What We Should All Take Away From Nipsey Hussle's Death


It's okay if you haven't listened to his music enough to be able to identify his songs on the radio, or that you had to Google Crenshaw to understand why his absolutely tragic and senseless murder—at the age of just thirty-three, in the parking lot of his Marathon Clothing store located in the middle of his beloved hood—cuts the West Coast the deepest. And it's okay if you prejudged him based on the aforementioned.

What matters is that you acknowledge the irrefutable and profound positive impact—Grammy-nominated rapper, creative, entrepreneur, tech geek, and community leader—Nipsey Hussle has left behind in what should be all of our minds and hearts. 

If we take away anything from this sad premature loss of someone who believed, “The highest human act is to inspire,” let it be this: Make it happen for yourself. A self-made entrepreneurial genius, if one thing is for sure it's that Nipsey wasn't in the business of making excuses, building his net worth reported to be in the millions of dollars. Love. Your loudest, your proudest. Nipsey showed just as much love as he received, primarily to his South Central LA community where he gave back (including providing job opportunities and educational resources), and championed tirelessly to uplift.

The overwhelmingly unexpected surge of unity and love amassed by the man born Ermias Asghedom convincingly stretches far beyond our own purview. (Or just ask Barack Obama. He paid tribute to the late great in a letter.)

On Art, John Mayer, and Creating Your Own Lane


I generally don't substitute disclaimers for introductions, but in the interest of fairness and upon obvious consideration of my mounds of self description as both a feminist and gay black woman, I feel it's necessary to express how disappointed I was as a longtime fan to read some of John's past hurtful remarks regarding women; black women, specifically. Also, his imperious use of the n-word and the f-word. In no way do I condone toxic masculinity, racism, or homophobia, and judging from the lengthy apology issued by Mayer—that has since garnered enough of a believability rating to make it to TIME's “Top 10 Apologies” list—neither does he and for that I am thankful and relieved to know. Now would also be an appropriate time to refrain myself from ever having to say, “JAHN, STAHP!”

From the heights of a pyramid compiled with printed rejection and ignored emails throughout the years of my writing career, I would like to read aloud at the top of my lungs something John once wrote:

“Don't flinch. This day and age won't last forever. It will come back to the real deal and when it does everyone will look around to take stock in who flinched and who just kept to the art. That achievement will be more high tech than any high technology.”

His intellectual engine doesn't take long to turn over, that is, he just gets it. Even if I hadn't accepted his apology, the fact would still remain that we share a common vernacular for balancing uncompromisable art and human trepidation. Despite having my humble work as a writer of poetry celebrated, it took me a long time to fully embrace the title “poet.”

“Poetry is not something I do. It's this incurable, chaotic thing I am.”

Initially my reluctance was due to a sense of looming limitation. How would my deeper forms of writing and my writing of this stuff ever intersect? And on the off chance that they did, where were all the signs pointing to those two-lane roads? (Talk about a roundabout of confusion when all you're trying to do is the thing you love, which is to write. Mostly, you just want to pull over into the breakdown lane and cry.) There aren't as many spaces—that allow for content flexibility for someone like me—as one might think.

That was when it occurred to me, “Hey, there are no spaces you need to fit in order to be validated as a real writer.” I stopped pitching to publications and started visualizing my own space that would afford me the luxury of the freedom of relaxed duality, and so MelissaMTripp.com was born.

I've quite literally created my own lane and I haven't looked back since. 

Here's Why Heartbreak Is Currency


The rawest human proof, heartbreak reveals a common thread through the emotional maladies: being at the mercy of a broken heart.

As someone whose healing journey is indefinite, in the midst of all this mending is the most valuable and powerful lesson of all—you don't need to become embittered before things get better. Nor do you need to purposely hurt others in a vain attempt to prove a point. By living and operating from a place purely driven by deeply unresolved animosity and emotional venom, not only do you generate bad karma for yourself, but you further compound everything you can't unfeel and I can't think of a more tragic irony. 

Forgiveness is the economy of the heart. Forgiveness saves the expense of anger, the cost of hatred, the waste of spirits.
— Hannah More

An affirmation that has impacted me so much it lives permanently on my left forearm. To remind me. To allow for honest reflection. To channel into a masterpiece. (That last one? The open waters of acknowledging my value still makes me feel incredibly shrunken and exposed at times. Hey, I'm only human.) To keep me where I need to be. To carve identity and get to know myself far away from the spaces I once thought I needed to fit. To continue appreciating the things that don't hurt. To remember to forgive myself, too. (If you're reading this, it's okay to stop mentally brutalizing yourself for the things that can't be undone, redone, or even answered. Want to reverse regret? Don't let the lessons be for nothing and pay more homage to your literal and figurative teachers.)

An open heart is the sole ingredient in the recipe for owning your heartbreak. I know that may sound a bit strange, even possibly conflicting, but I can personally attest to the validity in the remarkable healing power of giving and receiving more love than you resist. While there's a lot that still weighs me down internally—having loved and gotten my heart shattered more times than I can count if I were actually tallying—in addition to being a grieving daughter, granddaughter, cat mom, niece, cousin, and friend (occasionally keeping me up at night), healing is happening to me in the most unusual, unexpected, and small forms. 

Yes, healing happens.