Sisterhood: The Inner Connection

How I Earned My PhD in Sisterhood

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.