For the Woman Who Put the Eggs Back

A love letter to the ones carrying more than anyone sees

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.

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.