DC, do you love me? I mean really, do you love me?

Each time we meet, we’re met with heartbreak…and it always happens in August. Hurricane season. Irene and Harvey. Maybe if I have children, I’ll name them in your honor.

Yet, I’m drawn to you. The bad, worse, and ugly. I cannot get enough. Am I a masochist? You send an energy, a sense of energy and purpose through me. Your only rival? Chicago’s academia. When we met, I was enamored by your historic buildings and wealthy neighborhoods of my people. I was also taken by U Street (RIP) where I would spend hours in Starbucks—people watching. That was 2009.

I yearn for the stress you cause. I only feel “at home” when I’m truly in your energy. Be that walking around downtown during the afternoon or hanging out with our people in one of the quadrants…I. want. you.

Maybe I am a masochist.

You took this Midwestern girl and showed her she could believe in herself. You presented an encourager, motivator. Boy did I know that you’d soon change your mind.

It never fails…

As I start to find myself, and truly develop…you throw a wrench. You cause something to tear me down. Last time, you used politics. This time, the church.

Why do you hate me? Perhaps you pull out my best side, and I’m still terrified.