There’s a kind of courage we don’t talk about enough.

The quiet kind.
The kind that doesn’t come with applause… or support… or even understanding.

Just a decision.

In today’s Courage Conversation, I sat with as she shared the moment she chose to leave behind a life of restriction and step into the unknown.

She didn’t have a traditional path.
She didn’t have guidance.
She didn’t have support.

What she had… was determination.

She got her GED.
Created a plan.
Saved her money.
Packed her car…
…and drove herself to college.

Alone.

And somewhere between fear and freedom, she discovered something powerful:

When you put your mind to it… you can build a life on your own terms.

But she also shared something just as important—

If she could do it again, she would find support.

Not just financial…
but emotional… mental… spiritual.

Because courage doesn’t mean you have to suffer alone.

It means you move forward… anyway.

✨ Her words stayed with me:
“It’s going to end better than you think… so don’t give up.”

🎥 Watch the full Courage Conversation here:
I DID IT ALONE | Courage Conversation with Rev. Evelyn Bourne

If you’re in a season where you know you can’t stay where you are…

This is your reminder:

You can begin again.
Without apology.

💜 Joi

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We spent eight beautiful weeks together, sitting at the virtual feet of inside The Womanist Writing Circle — Cohort 1.

It’s hard to fully describe what happened in that space.

Rebekah didn’t just teach writing…
she created a circle for women ready to write with clarity, confidence, and intention.

Six women.
Different corners of the world.
Gathering each Sunday afternoon.

We came with stories…
and through poetry, prose, and raw expression, we began to release them.

What I witnessed in that space was nothing short of courage.

That’s where I met Makissa.

Her writing is bold. Expressive. Unafraid.

But what struck me just as deeply was the way she communicates.
She doesn’t stay on the surface… she sees, questions, and explores the full expanse of the work.

So when I invited her into a Courage Conversation…

I wasn’t just interested in what she writes.

I wanted to understand the woman behind the work—
and what gives her the courage to move the way she does.

🎥 Listen closely…her courage might sound familiar.

📅 If you’re finding your voice again… you’re not alone.

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There was a time in my life when I confused being needed with being valued…

and I paid for it in pieces of myself.

This was a major move in her life.
Uprooting everything for a new beginning…

And that’s my bag.

I know how to begin again. I’ve done it across continents. I know what to keep, what to release, what to let go of so you can breathe on the other side of it.

When I arrived at her home, I could hear the overwhelm in her voice…
and I could see it written all over her face.

Decisions everywhere.

Keep that picture.
Throw away that desk.
Do I really need a lawnmower?

It looked like chaos.

But I knew better.

It wasn’t chaos… it was change.

And there I was, right on time, bringing calm into the middle of it all.
Ready to help her think. Ready to help her move through it with clarity.

But something felt off.

My suggestions didn’t land.
Not rejected… just not received.

So I adjusted.

I got quieter.
Smiled more.
Nodded in agreement.

Tucked my insight away and made myself smaller for the sake of peace.

That’s when I realized…

I wasn’t there to be heard.
I was there to be felt.

My presence was welcome.
My wisdom… not so much.

I could have left.

But I stayed.

Because I was needed.

Just not in the way I knew I could show up.

Not for the gifts I carry.
Not for the clarity I bring.
Not for the experience I earned.

And that’s a hard place to stand…
when you know your value, but choose not to assert it.

I had to learn the difference between being needed…
and being valued.

And more importantly…
I had to learn to stop offering myself in spaces that only had room for part of me.

So I’ll ask you…

Where in your life are you being called on…
but not truly seen?

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April Fools’ Day.
The anniversary of Marvin Gaye’s death.
And the anniversary of losing my virginity. Yep.

These are the three things I think about every year since 1984.

There I was…19 years old and taking on far more than I was ready for.

So I had to get ready… like so many other young women who found themselves carrying more than they expected.

Today’s Courage Conversation is with an old friend… Benita.

She Did It Afraid At 19 | Courage Conversation with Benita Carter

Her story is one many of us share.

Don’t miss the heart of her journey.

It’s a testimony to what I call Responsibility Courage…
making decisions with long-term consequences in mind.

Benita did it afraid…
not just for herself, but for someone else.

As you listen, I want you to think about your own life.

Where have you used your Responsibility Courage?

What’s one decision you made that changed the direction of your life?

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That’s a hell of a calling.

But it’s also lingo you hear over and over in these social media streets.
Know. Like. Trust.
The trilogy to success.

And I’ve always wondered…
How did somebody condense something so deeply human into three little words?

And once the “what” became clear…
why didn’t they make the “how” just as simple?

Because for me?
It’s been trial and error.

And if you’re honest… it probably has been for you too.

My message is simple:

I help women find the courage to begin again.

How do I know I can?

Because I’ve done it.
More than once.

I left a 20-year marriage while living on another continent…
and started over.

I earned my Commercial Driver’s License
after not driving for over 20 years.

As a single mother of three,
I left the U.S. to raise my children in a different environment,
one I believed would serve them better.

And that’s just part of the story.

I’ve always said my superpower is listening.

But as I’ve gotten older,
I’ve learned how to listen to myself.

That’s Clarity.

It meant telling myself the truth about what I wanted…
even when it sounded impossible.

Then there’s fear.

Fear has energy.
Real energy.

Sometimes it shows up as that knot in your stomach,
the kind that makes you wonder if you need to make a life decision from the bathroom.

Other times, it’s so heavy it will have you hiding under the covers.

So what did I do?

I took one small step.

And then another.

All while fear was riding shotgun…
watching me take the wheel.

That’s Change.

Because the first real step?
It breaks the pattern.

And then came the moment I couldn’t ignore anymore.

That quiet whisper…
that something in my life, my marriage,
was stifling my growth.

I tried to fix it.
I stayed longer than I probably should have.

But when it became clear…

I made a plan for my life on the other side.

And I moved.

That’s Confidence.

Not the kind you wait for…
the kind you build by taking action.

Especially after years of setting yourself on fire
just to keep other people warm.

So how do you begin to know, like, and trust me?

Not with buzzwords.

With proof.

With story.

With truth.

That’s what I’m giving you.

And not just my story.

I’ve sat down with other women,
brave women…
who have made courageous decisions in their own lives.

I asked them one question:

“What decision did you make that felt risky at the time?”

Their answers?

Powerful.
Honest.
And real.

You can find those conversations on my YouTube series,
Courage Conversations.

I am a Courage Coach for women 50 and over.

So if you’ve never really had the space
to ask yourself what you want…

If you’ve been strong for everybody else…

If you’re tired of living in reaction mode…

I see you.

And I can walk with you through that process.

So come get to know me.

I’m not for everyone.

But the woman who is ready?
She’ll recognize herself here.

Because I don’t want anything for you
that I don’t want for myself.

And somewhere in that space…

Trust gets built.

You’ll trust me to hold your vision.

And I’ll trust you
to finally step into it.

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There’s a moment…
right before you change your life…

when everything in you says, “Wait.”

Wait until you’re more prepared.
Wait until you’re more confident.
Wait until you’re sure.

And if you’re not careful, that “wait” turns into years.

In my latest Courage Conversation, I sat down with Rookamah Goldston, and what she shared was simple, but powerful:

She didn’t move because she was ready.
She moved because something inside her refused to stay the same.

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

Courage doesn’t always feel like strength.
Sometimes it feels like discomfort.
Like uncertainty.
Like moving forward with shaky hands and a quiet prayer.

I’ve lived this.

More than once.

And if you’re honest…
you probably have too.

🎥 Watch Episode 2 here:

A gentle question for you…

Where in your life are you waiting to feel ready?

And what might shift if you decided to move anyway?

If this speaks to where you are right now, you don’t have to figure it out alone.

👉 You can request a Courage Call here: thejoiofcourage@gmail.com

Stay close.
More Courage Conversations are coming.

💜 Joi

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I’m losing subscribers.

Turns out the truth isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

Once I decided to begin sharing my true self and my real story on this platform, I knew that was the risk I was taking.

Oddly enough, my followers grew.
I’m almost at 1,000.

I consider them my “I’m down enough with you to want to pay attention” followers.

And I’m down with them too.

The clincher that helped me come to absolute peace with this was Nat Sang’s frank expression article, “The Level of Inauthenticity on Substack Is Out of Control.”

I’m good with writing my truth, in truth… yet I know everyone won’t necessarily be good with reading it.

And that’s okay.

The truth isn’t supposed to make everyone comfortable.

I’m not here to tell you smooth things or present something so polished that what’s real to me sounds like a fairy tale to my readers.

On the flip side, I want to read your real and raw truth.

That’s what gives form to the story you’re sharing.

I’m okay with my circle getting stronger, as long as I’m surrounded by my tribe.

Write the anger.

Pen the sadness.

Script the joy.

Let the story out of you.

AI is my administrative assistant, my organizer, and my grammar checker.

Every time I give it something to edit, I close with this reminder:

“…without taking the Joi out of it.”

Afterwards I read both versions side by side—
noting the comma that was inserted, the new paragraph that appeared—
and making sure the Joi is still there.

Tell me the truth…

What changed in your life when you finally started telling yours?

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There are moments in a woman’s life when she knows something must change.

Not because everything has fallen apart.
Not because she has all the answers.

But because something inside of her refuses to stay silent.

That quiet inner voice begins asking questions:

Is this all there is?
What if I tried?
What if I failed?
What if I didn’t even try?

Those moments are rarely dramatic. Most of the time they are private decisions made in kitchens, cars, or quiet bedrooms late at night.

A woman decides to go back to school.

A woman decides to start writing again.

A woman decides to leave something that no longer fits the life she is meant to live.

These decisions don’t happen in the absence of fear.
They happen while fear is present.

That is where courage lives.

That is why I created Courage Conversations.

This new series is a collection of short interviews with women who have made brave decisions in their lives. Decisions they made while fear was sitting right beside them.

Not celebrities.
Not influencers.

Just women with stories that might sound a lot like yours.

In the coming weeks, you’ll hear stories like:

• a writer who left a legal career to pursue spoken word
• a mother of five who returned to school in her thirties despite being told she shouldn’t
• women who listened to the quiet voice inside themselves when the outside voices were louder

Each story reminds us of something important:

Courage is not the absence of fear.
It’s the decision to keep going even when fear is present.

If even one of these stories helps a woman take her next brave step, then this series has done exactly what it was meant to do.

Welcome to Courage Conversations.

— Joi

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Disrespect

It is not tolerated.

Never was.
Never will be.

And it is not allowed in my space.

I don’t give it,
so I will not receive it.

Respect

It is how I honor others…
until they give me a reason not to.

But it is also how I honor myself.

My thoughts.
My emotions.
My heart.
My limbs.
My space.
My literal existence.

So if you cannot show respect,
you will suffer a great loss.

No… I’m no soothsayer.

The loss you will suffer
is the privilege of my presence.

So… you choose.

We all have choices to make.
Choices we must live with.

So choose wisely.

Choose respect.

If this resonated with you, share it with a woman who needs the reminder that her presence is not something to beg for, it’s something to value.

And if you’re learning to stand in your courage and claim your space, subscribe to The Joi of Courage so you don’t miss the next reflection.

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Please join me in this conversation I often have with myself. Yes, I talk to myself because there are some things I’m the only one who truly understands.

Being away from the U.S. for 20 years, I immersed myself in the cultures of wherever I was living at the time. You know the saying, “When in Rome…” Well, during those two decades, America changed in so many ways. Not just vocabulary but in culture, too.

When I returned, I felt like I was learning English all over again.

Words like intentional or offer were no longer just adjectives or verbs. They had become identities. Brands. Movements. They represented new levels in an individual’s evolution. Those words and many others, sent me back to the drawing board. I was researching, Googling, even checking the Urban Dictionary in some cases.

But there was one word that unsettled me:

Lurker.

It has a slightly creepy flavor, doesn’t it? So I looked it up, because I kept hearing it in conversations about social media.

A lurker is someone who follows social media or joins online communities but doesn’t actively engage. They don’t click “like.” They never comment, share, or reply. They are read-only participants.

No interaction. No engagement.

Now listen, social media can feel like a battlefield of opinions, cultures, and clashing ideas. It can also be a breeding ground for keyboard bullies. I deeply understand the hesitation. These internet streets… are not for the faint of heart.

But the word lurker doesn’t just apply online.

The trend that concerns me most is among women 55+.

I know you see me. And others like me. You don’t have to like or comment. That’s your choice.

But I’m pleading with you… don’t be a lurker in your own life.

Take action.
Make a move.
Participate in the evolution of your life.

It doesn’t have to be major. And you’re not required to announce it to anyone. But you know when you’re denying yourself what your heart yearns for.

Click “like” on your dreams.
Comment on your hopes.
Share that motivational reel to your personal email so you can revisit it when you start losing focus.

And reply… yes, reply.

Have a full-blown conversation with yourself. Or with God. Spirit. Allah. Creator. Or your best friend. Get what’s resting on your heart out into the universe.

So go ahead, keep being a lurker on social media if you want to.

But don’t do it in real life.

You deserve so much more, 55+ ladies.

Stop lurking on the sidelines of your own life.

Today’s a new day.

Let’s live it.

If this stirred something in you, reply and tell me one area where you refuse to lurk any longer.

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I plopped my heavy body into the hard, cold bus seat… relieved to finally rest, relieved to release the air my upper body had been begging to let go of.

Outside the window, slushy downtown Chicago snow pressed against the bus stop shed. That shed had done more than protect me from the hawkish gusts the Windy City is famous for. It hid me.

I had just finished an interview for a call center job at Ma Bell. What I didn’t know was that the personnel manager would be waiting for the same bus.

I had successfully hidden my eight-month pregnancy from her the entire interview. There was no way I was getting busted now, standing outside in the freezing cold.

Once seated, I rubbed my warm, round belly. The little one inside me responded immediately, moving with enthusiasm, enjoying the space and freedom. For that long bus ride home, we found peace, comfort, and warmth together.

Until the bus slowed.

This was our stop.

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I’m about to share something I’ve never written about publicly.

Those of you who already know me… well, you know my story.
Those of you who don’t… this part of my life isn’t for the faint of heart.

The subject is polygyny: a marital arrangement where a husband has multiple wives, and each wife has only him as her husband.

I’m sharing this now because I’m finally ready.I hadn’t written about it before because I was afraid. Afraid of judgment, afraid of the questions, afraid that I’d regret opening a door I couldn’t close. I was afraid people wouldn’t understand where I stand now, or that my past would be used to discredit the vision I hold for a global sisterhood. I feared potential sisters might see my experience as betrayal rather than truth.

So why now?

Simply put, I’m ready.

Ready to answer the questions that matter and ignore the ones that don’t. Ready to speak honestly about what worked, what didn’t, and what I learned the hard way. And honestly, I felt it was important to prepare you for what you’ll encounter in my upcoming memoir, where this chapter is explored in far greater detail.

Am I nervous?
Hell yes.

But I’ve also never felt more determined or more grounded.

So here we go.

For twenty years, I was married to a man who had four wives. I was the youngest of the four. We called one another sister-wives.

At the time I entered this arrangement, I was a single mother of three, in my late twenties. When the concept was first introduced to me, I fought it hard. Just hearing how it functioned made me feel physically ill.

The voices in my head were loud:

“Share my man?! Hell nawww!”
“Any woman who allows this must be weak.”
And finally…
“That is NOT me. PeriodT!”

And with that, I shut the door.

Or so I thought.

I went on with my life, still surrounded by women who did believe in and practice this form of marriage. I respected their choices; they respected mine. We coexisted peacefully, at least on the surface.

Behind the scenes, though, my life was unraveling.

I had died on the hill of monogamy - alone.

As a single mother of three, navigating co-parenting with two fathers, I was carrying everything by myself. I experienced a string of failed relationships, including one I was absolutely certain would lead to marriage.

It didn’t.

That relationship is the one I wrote about last November in “The Courage to Belong Where You Don’t Fit”, still my most-read piece to date.

After that heartbreak, my world narrowed. My focus became my children and creating a stable life for the four of us. Just us.

Then, about a year later, everything shifted.

I was having lunch with my “man-sharing” sister friends. Normally, out of respect for my strong opposition, they avoided the subject around me, but this time, they’d invited someone new.

The lunch was lovely. You know how we do, everyone ordering something different so we can taste everything on the menu. Laughter, joy, full plates, and full hearts.

As I sat there, content and full, I recognized two older women at the counter ordering their meals to go. They were laughing together, standing close. One adjusted the neckline of the other’s dress with care and familiarity. They looked… connected.

I asked out loud, “Those two seem to always be together. Are they related?”

The newcomer nearly choked on her cornbread laughing.

“Oh yes,” she said. “They’re definitely related. Not by blood though, they’re sister-wives.”

I felt the entire table turn toward me.

My smile didn’t fade, but something inside me cracked open.

The newcomer launched into a full explanation: biblical references, African indigenous traditions, modern-day applications. I’d heard these arguments before, but this time something was different.

I had just seen it.

Those two women at the counter (comfortable, bonded, at ease) gave the concept a human form I’d never imagined.

Then came the gut punch. The words I’ll never forget:

“Because not knowing who your man is sleeping with, in today’s world, can kill you.”

That sentence knocked the wind out of me.

In an instant, I was transported back to the day the man of my dreams became the man of another woman’s dreams… without my consent, without my knowledge.

Suddenly, her argument wasn’t abstract.

It was survival.

No, I wasn’t trying to become a biblical scholar. That was never my goal. What I did want was stability. Safety. A future rooted in honesty, the kind of truth that isn’t comfortable, but necessary. The kind that tells you what you need to hear, not just what you want to hear.

This is where I’ll pause for now.

I’ll continue this story in my next post and go deeper with my paid subscribers, as I refine these memories and details for my memoir.

Today, my purpose was simpler: to let you know more about me and where my “PhD in Sisterhood” truly began.

I welcome your questions, both here and in private messages. Honest conversation is the only way real sisterhood is built.

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The short answer is yes. Not because I’m obligated. But because I choose to be.

I’ve carried many dreams in this lifetime. Some are still forming, their edges soft and uncertain. Some are finally breathing, alive in ways I once only imagined. And one of them is happening right now… sharing my writing out loud.

These words used to live only in my journal. Private. Protected. Sacred. Safe in the shadows where no one could see them, judge them, or ask anything of me because of them.

And yet… here we are.

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But my biggest dream? It isn’t a book. Or a platform. Or even visibility.

It’s Sisterhood.

A global one.

A living, breathing connection between women who aren’t afraid of the work, the inner work that tears you open and rebuilds you, and the collective work that asks you to show up even when it’s uncomfortable. Women willing to roll up their sleeves and build something that will outlast us. Something our daughters’ daughters will inherit without ever knowing our names.

This Sisterhood isn’t rooted in religion, race, or class. It’s rooted in fire.

The fire that insists we reconnect to ourselves, to each other, to the ancient knowing that we were never meant to do this alone. The fire that says: I see you. I’ve been where you are. Let me help carry this.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have a polished blueprint or a five-step plan to make this real.

What I do have is trust.

Trust in what becomes possible when women choose unity over isolation. Compassion over competition. Presence over performance. When we stop pretending we have it all figured out and start admitting we’re all just doing our best with what we’ve been given.

We are the keepers of hope, not because we’re perfect, but because we refuse to let the light go out. We tend it. We pass it between us. We guard it fiercely when the world tries to snuff it out.

And I believe it’s time we bring it out of our thoughts, out of our prayers, out of our private longing…

…and into the world.

Not someday. Not when we’re ready.

Now.

Sister to sister… if you feel this too, you already belong. You don’t need permission. You don’t need credentials. You just need to be willing.

The circle is open.

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I need to tell you the truth.

I’ve been holding parts of myself back from you.

When I first started my Substack, I did a lot of reading. A lot. I was in awe. The writing here was alive, honest, vulnerable, unfiltered. And quietly, I wondered if I even belonged in a space like this.

With the world obsessed with videos, reels, and sound bites, I truly didn’t believe people still read. Substack changed that for me. It restored my faith in words and in the people who still value them.

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My very first post, “The Joi of Courage: The Joy of a New Beginning,” is the story that brought me my first subscriber. It’s about leaving the prison of fear and doubt that had me so tightly caged I could barely breathe. That prison was my former federal government job.

The photo I used in that piece? That’s me walking away on my very last day. For me, that building represented bondage. For those who’ve lived it, you don’t just see that joy on my face you feel it.

As time went on, with just one subscriber, I began sharing more of myself. I wasn’t only telling my story; I was writing in hopes that someone might recognize herself in it.

I’ve since realized this: what I have to say won’t be for everyone. And that’s okay.

Because when I sit down to write, I’m speaking to one woman.

I call her Angela.

She’s not an avatar. She’s personal.

We met standing in line at Walmart during the holiday season of 2024. I struck up a conversation because… well, I’m a social butterfly, and I love making people smile. We never formally introduced ourselves, we just started talking.

I noticed her leaning over the shopping cart, shoulders heavy, eyes tired. She was counting and recounting the items in her cart. We’ve all done that, but this felt different. You know that look. The one where the money in your pocket decides your grocery fate.

The moment that stays with me is when she quietly took a half carton of eggs out of her cart and placed it back on the shelf next to the chewing gum.

I won’t share every detail of our conversation, but I will say this: she was carrying the weight of the world. By the time she finished telling her story, she was crying… and so was I.

I watched her check out, leaving the eggs behind. Just before she walked away, I asked if I could hug her. I felt deeply that maybe I could pass a little hope to her. Just enough to help her face whatever waited outside those automatic doors.

So there we were. Hugging like sisters in the checkout line, strangers just moments before. I whispered in her ear that I prayed God would bless her life in ways she didn’t even know she needed and beyond anything she could imagine.

Then she walked away.

I have two regrets.
I should have bought those eggs for her.
And we should have exchanged names and contact information.

When I got into my car, I cried. Not polite tears but heavy sobbing. Those tears were for her. And in that moment, I named her Angela.

I never saw her again. But I think of her every time I write.

These words are for Angela and for every sister in an Angela season.
A season of feeling stuck.
A season of living life on a loop.
A moment when shit is just… heavy. Too heavy.

So I’m going to write more like this. I’m going to let you see what’s happening inside Joi, so you better understand what you see on the outside. That means not just the good days. Not just the wins. Because that’s not real life.

Angela needs me to keep it real.
And I suspect some of you do too.

My happy places are driving in my car, my office, time with my children and grandchildren… and I’ve recently realized Substack is my fourth happy place. It’s where I’m learning that I don’t have to perform. I can just be.

Some of you may never read past the title. Some of you might read every word. But I’m praying Angela finds me here. That she knows she’s not alone. And maybe… just maybe, she’ll tell me how hope has shown up in her life since the day we met in that Walmart line.

If this touched you, you’re welcome here.

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At 22, I was scared to leave my mother’s house with three babies and no plan. But I was more scared of who I’d become if I stayed.

At 51, I was scared to leave my marriage. But I was more scared of disappearing completely inside it.

Last year, I was scared to resign from my federal job with no safety net. But I was more scared of betraying everything I knew to be true.

Every time, the fear of leaving was enormous.
Every time, the fear of staying was bigger.

Today, I’m doing it again.

If you’re reading this, you’re one of 958 people who’ve chosen to follow my writing over the past eight months. That means something to me.

You didn’t follow me for a polished brand or a perfect content calendar. You followed me because something in my writing resonated. Because I’m naming a pattern that many of us are living:

Learning that staying in places that require us to shrink is more dangerous than the fear of leaving.

I came to Substack originally to build a coaching business. Zero people were interested. (The universe was clear on that one.)

But 824 of you showed up when I started writing about the pattern I’ve lived my entire life—leaving an abusive home at 22 with three babies, leaving a marriage, leaving faith communities, and most recently, resigning from federal service because I couldn’t serve the new administration with integrity.

This year, I’m returning to where I started: writing my memoir.

And I’m doing something that scares me: I’m turning on paid subscriptions.

Why This Feels Vulnerable

I’m not consistent. I write when I have something to say. I go quiet when I’m in the hard middle of something. I’ve never been good at performing productivity.

But I also know this book needs to exist. And I can’t write it properly while scrambling for survival income.

So I’m asking for support.

Not because I think you owe me anything. But because some of you have asked how to support this work. And because I’m trying to practice what I preach: asking for what I need, even when it’s terrifying.

What Changes (And What Doesn’t)

If you stay on the free tier (no judgment, genuinely):

• You’ll keep getting my essays and reflections

• Nothing changes from what you have now

• You’ll still be part of this community

If you upgrade to paid ($7/month or $70/year):

• You’ll get early access to memoir chapter excerpts as I write them

• Behind-the-scenes writing process (the messy middle, the breakthroughs, the doubts)

• Monthly exclusive essay or reflection

• First access to the finished book

• The knowledge that you’re making this book possible

Founding Members ($150/year):

• Everything in paid tier

• Acknowledged in the book (if you want)

• Signed copy when it’s published

• Quarterly Q&A or “office hours”

What I Can Promise

I can’t promise I’ll publish every week on a perfect schedule.

I can promise:

• Honesty about what it takes to write this book

• Chapter excerpts as I complete them

• The real story, not the highlight reel

• That your support directly enables me to write instead of hustle

If that’s enough, I’d be honored to have you as a paid subscriber.

If not, I’m genuinely grateful you’re here at all.

Why Now

Because I’m writing a book about women who refuse to betray themselves just to survive.

And right now, I’m standing at my own threshold:

I can keep writing for free while scrambling for income (staying).
Or I can ask for support to write this properly (leaving).

I was scared to do this. But I’m more scared of what happens if I don’t finish this book.

So here we go.

Thank you for being here. Whether you subscribe or not, whether you can afford it or not, whether this is your season to support or not—your presence matters.

Let’s see what happens when we stop shrinking.

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This past season gave me a lot of time with myself. Between my seasonal delivery job with UPS and battling the flu, life slowed me down in ways I didn’t plan, but clearly needed.

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There was no computer. Not even pen and paper.
Just my thoughts.
My past.
And a vision for my future.

I reflected on my wins in 2025… and there were more than I realized. As I took them in, I felt a deep sense of pride. I wasn’t where I want to be yet, but thank God I was no longer where I was.

The greatest revelation of this winter surprised me:

I have nothing to prove.
And I have so much to share.

I’m no longer the woman trying to convince someone to see me, value me, or choose me. I carry 61 years of lived wisdom and experience, and the women who need it will find their way to me.

What followed was a calm I can’t fully put into words.
A steady confidence.
A settled peace.
A quiet readiness for what’s next.

Maybe you’re feeling this too.

If you’re in a season of listening, you’re not behind.
You’re preparing.

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I’ve been in a season that is stretching me in every direction.
I picked up a seasonal job with UPS… yes ma’am, your girl is out here delivering packages through the hills of North Georgia like I’m training for the Amazon Olympics. Rain, mud, wild dogs, gravel roads, steep driveways… if it exists, I’ve met it.

And instead of feeling embarrassed, I feel strangely grounded.

This is what it looks like to build a dream with both hands and a pair of aching knees.
This is what it looks like to hold your vision steady even when your GPS gives up and basically says, “Good luck, Sis.”

I don’t just coach courage.
I live it. Sweaty, sore, and slightly dramatic.
And honestly? I’m proud of that.

Because here’s the quiet truth about this season:

Courage isn’t cute.

It’s not polished.
It doesn’t show up in perfect moments.
It shows up in the in-between. In the parts of life we wish nobody could see.

And maybe you’re in one of those in-between spaces too.
Trying to figure out your next step.
Trying to hold your head up when life pulls you sideways.
Trying to keep your faith steady in a season that feels uncertain.

Sis, I’m right there with you.

If you need clarity, direction, or someone to talk through your next brave move with, I opened a few spots this month for Courage Calls.

These sessions are warm, grounding, honest conversations, the kind that help you breathe again and move forward with intention.

👉 Book your Courage Call here: Free Courage Call Application with Joi

And if emailing feels easier, you can always reach me directly at:
thejoiofcourage@gmail.com

You’re not alone on your journey.
We’re walking through this season together… with truth, humor, and a whole lot of courage.

With love, strength, and slightly swollen ankles,
Joi

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I was a single mother of 3 by the time I was 22 years old. It’s weird to even say that now. Seeing it on the screen makes my 61-year-old mind say, “Damn, I was young!”
But when I was in the thick of it?
Chile… I felt ancient.

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Add to that the fact that they were stairsteps with two different fathers, and 61-year-old me laughs and says, “Girl, you were so fass…”
(Yes, spelled fass. I need you to pronounce it correctly. Smile.)

After my third child, I sat my friskiness down somewhere.
Now don’t get it twisted, I didn’t stop being fass.
I just learned to keep that part of my life separate from my babies.

They saw me co-parent with their fathers.
They didn’t see anything else.
And listen… juggling all that was NOT easy.

My mother would babysit, but her rules were carved in stone. Not open for negotiation. For them to spend the night, I had to:

• bring them already ready for bed

• make sure they were fully potty-trained

• pick them up by 7 a.m.

A rigid framework for my… shenanigans. But we do what we’ve gotta do when we’re twenty-something and determined.

My backup sitter was Helen. Hands down the best babysitter I ever had. She drove the school bus, had five kids of her own, and I trusted that woman with my life. This was the late ’80s and early ’90s, a totally different world. The only catch? If she kept them overnight, I had to pay her. Which meant an overnighter had to really be worth it for a struggling single mother.

I’m telling you all this so you can picture what young motherhood looked like for me while still trying to live a little. To be clear, I wasn’t out in the streets just to be out there. I was in search of a father and a husband. I was convinced that would give my little crew the stability we needed.

And I confess that I kissed quite a few frogs on the way.
Every one of them hit a brick wall the moment the conversation included my three little people. That’s when they’d hit me with the line I came to hate:

“I can’t handle a ready-made family.”

Translation: “I’m not signing up to raise another man’s children.”

Ready-made?
READY MADE?!
Man… f**k you.
Who came up with that BS?

My babies were not pre-packaged items sitting on a store shelf. They gave my life purpose and direction. No, they weren’t planned like a sitcom storyline, but they were the very thing that made me whole.

Now that I’m 61, I can see the truth so clearly: I was never some “ready-made family.” I was a young woman building a whole life from scratch, holding three little hearts together while trying to keep my own from cracking. And honestly? Any man who ran at the mention of my babies wasn’t wrong… he really couldn’t handle it.

But that had nothing to do with me.
That was their limitation, not my failure.

My kids weren’t baggage. They were the blessing that forced me to grow up faster, love deeper, hustle harder, and build a backbone I didn’t even know I had. They made me courageous long before I had language for courage.

And let me tell you something else:
I wasn’t a “ready-made” anything.
I was a full-course meal, seasoned, tender, cooked with soul… and those guys? They were barely warmed up.

They weren’t ready for the assignment that was me.

If anything was ready-made back then, it was the mother I was becoming.
My children didn’t make me less desirable, they made me unplayable.
They sharpened my instincts, my boundaries, my vision, and my faith.

So no… my little crew wasn’t an obstacle.
They were my origin story.

💬 Your Turn, Sis…

Did you ever raise babies before you were finished being one?
Did you ever love a man who wasn’t ready for the life you carried?
Or hear something careless like “ready-made family”?

If any part of my story made your chest tighten or your head nod, tell me in the comments.
We’re not alone in this.
Your story matters too.

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There’s no need for me to tell you his name.
You need only know that in another lifetime, he was the love of my life.

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Though I was already a mother of three when we met, I saw a future for us and the joy that filled my heart was impenetrable. Or so I thought…

Back then, I had a rule: the men I dated didn’t meet my children until I was sure the relationship was serious.
After nearly two years in, I finally felt ready.
I still have the pictures from that day: my babies smiling, him smiling, me smiling like God himself had signed off on my dreams.

I saw a future for us.
Let me say that again so you catch the weight of it:

I saw a future for us.

In my mind, I had already sent out the wedding invitations.
I was settling into a life I was convinced belonged to me.

Only to learn shortly after that he had wedding plans too…
Just not with me.

While we were dating (building chemistry, sharing secrets, making memories) he was pursuing someone else.
My whole heart shattered, and I limped away carrying the pieces of my self-esteem in the palms of my hands.

Fast-forward 25 years and two continents later.

I returned to the U.S., and through some mutual friends, we reconnected by text. It started simple with family updates, work, old friends. Nothing deep. Nothing dangerous.

And then one day… that message came.

The message.

The one you see pictured above.

I can’t explain the feeling.
It was like a weight I didn’t even know I was still carrying finally slid off my shoulders.
Like someone refunded a piece of me I thought I’d never see again.

I had given so much of myself back then… freely, openly, wholeheartedly.
And I left that relationship feeling robbed, denied, unseen.

But that text…
I’ll save the juicier details for my upcoming memoir.
Just know it touched me in a place time had not reached.

Why am I sharing this now?

Because it’s time.

And because the sender of that message has since passed away.

I believe he knew he was sick… that he was trying to ease his conscience, settle his spirit, make peace with his choices.
Maybe he was offering me the apology I didn’t know how much I still needed.

And here’s the truth:

His passing reminded me that closure doesn’t always come wrapped in conversation.
Sometimes it arrives quietly, in a text you weren’t expecting, from a man who finally found his courage too late.

Still, I honor that moment.
I honor the woman I was when we met… soft, hopeful, believing.
And I honor the woman I became after… wiser, grounded, and free.

The love was real.
The lesson was greater.

And now… I’m finally ready to tell the rest of that story.

This story is one doorway into a much bigger chapter of my life, one I’ve never told publicly until now.
I’m writing about it with the same honesty, hindsight, and courage you felt here.
If you want to walk with me as I finally put these pieces onto the page, stay close. More is coming.

Have you ever received an apology years after the hurt — and did it bring you closure, or open a new layer of healing?
Share your story in the comments. I read every single one.

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I tried to squeeze six decades, three continents, and a thousand reinventions onto one page.
Let me tell you… it’s not easy.

How do you condense the woman who raised four children, built a career in diplomacy, started over more than once, and still found the courage to dream again… into a few bullet points and a headshot?
You don’t.
You just do your best to tell the truth.

This is me doing that.

I finally pulled together my EPK (an electronic press kit, for anyone who’s wondering like I did the first time I heard it) which is basically a professional “about me” on steroids. It’s the page I’ll send when someone asks, “So, what do you speak about?” or “Who is Joi Milhous?”

It’s equal parts résumé, calling card, and reminder that courage doesn’t retire.

If you’ve followed my journey on Substack, you already know I write for women who are in their own “in-between”, not broken, just between versions of themselves. This page is one small way of saying: I’m still here. I’m still building. And I’m still beginning again.

💜 Here it is: Meet Joi Milhous EPK

— Joi

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