Like the majority of the free world, I’ve been enjoying Beyoncé’s latest effort, Lemonade, for the past week. Like her 2013 eponymous album, Beyoncé gives us a glimpse into her inner sanctum as a wife, mother, daughter, and sister. Whether or not her lyrical evisceration is directed towards her husband, father, or former brother-in-law, the album is indeed a love letter to Black women globally who can intimately relate to its content. Beyoncé is incredibly transparent and vulnerable in this work. She sings with technical precision and emotional fire of a tale as old as time: love, betrayal, pain, and forgiveness as love conquers all. She has channeled her experiences and observations into a piece of art to remind us that when life hands us lemons, it is our duty to make lemonade.
But what happens when you’d prefer to have lemons rather than lemonade? When you’ve decided that lemons of bitterness, anger, and emotional disconnect have become a guard to a broken heart?
As I discussed the album with my sister circle, we all could agree that this album was by and for us. Yet while they all gushed over the love songs and saw their marriages and relationships in the words, I grimaced inside. I rationalized that it was because I’m single but the more I gave it serious thought I had to acknowledge the truth: I have a profound fear of feminine vulnerability.
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