I Do

“Her complexity is a glorious fire that consumes, while her simplicity goes unapproachable. But if one takes time to understand her, there is something beautiful to find, something simple to be loved. But she goes unloved, for being misunderstood.”
—Anthony Liccione

If we’ve connected on Instagram, you already know I’m big on nostalgia—specifically (pronounced “Pacifically”) 90s nostalgia. I could spend an entire day watching reruns of Living Single, Martin, Beavis & Butthead, and bumping my 90s playlists. Honestly? I wish I could find a guy who makes me as happy as playing the arcade version of Street Fighter II at Coin-Op.

Lately, I’ve been doing these fun guessing games on IG, asking people how old they think I am in older photos (spoiler: I still look pretty youthful). One of the more popular posts was when I asked who inspired my choice in glasses. The answer? The one and only Lisa Loeb.

She inspired this piece.

Lisa wrote my favorite song of hers out of sheer frustration with her record label—a response to feeling misunderstood and pressured to compromise her artistic vision. At the time, she was being told her album wasn’t “complete” because it lacked more hit singles. She knew better. She felt it was done. So she did what real artists do—channeled it into her work.

At first, I thought the song was about feeling unheard in a relationship. But once I learned the backstory, it hit differently.

Alexa, play “I Do” by Lisa Loeb…

“When I'm done with thinking
Then I'm done with you
And when I'm done with crying
Then I'm done with you
When I feel so tired
Then I'm done with you”

Looking back, I wish I had Lisa’s courage during the days I was building a following for my old football blog. I was gaining traction—some real recognition. Even NFL legends like Warren Moon were following me. Yes, that Warren Moon. I was outside of my body when that happened. Marcellus Wiley followed me too, though I think that had more to do with my thirst tweet about still having the Chargers shirt he signed when he visited my high school.

One of the coolest moments? A Jaguars beat writer followed me after I wrote a piece predicting they'd be competitive in 7 years (which... they were, for a bit). He messaged me privately to say I was a talented writer and gave me a few pointers. He had a verified check when that actually meant something. I was flying high.

So of course, I went to share that excitement with my then-boyfriend—“8 Mile” (if you’ve read You’re Losing Me, you know the one). His response? He didn’t care. Didn’t want to read it. Didn’t even want to hear me read it. Just shrugged and went back to watching Seinfeld.

It wasn’t about football—he was a die-hard Lions fan and we even co-managed a fantasy team. He just didn’t care about my writing. About me. I guess because it wasn’t bringing in money at the time, he couldn’t be bothered. Even with the clear signs of momentum building, it meant nothing to him.

“And I do
You can't hear it, but I do
You can't hear it, but I'm feeling this way
Just because you say
I will be ignored and I will be denied
And I could be erased, I could be brushed aside
And I will get scared and I will get shoved down
But I feel like I do because you push me around”

If I’m honest, I haven’t had many supportive partners when it comes to my writing. Just one. We met when I was writing sports articles for our community college newspaper. After I mentioned I was a writer, he started collecting my pieces. The next semester, I became the sports editor on another campus. Production days were long, but I wouldn’t trade those nights in the newsroom for anything. It sharpened me. I still have my old AP Stylebook—even though it’s well over a decade old and desperately outdated.

Contrast that with the most unsupportive partner, who once told me no one cared what I thought. That I wasn’t an influencer. That I wasn’t important. This was while I had almost 500 Twitter followers—compared to his 30-something—and I was getting real traction. But apparently, that didn’t matter. He tried to control what I posted, said no one cared what I had to say.

(For the record, I have almost 3,000 followers on Threads now, so he can put that in his pipe and smoke it. Yes, that was a Petty Murphy moment. I earned it.)

“I'm starting to ignore you (ignore you)
Now, I doubted you so long
I'm tired of over-thinking
I know you don't belong
Now, I'm asking questions
No one pushes me around”

I let his words get to me. I deleted that Twitter account I’d worked so hard to build. I regretted it immediately. Never let someone who wants to dim your light dictate how brightly you shine. He even threw shots at my writing when we broke up. Because that’s what emotionally abusive narcissists do.

But guess what? I still write.

They can't push me around anymore. None of them can. I’ve been a writer since I created my own neighborhood newspaper at seven years old. Since my fourth-grade creative writing teacher would light up whenever I shared the stories I made up using my imagination, artwork, and maps from my atlas—because anywhere was better than where I was.

I’m going to keep writing—not for followers, not for likes, not even for validation. I write because I’m good at it. Because I have to. It’s how I breathe. It’s how I survive. It’s how I make sense of the chaos—internal and external.

Can’t nobody tell me nothin’.

🎧 Bonus: The Soundtrack to This Story

Want to hear the songs that inspired this piece (and others)?
🎶 Check out “Soundtrack to My Life” in the navigation bar — my personal Apple Music playlist with all the vibes that helped shape these stories.

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Link in bio — come for the throwbacks, stay for the vibes.