when referring to clinical treatment delivered by a credentialed music therapist. Outside that clinical context, however, people commonly use music in everyday life for mood regulation, motivation, relaxation, emotional processing, and concentration.

That distinction matters.

I am not claiming that putting on my favorite playlist is automatically clinical music therapy.

I am describing the therapeutic role music can play in ordinary life.

Sometimes I need gospel.

Sometimes I need rap.

Sometimes I need R&B.

Sometimes I need something aggressive enough to match the intensity of a workout.

Sometimes I need something soft enough to bring my nervous system down after a demanding day.

The song becomes an environment.

The rhythm becomes momentum.

The words can give language to something I have felt without requiring the songwriter's exact experience to become mine.

"Relatability is not ideology."

That is one of the most important distinctions I have learned.

Musical Relatability Is Not Literal Identification

Literature teaches us this already.

We can read a novel about betrayal without becoming betrayed.

We can study Shakespearean murder without endorsing murder.

We can analyze tragedy without wanting tragedy.

We can understand a narrator without assuming the narrator and author are identical.

Why should music suddenly lose that intellectual complexity?

Rap especially is filled with metaphor, hyperbole, characterization, regional diction, braggadocio, storytelling, persona, repetition, double entendre, and cultural reference.

A listener can relate to one emotional dimension of a song without adopting its entire worldview.

When I hear an artist rapping about perseverance, I may connect with the perseverance while having absolutely nothing in common with the circumstances surrounding another lyric.

When I hear confidence, I can borrow the energy without borrowing somebody else's life.

"I can relate to the emotion without adopting the ideology."

That is musical literacy.

Diction Matters

As a writer and rapper myself, I am also interested in how something is said.

Diction matters.

Cadence matters.

Inflection matters.

Regional pronunciation matters.

Where a rapper places a pause matters.

The difference between speaking behind the beat and directly on it matters.

The repetition of a particular phrase can matter.

Even silence can function as part of a composition.

There is literature inside music.

That is why reducing every musical conversation to "What does that lyric mean about your personal life?" can completely miss the intellectual discussion taking place.

Sometimes I am listening to language.

Sometimes I am studying delivery.

Sometimes I am noticing production.

Sometimes I am responding physically to rhythm.

Sometimes a line is simply clever.

And sometimes, yes, a lyric genuinely touches something personal.

All of those things can exist without manipulation.

Faith Should Not Be Used to Shut Down Intellectual Conversation

As a Christian woman, I also believe there is room for a more sophisticated conversation about faith and secular art.

My relationship with God does not require me to abandon critical thinking.

I do not believe Christianity should become a mechanism for shutting down every conversation someone finds uncomfortable.

Philippians 4:8 encourages believers to think upon things that are true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, and worthy of praise. For me, that calls for discernment—not intellectual avoidance.

There is a difference between saying:

"This particular music conflicts with what I personally want feeding my spirit."

and declaring that every person who analyzes, performs, or enjoys a complicated piece of music has somehow adopted every idea contained within it.

Those are not the same statement.

I can study something without worshipping it.

I can analyze something without becoming it.

I can enjoy artistic expression while maintaining boundaries around my own conduct.

And I can love God while recognizing that human beings have been using rhythm, poetry, storytelling, and music to articulate complicated emotions for generations.

"My Christianity does not require me to become intellectually afraid of art."

Sometimes a Song Is Just a Vibe

Social media has also conditioned people to search for hidden messages everywhere.

Who was that caption about?

Who was that song for?

Why did she post that lyric?

Who is she trying to get the attention of?

Sometimes nobody.

"Sometimes I played the song because the song was hitting."

That does not eliminate the possibility of intentional musical communication. Artists obviously create songs with meaning, and listeners sometimes deliberately dedicate music to people.

But interpretation should not automatically become certainty about another person's intentions.

A playlist can simply be a playlist.

A lyric can simply be beautiful writing.

A beat can simply make you want to move.

A song can remind you of an era rather than a person.

And sometimes music helps you access an emotion you needed to release.

When Your Network Includes People Further Along in the Industry

This becomes even more important when your professional and creative network includes people operating at higher levels of the music industry.

Access does not equal entitlement.

Knowing someone does not mean owning their time.

Being inspired by someone's work does not give you permission to interfere with their career.

Being in proximity to success does not mean you should manufacture intimacy for social currency.

I was raised differently.

"I was raised to know how not to impede on the fruits of anyone's labor."

That principle is deeply important to me.

If somebody spent years building a catalog, fan base, company, reputation, or professional network, I respect the labor behind it.

I don't need to force myself into their story.

I don't need to manufacture a relationship for an audience.

I don't need to convert every interaction into content.

And I certainly do not need to create what I would describe as "malicious alignment"—deliberately positioning myself around another person's name, relationships, or accomplishments to manufacture an appearance of significance that has not been genuinely earned.

"Proximity is not permission."

Reserved Does Not Mean Calculated

I also have a naturally reserved component to my personality.

That can be misunderstood.

Being reserved does not necessarily mean someone is hiding an agenda.

Sometimes restraint is respect.

I understand that another artist has a private life.

I understand that executives have businesses to operate.

I understand that producers have intellectual property.

I understand that artists have relationships, families, teams, and boundaries.

And I understand that somebody being more successful than me does not make their success something I am entitled to consume.

I can admire somebody without attaching myself to them.

I can learn without copying.

I can network without exploiting.

I can collaborate without manipulating.

And I can appreciate someone else's artistic energy without trying to possess the person who created it.

"I don't have to impede on somebody's fruit just because I was invited into the orchard."

That is not fear.

That is upbringing.

Music Is Also Memory

Music can carry memories that ordinary conversation cannot.

A song can bring back a college semester.

A gospel record can bring back Sunday mornings.

A rap album can remind you of the season when you were fighting to become productive again.

A certain bassline can remind your body of a workout before your conscious mind even catches up.

A song can remind you of your mother.

Your sister.

Your first apartment.

A breakup.

A victory.

A road trip.

A funeral.

A graduation.

A version of yourself you almost forgot existed.

That is why musical relatability can become deeply personal without becoming unhealthy or manipulative.

The music becomes a bookmark.

"Sometimes the song isn't about a person. It's about who I was when I needed that song."

Art Does Not Require Literalism

As a rapper, I especially reject the idea that every artistic statement must function as autobiography.

Hip-hop would become painfully shallow under that standard.

Artists exaggerate.

We create personas.

We use metaphor.

We experiment with perspective.

We write from memory.

We borrow emotional textures.

We create fictional scenarios.

We transform reality.

We entertain.

And sometimes we simply say something because it sounds incredible over the beat.

That does not eliminate accountability for what artists create. Words have consequences, and audiences interpret them.

But responsible interpretation requires context.

Musical expression is literature with sound attached to it.

The listener should be capable of asking what a work is doing artistically before deciding what it supposedly proves personally.

Discernment Instead of Projection

Perhaps that is where faith and musical intelligence actually meet.

Discernment.

Not fear.

Not projection.

Not obsession.

Not assuming everything is secretly about you.

Not converting artistic appreciation into a relationship that does not exist.

Not using religion to terminate conversations that require more intellectual nuance.

And not using music to manufacture relationships either.

Both extremes miss the point.

I can listen.

I can study.

I can feel.

I can create.

I can pray.

I can question.

I can turn the music off when something no longer serves me.

And I can respect the human being who created it without believing their creativity belongs to me.

The Music Can Stay Pure

Maybe that is what I have been trying to articulate all along.

"It's from pure vibes."

Not everything requires an ulterior motive.

Not every connection requires exploitation.

Not every lyric requires a conspiracy.

Not every musical relationship requires romance.

Not every friendship requires public documentation.

Not every industry connection needs to become a ladder.

And not every conversation about music needs to become a theological argument.

Sometimes respect looks like enjoying what someone created while leaving the fruits of their labor exactly where they belong:

with them.

I can build my own orchard.

My music can speak for me.

My writing can challenge me.

My faith can guide me.

And other artists can inspire me without becoming objects for me to use.

That is the kind of creative network I want around me.

"I don't need somebody else's light to prove that mine exists."

And when the music comes on?

Sometimes I am studying.

Sometimes I am healing.

Sometimes I am remembering.

Sometimes I am writing.

Sometimes I am regulating.

Sometimes I am praising God.

And sometimes—

I am simply vibing.

EDITORIAL, PERSONAL-EXPERIENCE & LEGAL NOTICE

This article is an editorial and personal reflection by AyeDNicole/Adrienne and represents the author's individual experiences, opinions, artistic interpretations, religious beliefs, and perspectives regarding music, creativity, emotional regulation, professional relationships, and cultural expression.

Music & Wellness Disclaimer: References to music as therapeutic, healing, regulating, or emotionally supportive describe the author's personal use of music for everyday wellness, creativity, motivation, and emotional regulation. Unless expressly stated otherwise, the term "music therapy" is not intended to represent diagnosis, treatment, or professional clinical music therapy delivered by a credentialed music therapist. This article does not provide medical, psychological, or therapeutic advice.

Artistic Interpretation: Discussion of songs, lyrics, musical diction, performances, artists, or creative works reflects subjective artistic interpretation. Relating to, discussing, sharing, or performing music should not automatically be interpreted as endorsement of every lyric, ideology, or behavior expressed within a work. References to musical relatability, "vibes," metaphor, storytelling, persona, and emotional connection are presented as commentary on artistic and literary expression.

Personal Intent & Relationships: Statements regarding the author's intentions, friendships, professional network, artistic relationships, or industry connections describe the author's own perspective. Nothing in this article should be interpreted as asserting a romantic, contractual, professional, or personal relationship with another person or organization unless such a relationship has been independently established or expressly identified.

Third Parties: Any reference to another artist, professional, company, organization, or identifiable individual is made for purposes of commentary, artistic discussion, or personal reflection. The article does not purport to speak on behalf of any third party or establish another person's private thoughts, intentions, motivations, beliefs, or feelings.

Faith & Religious Expression: References to Christianity, the Bible, God, prayer, spirituality, or religious discernment represent the author's personal Baptist-Christian beliefs and interpretations. Commentary concerning the use of religion in conversations about music or intellectual expression is not intended to disparage Christianity, another religion, denomination, or individual believer.

No Hidden or Malicious Communication: The author's discussion of musical expression, lyrics, playlists, artistic inspiration, or professional networking should not, without additional factual context, be interpreted as an admission of manipulation, harassment, fixation, romantic pursuit, malicious alignment, or an attempt to interfere with another person's career, relationships, intellectual property, or reputation.

Intellectual Property & Professional Respect: The author recognizes that artists, writers, producers, and other creators retain their respective rights and interests in their creative works. Discussion, admiration, or analysis of another person's work is not intended to claim ownership, affiliation, endorsement, or authorization.

Editorial Purpose: This article is published for personal reflection, cultural commentary, artistic discussion, educational dialogue, and the exploration of music as a component of everyday emotional regulation and creative expression. It should be read as an expressive editorial rather than investigative reporting or a factual adjudication of disputes involving third parties.

No Institutional Representation: The views expressed are those of the author and should not be interpreted as statements made on behalf of any employer, educational institution, record label, professional association, religious organization, publication, business partner, or other entity with which the author is, has been, or may become affiliated.

This notice is intended to clarify the context and purpose of the author's expression. It does not waive the rights of any person or entity, create a legal privilege or immunity, or substitute for individualized legal advice or pre-publication review by a licensed attorney.

You see this photo? That's Christa, and there's me. This is the article picture to show how mean girls will smile in your face and still have an ugly spirit, and how they can't be influential because they're mean and masculine for Uncle Sam while being Auntie Tom.

There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes from watching women associated with institutions built around discipline, service, accountability, and professionalism participate in the same "mean girl" behavior many women thought they left behind in high school.

For me, that conversation has personal roots in Jacksonville, Florida, and reaches back to Terry Parker High School. Several women became part of that experience for me, including Christa "Chris Chris" Parker, Bethany Larson, and Jassandra Jackson.

This article does not attempt to determine anyone's character in its entirety. Nor does my personal experience represent the United States military or women who serve honorably within it. I am writing about behavior I personally experienced, statements I remember hearing, circumstances I witnessed, and how I interpreted those experiences.

And they left me with a larger question:

What happens when the maturity we associate with military service does not translate into how women treat other women?

THE UNIFORM AND THE WOMAN WEARING IT

Military service carries enormous cultural significance in my family.

My father served in the United States Navy for 28 years and became a Master Chief. Because of him, when I hear "military," I do not automatically think about uniforms, social-media aesthetics, or titles. I think about commitment, accountability, sacrifice, leadership, longevity, responsibility, providing for a family, and showing up when showing up isn't convenient.

That upbringing shaped my expectations.

It also taught me something important: wearing a uniform does not automatically manufacture maturity.

Service deserves respect. But service members remain individuals, and questioning an individual's interpersonal behavior does not require disrespecting the institution in which that person serves.

My experiences with Christa left me questioning what I perceived as a contradiction between military professionalism and the way she communicated about other people. I particularly found comments criticizing Navy members' bodies and weight troubling. Military fitness standards are one conversation. Degrading someone's appearance is another.

She's ultimately jealous. The bird brain was watching my relationship with Dominic Jackson from her phone at sea, air, or in the sky. Who knows, because she changes branches so much now. Can you keep up with me?!

I also experienced interactions that I perceived as unnecessary attempts to insult or antagonize Black women through social media and direct messages.

And that is where my conversation about the "military mean girl" begins.

WHEN HIGH-SCHOOL ENERGY FOLLOWS WOMEN INTO ADULTHOOD

Women grow up.

At least, we are supposed to.

High-school disagreements should not have to become lifelong competitions. Adulthood gives us careers, families, businesses, education, relationships, and responsibilities that should eventually become larger than teenage social hierarchies.

A woman can dislike another woman. She can disagree with her. She can decide they will never be friends.

None of those things require harassment, unsolicited messages, humiliation, or attempts to recruit other people into interpersonal conflict.

I experienced interactions involving Christa that I interpreted as antagonistic and unnecessarily personal. Instead of allowing those experiences to pull me into the same behavior, they made me think seriously about professional identity.

That becomes particularly relevant when someone wants to enter a profession connected with the legal system. If your aspiration is to become a paralegal—or work anywhere within law—professionalism cannot simply become something placed on a résumé. Legal environments demand discretion, documentation, boundaries, and the ability to encounter people you personally dislike without allowing those feelings to dictate professional behavior.

There is also an irony to this situation that I cannot ignore: Christa is the cousin of Ce'tia, whose brand I have previously promoted and supported. That connection made the hostility I experienced feel even more unnecessary. But Ce'tia is responsible for Ce'tia, and Christa is responsible for Christa. Supporting one Black woman's business does not require me to tolerate disrespect from someone related to her, just as conflict with one relative should never become an excuse to condemn an entire family.

MILITARY SERVICE IS BIGGER THAN SOCIAL MEDIA

I have also questioned the way military identity can sometimes become part of someone's social persona while their interpersonal behavior appears inconsistent with the discipline that identity is supposed to represent.

However, fairness requires an important distinction.

Serving in, attempting to serve in, transferring between, or exploring opportunities involving different military branches does not, by itself, prove that someone is incapable of commitment. There can be circumstances outsiders simply do not know.

My criticism, therefore, isn't that changing military paths automatically makes someone disrespectful toward the military.

My concern is the contradiction I perceive when military identity is invoked as evidence of discipline while interpersonal behavior reflects something very different to me.

My father's 28 years of service gave me a particular reference point for sustained military commitment.

Twenty-eight years.

Master Chief.

Leadership.

Responsibility.

That is the military standard I grew up witnessing.

BETHANY LARSON AND THE LIMITS OF ACCOUNTABILITY

Bethany Larson also became associated with this chapter of my experience.

There are serious circumstances involving people connected to her life that contributed to how I understood what was happening around me.

One of those individuals was the late Joshua Curry, the father of Bethany's child.

My raw expression regarding that history was:

"Bethany's dead baby daddy Joshua Curry caused harm to women."

I am preserving that statement because it represents my allegation and emotional expression. I am not presenting it here as an independently established criminal finding.

That distinction matters.

Bethany cannot automatically be held responsible for something a man allegedly did simply because she had a relationship or child with him. Women do not inherit men's culpability through romantic relationships.

Likewise, someone's death does not automatically establish or disprove allegations made about his conduct during his lifetime. Those questions belong to evidence.

My criticism of Bethany, therefore, concerns Bethany's own interactions with me and what she personally said, knew, or did, rather than assigning another person's alleged wrongdoing to her.

That is accountability without guilt by association.

JASSANDRA JACKSON AND WHAT I PERCEIVED AS "SETUP" CULTURE

Another person who became part of this history was Bethany's friend, Jassandra Jackson.

My recollection of one particular event is serious:

"Jassandra Jackson had Jameisha Sparrow come to my house with a gun trying to be nasty."

That is my account of what I experienced.

I perceived what happened as intimidation and a "setup" tactic.

Because allegations involving firearms, threats, or coordinated intimidation are extremely serious, I am not presenting my interpretation as a judicial finding regarding Jassandra's or Jameisha's intentions or criminal liability.

But experiencing something I perceived as threatening changed the way I viewed the surrounding interpersonal conflict.

Military organizations necessarily teach planning, discipline, coordination, and operational thinking for legitimate national-defense purposes. That does not mean interpersonal conflicts involving service members should automatically be characterized as military operations, and I am not alleging that the United States military authorized, encouraged, or directed anything that happened to me.

My criticism concerns individuals.

WHEN VIOLENCE BECOMES A HIGH-SCHOOL MEMORY TO CELEBRATE

My experience with Jassandra raised another issue for me: the enormous difference between acknowledging something ugly from your youth and continuing to glorify it in adulthood.

One high-school story I remember Jassandra discussing involved what she described as beating another person in the head with a lock.

I am describing my recollection of what she communicated. I am not independently establishing here that the incident occurred exactly as described.

What disturbed me was how I perceived that story being carried into adulthood.

"Jassandra's only memory of her being in high school was beating someone in the head with a lock. She's embarrassing and she's a mother of 5 kids? Praising literal violence that she did? Sick."

Those were my words because that was my reaction.

But my criticism is not that she has five children. There is nothing inherently shameful about having five children. The question is what adults model for those children.

If an adult recounts an incident of serious violence as something to celebrate instead of something she regrets, learns from, or has outgrown, I believe that deserves criticism.

There is nothing admirable about attacking another person. There is nothing "tough" about glorifying violence years later.

A stronger message to children would be:

"I made bad decisions when I was younger. Violence was one of them. Don't repeat what I did."

That is growth.

That is accountability.

That is breaking a cycle.

WHY THOSE EXPERIENCES CONNECTED FOR ME

My recollection of that high-school story affected how I interpreted my later experience involving Jassandra and Jameisha Sparrow.

I had heard a story that I understood as celebrating violence. Later, I experienced a confrontation that I perceived as involving intimidation and a firearm.

I cannot turn my perception of that sequence into proof of another person's intentions.

But I can explain what it did to my perception.

From my perspective, hearing violence discussed in one context and later experiencing a frightening confrontation in another naturally affected the way I understood the people involved.

Past violence should become a lesson.

It should not become a personality trait.

"DON'T CALL ME RETARDED AND THEN EXPECT SILENCE"

Another part of my frustration came from language I experienced as degrading.

"Jassandra wants to call me retarded."

That word bothered me beyond the personal insult. It has historically been weaponized against people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Using it casually to attack another woman's intelligence is unnecessary.

My anger produced an equally harsh response:

"Her having 5 children is below the poverty line to speak on anyone and be messy about Bethany's dead baby daddy."

That quotation captures how angry I was. But reflection also requires me to separate legitimate criticism from the insult my anger produced.

Having five children does not establish that someone lives below the poverty line. Poverty also does not make someone inferior. Motherhood and income level do not determine character.

The stronger criticism is much simpler:

Someone's family size does not give her permission to demean another woman's intelligence, just as another woman's education, career, or financial position does not give her permission to demean a mother.

CLASS DOES NOT DETERMINE CHARACTER

Another raw statement I made was:

"I do feel as though low socioeconomic individuals such as Chris Chris and Bethany Larson have embarrassed Jacksonville."

That statement captured my anger, but socioeconomic status itself isn't what makes someone honorable or dishonorable.

Jacksonville contains working-class families, military families, wealthy families, single mothers, and people experiencing financial hardship. None of those classifications automatically determines integrity.

What embarrassed me was the behavior I experienced.

My issue isn't someone's bank account.

My issue is how women treat women.

SINGLE MOTHERS IN UNIFORM ARE NOT THE PROBLEM

Being a single mother in the military is not embarrassing.

It does not make a woman less disciplined, less feminine, or less deserving of respect. Women across the Armed Forces balance motherhood with extraordinarily demanding careers.

Jacksonville is deeply connected to military life, and families throughout the community manage deployments, childcare, relationships, relocations, and demanding schedules while continuing to serve.

My criticism, therefore, isn't:

How can a single mother serve?

The better question is:

How does someone entrusted with serious professional responsibilities carry those standards into the way she treats other people?

Motherhood isn't the indictment.

Conduct is.

WHAT MY FATHER'S SERVICE TAUGHT ME

Perhaps this subject affects me differently because I watched military leadership inside my own home.

My father did not teach me to respect the Navy because somebody looked good in a uniform.

He taught me through longevity.

Twenty-eight years.

Master Chief.

Responsibility.

Providing for his family.

Showing up.

That is why I distinguish between respecting military service and automatically approving every action taken by an individual who happens to serve.

The institution is larger than any one personality.

Accountability requires precision.

TO THE YOUNG WOMAN CONSIDERING MILITARY SERVICE

Ultimately, this conversation is bigger than Chris Chris, Bethany, Jassandra, Jameisha, or me.

Young women—especially young Black women—should understand that getting older does not automatically heal an unclean heart.

Neither does a uniform.

• Do not carry high-school cruelty into adulthood.
• Do not join the military believing rank makes you superior to another woman.
• Do not enter someone's DMs simply because you believe humiliating her will make you powerful.
• Do not recruit friends into conflicts they did not create.
• Do not mock someone's intelligence.
• Do not ridicule another service member's body.
• Do not weaponize motherhood, poverty, or education.
• And do not confuse intimidation with leadership.

One of my rawest descriptions of what bothered me was watching women:

"Go serve a country with an unclean heart."

That is the message I want young women to understand.

Serving your country should challenge you to become more disciplined. It should not provide another identity behind which unresolved cruelty can hide.

The country does not need more "military mean girls."

It needs women who understand the enormous responsibility attached to service.

YOU CAN OUTGROW THE CONFLICT

These experiences ultimately taught me something valuable:

You cannot control another woman's character, but you can refuse to allow her behavior to corrupt yours.

Young women do not need to spend adulthood recreating high-school hallways.

You don't have to like every woman. You don't have to become her friend. You don't have to agree with her lifestyle. You don't have to admire her.

But you can leave her alone.

Being nasty isn't leadership.

Being cruel isn't confidence.

Being loud isn't authority.

Violence isn't an accomplishment.

And another woman's humiliation will never become evidence of your success.

Whether you become a mother, service member, paralegal, entrepreneur, executive, artist, or anything else, adulthood should require evolution.

The strongest story about your teenage years should not be how badly you hurt somebody.

The stronger story is being able to say:

"That was who I was. Look at who I chose to become."

Sometimes walking away from conflict isn't weakness.

Sometimes it is the first evidence that you have finally outranked the mentality that created it.

EDITORIAL & LEGAL NOTICE

This article is a first-person commentary reflecting the author's personal recollections, experiences, perceptions, emotional reactions, and opinions. Quotations attributed to the author intentionally preserve portions of her original language and should be understood within that context.

References to alleged intimidation, firearms, violence, criminal activity, "setup" behavior, or other wrongdoing involving identifiable individuals describe allegations, recollections, or the author's interpretation of events. They are not presented as judicial findings, criminal convictions, or independently established facts unless expressly supported and identified as such through authoritative records.

Descriptions of statements allegedly made by other individuals similarly represent the author's recollection unless independently documented.

No criticism of an individual should be interpreted as criticism of the United States Armed Forces generally. Military service, motherhood, family size, socioeconomic status, disability, grief, career changes, and professional aspirations do not themselves establish misconduct, criminality, or deficient character. Responsibility for another person's alleged conduct should likewise not be assigned merely through friendship, parenthood, family relationship, or romantic association.

The broader purpose of this commentary is to discuss interpersonal boundaries, professionalism, women's relationships, digital hostility, violence, accountability, personal growth, and the author's expectations of leadership and military service.

There are experiences a woman can recount chronologically, and then there are experiences her body remembers before she ever develops the language to explain them.

September 11, 2024, is one of those dates for me.

I am writing this from a place of greater clarity. I am okay. I am continuing my life, career, education, businesses, creativity, and faith. Being okay today, however, does not require me to pretend that something did not hurt me yesterday.

For a long time, I bottled this experience inside myself.

Now I need to express it.

September 11, 2024

On September 11, 2024, I attended a company dinner at Maggiano's in St. Johns Town Center in Jacksonville, Florida.

During that dinner, I allege that my then-colleague, Derrick Clark Jr., stroked my leg with his leg underneath the table without my consent.

I remember freezing.

I remember the anger arriving almost simultaneously with the shock.

"I remember freezing up and wanting to stab him in front of all the white women. But I knew I would have been in jail."

That sentence is uncomfortable because the emotion was uncomfortable.

It describes an intrusive reaction of anger that flashed through my mind—not an action I took, attempted, planned, or advocated. I did not physically retaliate. Instead, I sat with the collision of shock, humiliation, anger, and an immediate awareness that if I reacted violently, my reaction could become the story instead of what I say had just happened to me.

So I froze.

That matters because people sometimes imagine that someone experiencing unwanted physical contact will immediately scream, push the person away, confront everyone in the room, or report it.

That was not my response.

I froze.

And afterward, I carried it.

"I Suffocated Speaking Out"

My silence did not exist in a vacuum.

At the time, I already felt scrutinized within my professional environment. I perceived my manager, Ellen Torres, as treating Derrick more favorably than me. That perception intensified my fear that speaking about what I say happened would expose me to additional professional scrutiny rather than protection.

"I suffocated speaking out."

That is perhaps the simplest way I can explain it.

I was a Black woman trying to navigate Corporate America while questioning whether the environment around me would see my humanity before seeing stereotypes attached to my race, gender, ambition, or personality.

I experienced Derrick as professionally competitive. From my perspective, he was less interested in helping me than competing with me, particularly around advancement toward a Senior Treasury Analyst position.

I cannot independently establish what another person thought or intended. I can only explain what the professional relationship and subsequent encounter felt like from where I stood.

At the time, I expressed my pain this way:

"He wanted Senior Treasury Analyst that bad to tear me down, sexually harass me and cause me a lot of hurt, emotional damage and distress and hurt my view of Black men because of his actions."

That quotation captures what I believed and felt while processing the experience. It should not be confused with an independently established conclusion about Derrick's motives.

What I can say with certainty is that the experience hurt me.

Education Did Not Make the Experience Easier to Understand

I knew Derrick as an educated Black professional. He attended the University of North Florida and Raines High School.

That context made what I experienced more difficult for me to reconcile.

I expected professionalism.

I expected boundaries.

I expected that another Black professional navigating Corporate America would understand how difficult these environments can already become without making another Black colleague feel unsafe or uncomfortable.

Instead, I was left trying to understand an encounter that shocked me.

Derrick's alleged conduct hurt me to my core.

Being a Black Woman in the Room

Race became inseparable from how I processed everything that followed.

At my angriest, I summarized my feelings bluntly:

"They favor our Black men over us."

That sentence describes how I experienced my environment. It is not a declaration about every white woman, Hispanic woman, or workplace.

There are women across racial and ethnic backgrounds who support Black women. There are Black men who respect, protect, mentor, and advocate for Black women every day.

But in that particular professional environment, I felt differently.

I felt as though a Black male colleague received a degree of professional acceptance and grace that I did not believe was being extended to me as a Black woman.

That perception left me wrestling with a larger question:

Who protects the Black woman when she believes speaking will make everyone examine her behavior before examining what happened to her?

I do not have a universal answer.

But I know silence was not healing me.

My Work Was Mine

I was proud of my treasury work.

I created Power BI dashboards for treasury.

"I created Power BI dashboards for treasury. I was the one."

That sentence represents pride.

I wanted to build things. I wanted to improve processes. I wanted to analyze information and demonstrate what I could contribute professionally.

Following the deterioration of my employment relationship, I experienced disputes and interactions involving company information and documents that I perceived as intimidating. I believed that a Power BI presentation sent to my personal email was being treated far more seriously than circumstances warranted.

I also recall interactions involving Canadian personnel, document scanning, and signatures that I personally experienced as pressure during an already difficult period.

Those statements describe my recollections and interpretations. They are not presented as findings that the company committed criminal misconduct or definitively acted for a particular retaliatory purpose.

What I know is what those circumstances did to me emotionally:

They made me afraid that speaking could cost me more than remaining silent.

Watching the Professional World Continue

One difficult part of processing workplace trauma is discovering that the professional world does not necessarily stop because you are hurting.

I understand Derrick to have remained employed with Paysafe and subsequently advanced to a Senior Treasury Analyst position.

Watching someone's career continue while privately carrying my experience forced me to understand something:

Professional advancement cannot resolve a personal allegation.

A title cannot tell me what happened underneath a restaurant table.

A promotion cannot determine what I experienced inside my own body.

And someone else's career trajectory does not require me to erase my memory.

Why I Finally Began Speaking in 2025: My Father

Something changed in me during 2025.

My father experienced cancer.

And I was scared.

My dad has always been there for me. When I began contemplating his mortality, I started thinking differently about men, protection, love, and the standard by which I understood manhood.

"My dad has always been there for me. Never abused me. Never touched me. Ever."

Those words are deeply important to me.

My father protected me.

He provided for me.

He gave me an example of masculine love in which a daughter could feel safe around the first man she ever knew.

"Knowing he was going through cancer scared me so bad, to be honest, because he's the only man that has ever protected and provided for me as a father and showed me what a real man is."

Cancer suddenly made the strength I had always associated with my father feel vulnerable.

And that frightened me.

But it also forced me to look backward.

I began thinking about what I had accepted in silence from other men.

I thought about Derrick and the unwanted physical contact I allege occurred underneath that restaurant table.

I thought about the anger.

The freezing.

The humiliation.

The questions.

And then I thought about another man who had occupied a very different place in my life.

Rique: What I Was Actually Looking For

During this period, I reached out to Rique Bentley, a man with whom I had previously shared intimacy.

This portion of my story is not written to blame Rique for what Derrick allegedly did.

It is not written to make Rique responsible for healing me.

And it is important for me to state something plainly:

"He never touched me without my consent."

My experience with Rique was fundamentally different.

What I was looking for from him was emotional.

At the time, he presented an energy that felt warm enough for me to believe I could be vulnerable.

"Rique Bentley presented a warm energy at first that made me lean on being honest with him because I felt that he was real with how he presents himself as a man."

After something had happened that left me questioning my safety and my perception of men, I wanted to turn toward someone familiar.

I wanted comfort.

I wanted prayer.

I wanted presence.

I wanted someone to tell me, even momentarily, that I did not have to process everything alone.

"I believed that he would care to simply stop and pray, come see me to comfort me."

Looking back, I recognize something important:

What I hoped Rique would provide and what he was actually obligated to provide were not necessarily the same thing.

He was not responsible for repairing an injury another person caused.

He was not responsible for becoming my therapist.

And he was not responsible for carrying trauma that belonged to my experience.

What hurt was realizing that I had emotionally assigned him a place in my life that he may never have understood himself to occupy.

That realization was painful.

But it was also instructive.

Sometimes Disappointment Is Not Blame

There is a difference between saying someone hurt your feelings and saying that person is responsible for your trauma.

I understand that difference more clearly now.

Rique did not create what happened at that company dinner.

He was not underneath that table.

He did not cause my workplace fears.

And I do not hold him responsible for another man's alleged actions.

My disappointment came from what I hoped our connection represented.

I had believed that vulnerability would be met with tenderness.

When the response did not resemble what I hoped for, I felt rejected at an extraordinarily vulnerable moment.

And because I was already processing complicated emotions surrounding race and Black masculinity, that disappointment became tangled with larger questions about whether I would receive the same tenderness that I perceived Black men sometimes extending toward women who did not look like me.

That was my emotional interpretation.

It does not establish Rique's motives.

It does not tell me what was inside his heart.

And with distance, I can acknowledge that another person's emotional limitations or choices do not automatically constitute an attack against me.

Sometimes two people simply understand a relationship differently.

That realization can hurt without requiring either person to become a villain.

What My Father's Love Made Me Understand

This is where my father's example became incredibly important.

When I compared my experiences with other men against the relationship I had experienced with my father, I realized why certain interactions affected me so profoundly.

I once expressed that realization this way:

"Derrick Clark nor Rique portray this type of man."

But even that sentence deserves context because I was comparing two entirely different relationships against the safest masculine relationship I had known.

My father was my father.

Neither Derrick nor Rique could reasonably be expected to occupy that position.

What my father gave me was something more valuable:

a reference point.

My father's example taught me that masculinity does not require making a woman smaller.

Protection does not require possession.

Strength does not require intimidation.

And being a man does not entitle someone to a woman's body, vulnerability, affection, or silence.

"Black Women Are Not Respected Unless Their Dad Respects Them"

At one of my lowest emotional points, I expressed another painful thought:

"No matter what, Black women are not respected unless their dad respects them."

Today, I understand that sentence differently.

It describes something I felt, not a universal rule governing Black womanhood.

There are Black women raised without fathers who are deeply loved, respected, protected, and extraordinary. A woman's dignity does not originate from male validation.

But my father's presence gave me something important.

Because I knew what respectful masculine love looked like inside my home, I eventually became unwilling to redefine disrespect as affection outside of it.

Because I knew what protection felt like, I could recognize when I did not feel protected.

Because I knew what it meant for a man to care about my well-being without sexualizing, diminishing, or competing with me, I had a reference point for evaluating my relationships with men.

What I was really discovering was this:

"My father's respect taught me that I was supposed to expect respect from men even when he was not standing beside me."

Cancer frightened me because suddenly I had to contemplate a world in which the man who modeled that standard for me might not always physically be there.

That realization hurt.

But it strengthened my voice.

To the Woman Who Froze

This is for the woman who responded exactly as I did.

• You froze.
• You finished dinner.
• You went home.
• You went back to work.
• Maybe you convinced yourself that what happened "wasn't serious enough."
• Maybe you feared HR.
• Maybe you feared losing your career.
• Maybe you were already considered difficult.
• Maybe you were the only Black woman in the room.
• Maybe you feared that your anger would become more important to everyone than the boundary you believe someone crossed.

Your voice does not have to arrive on the same day as your pain.

• Speaking later is still speaking.
• Writing is still acknowledging.
• Telling someone trustworthy is still breaking silence.
• Seeking therapeutic, advocacy, or legal support does not make you weak.
• And freezing does not mean you consented.

Black Women Are Allowed to Speak

I am speaking because I became tired of believing strength meant swallowing everything.

It does not.

At one point, my anger sounded like this:

"I'm speaking out because I am tired of Black women being targeted, hurt, and abused mentally because of Black men hating their own mother and race."

Time has allowed me to examine those words more carefully.

I cannot know that racial self-hatred motivated another person's behavior. And the actions of individual men cannot define Black men collectively.

There are extraordinary Black men.

There are extraordinary Black women.

And loving Black culture should never require a Black woman to remain silent about something she says a Black man did to her.

We should be capable of doing both:

loving our community and holding individuals accountable within it.

I Am Okay

I want readers to understand this clearly.

I am okay.

Writing this does not mean I am still sitting underneath that table in September 2024.

It means I finally have enough distance from that woman to speak for her.

• She froze.
• She became angry.
• She questioned herself.
• She questioned Corporate America.
• She questioned race.
• She questioned men.
• She questioned whether anybody would believe her.
• And then she kept living.
• My career continued.
• My creativity continued.
• My education continued.
• My businesses continued.
• My faith continued.
• My relationship with my family continued.
• My voice continued.

Perhaps that is the most important thing I can give another woman through this story:

What somebody does to you does not receive ownership over everything you become afterward.

• You are permitted to speak.
• You are permitted to heal.
• You are permitted to be angry without allowing anger to become your identity.
• You are permitted to love Black men while holding an individual Black man accountable for conduct you experienced.
• You are permitted to be disappointed by someone without turning that person into an enemy.
• And you are permitted to recognize the men who showed you genuine love.

For me, one of those men has always been my father.

His cancer frightened me enough to remind me that life is too fragile to spend it suffocating beneath things I desperately needed to say.

My father gave me protection as a child.

As a woman, I am learning how to give myself a voice.

I bottled mine long enough.

Now I have spoken.

Editorial & Legal Notice

This article is a first-person personal narrative reflecting the author's recollections, allegations, perceptions, emotions, and interpretations of events. Allegations concerning identifiable individuals or organizations are presented as the author's account and are not represented as judicial findings, criminal convictions, admissions, or independently established determinations of liability.

Statements concerning perceived favoritism, workplace competition, retaliation, discrimination, interpersonal motives, or emotional conduct describe the author's personal interpretation unless an independent determination is specifically identified. Individuals and organizations referenced may dispute the author's account or characterization of events.

The discussion concerning Rique Bentley is expressly presented as the author's reflection on her own expectations, vulnerability, and emotional disappointment. The author does not allege that Bentley sexually assaulted her or touched her without consent and does not attribute responsibility to him for the alleged conduct of another individual.

The article is intended to document personal experience and encourage thoughtful discussion surrounding consent, workplace boundaries, Black womanhood, fatherhood, emotional support, corporate culture, and women's ability to speak about unwanted conduct.