Mommy Noire: How to be the Belle of Your Own Life

Demetria Lucas is much more than just the latest reality star. The educated beauty and southern belle is a journalist, life coach and award-winning blogger. You can find her on Twitter giving relationship advice or on the web’s most popular sites with her often controversial opinion pieces that are right on the money. The word "socialite" is bandied about way too much but in this case it’s appropriate. Demetria’s “Cocktails with Belle” are a fun, NYC staple and her bestseller “A Belle in Brooklyn” left fans hungry for more. This is Demetria’s moment and she is representing us well. She’s holding her own on Bravo’s hit, new series “Blood, Sweat and Heels” and also releasing a new advice guide, “Don’t Waste Your Pretty.” Let’s see what we can learn from this woman about town about life, love and personal power…

Abiola: Welcome, Belle. Let’s talk about your newest book, “Don’t Waste Your Pretty.” What motivated you to write it?

As a life coach and dating and relationship expert, I talk to women all the time. I pinpointed some very key mistakes that we make when it comes to dating and relationships.  And it’s just because we were never taught.  So “Don’t Waste Your Pretty” is really about not wasting your effort, not wasting your energy, not wasting your looks–because that’s important, too–on the wrong guy.

Sometimes we meet somebody and we get so caught up in emotions that we want things to work.  We want him to be a great guy and just the facts in front of us are not really panning out.  He’s not willing to commit. He’s not treating us the way that we want.  He’s not picking up the phone to call; he’s just texting. So I’m trying to get women to see who’s a good catch, who deserves their energy and who they should just pass on by.

Abiola: You always come from a place of women’s strength and women’s power. You’re also a ‘woman’s woman’ in real life. Anytime that there has been an opportunity for you to recommend my name or open the door for me, you have. Thank you. With that same ‘woman’s woman’ energy you have an exciting, new show, “Blood, Sweat and Heels.” Miss Demetria, you are officially you a Bravo-lebrity.

It’s such a fun ride.  The Bravo-lebrity thing is just so weird to me.  I've watched Bravo  obsessively like Saturday afternoons and it’s raining outside I lay in bed and watch Bravo. I have my wine at night for Sundays and to turn on to the “Real Housewives of Atlanta” and “Married to Medicine” ladies.  So, it’s very exciting. It’s very humbling as well. “Blood, Sweat and Heels” is all about the personal and professional lives of black women in New York City and there are so many of us that could have been picked for the show.  You’re here so you know. We grind, we hustle, we put a lot on the back burner in trying to pursue our dreams.  So, I’m just very honored to represent those women who are on point and will be really looking to see a representation of themselves on television.

Abiola: What do you think of your portrayal so far in the series?

The response that I’ve been getting has been absolutely overwhelming.  You put yourself out there, you never know if people are going to like you or [how] they’re going to respond to you.  What I’m getting more than anything is “strong, independent and proud.”

Just to be transparent, I’m a journalist. I’m known for the Essence background. I’ve been very critical of the way that some women behave on reality television. And so when it was announced that I was part of the show, people were like, “What have you done? What are you doing?” And [people who know of me] weren’t really sure what to expect.  So, that hurt a little bit.

But since the episodes that have come out people are like, “I respect what you’re doing. I see what you’re doing with the brand. It’s all over the show. I didn’t get it but I got it now.” It’s like, “Carry on, D.”  It’s like, “We trust you with this now.”

Read more: here

The Root: Why Don't All Women Think They Can Lead?

"Can a woman really make a good leader?"

I rolled my eyes dramatically and looked out at the Brooklyn, N.Y., skyline. I'd been invited to a rooftop event, a monthly brunch when a group of mostly accomplished women, with degrees and jobs and probably a side hustle or two, gather to network.

Usually I prefer brunches where attendees are left to their own devices to sip champers and talk among ourselves about whatever strikes our fancy. But this particular hostess organizes the conversation, an icebreaker of sorts to make sure we're all engaged. This isn't a bad idea. I just wished that the topic she'd picked was something juicy that would spark some quality debate. Usually we discuss dating and relationships, but this day she was branching out.

Back in March, the New York Times posed a similar question as the topic for its popular "Room for Debate" series. Across the Internet, women collectively were offended that the question even was being asked in 2013. There have been several studies by the Harvard Business Review suggesting that not only are women fit to lead but they also make better leaders, a conclusion reached by men and women alike.

It's a foregone conclusion with a resounding yes -- yes! A woman can lead. Asking about women's capability as if it is somehow up for debate is like seriously asking, "Do you think water is wet enough?" The flak over the Times' question was so bad that the publication ran a follow-up storyon all the negative feedback.

So there I sat, surrounded by women, gazing blankly at the Barclays Center in the distance and wondering what woman in her right mind was going to say, "No, no -- I, woman, think a woman would make an unfit leader simply because she is a woman."

And then the woman sitting next to me spoke up. "Well, it depends," she began, instead of giving the "Uh, duh" I expected to hear.

"Women are more emotional, and we have PMS and that affects our thinking," she said. "I would only support a woman leader if her No. 2 was a man who could check to make sure she was being logical and giving a rational opinion."

I like to think of myself as quick-witted, but on this day, I was uncharacteristically slow. I'm used to hearing this sort of opinion from some men, mostly unintentional misogynists or those well-meaning men who are clueless (or in denial) about male privilege and would like to pretend that their perks are God's will instead of a social construction. But I didn't expect a woman -- not in 2013 -- to think she couldn't do anything a man can do.

I was raised by a mother who might shy away from calling herself a feminist because of the bra-burning, man-hating (both incorrect) associations. But she told me until I internalized it, "You can do anything a boy can do" (and anything I set my mind to).

BSH: Is It Ever Okay to Snoop on Your Mate?

Over the weekend, I attended a brunch where I had an interesting discussion with a few women, some of who hold a rather cynical view of relationships. The cynics believed that all men are capable cheating, and further this makes them justified in snooping through emails, cell phones, voicemails and stalking her significant other (and all potentials for the position) on social media. Their position: if you don't check that a man is cheating, then how do you really know he isn't? Le sigh. 

Admittedly, this outlook isn't exactly farfetched. According to a study on Men's Fitness, 70 percent of women do an online search before agreeing to go out with a guy, and 63 percent of guys do the same before going on a first date. The same poll also found that 49 percent  of women have checked their lover's computer history, and 76 percent go through the e-mail inbox if it's "accidentally" left open.

If you've ever read anything I've written on cheating and snooping, then you know my position: this is ludicrous. All of it.

Do all men have capability of cheating? Of course. (All women do too.) Do all men-- or women-- cheat? No. There are people, including men, who don't. There is a type of person who is or becomes dissatisfied or just desires what you aren't offering and they leave to explore other horizons as a single person who can do as they please with no accountability to anyone but themselves. That's the type of person we should all desire to be with.

If that's not the type of person you believe you are with, snooping is still not okay. Here's the thing, digging through pockets and cracking passwords is a sign that you don't trust your mate. Trust (and communication) are the core foundations of any relationship. If you lack trust, then I have to wonder why you are there. And further, if you believe all men cheat and you're not okay with cheating, then why do you even want a man? If you have this outlook, either you putting up with cheating or staying with a man who cheats is the inevitable outcome, no?

I threw that logic out there and was met with this: D, you can't really know if a man is cheating unless you check. You should respect yourself enough to want to know the whole truth.

To which I countered: you should have more faith in yourself enough to pick a good mate and know when something's up.

One of the women shot back that she was once engaged-- her first of four times--  after six months of dating. Via snooping she found that the man she was betrothed to had a long-term girlfriend. She said she had no suspicions that there was another woman; she was just going through her routine look-see into his emails. "How else would I have known about her if I hadn't looked?" she asked.

I countered that if she dated him longer-- you know how I feel about dating for seasons to get to know people-- she more than likely would have found out. I also think there were some major signs she must have overlooked. He's juggling two serious relationships and she had no clue whatsoever that something was amiss?

Another woman added that she snooped on her ex and discovered that he had four women on the side. She knew something was up when they had plans to return home after a vacation, and suddenly he had to fly to another destination "for business." So she snooped, found about the other women, and actually gave a call to at least one of them for more information.

"For what?" I asked.

She wanted details.

"But why did they matter?"

I was so baffled by her admission that I don't remember her answer. (My core view on calling another woman to ask about your man is that is her man, not "yours". I mean, she has more information on "your" alleged man than you do, right?)

Back to that first "thing" though: if you genuinely think your partner is lying, then whether they are or not is irrelevant. It's still time to go, either to the exit, or if it's worth it, to a therapist. A relationship without trust is inherently dysfunctional, and going nowhere fast.

I wish more women would recognize this, this being that it's okay to just trust themselves. There's no need to reduce yourself to a a crazed super-sleuth by digging through emails and social media platforms. They're making a simple issue unnecessarily complicated. Trust yourself to pick a good mate. If you can't trust him, leave. Find someone you can trust, and if you can't do that, head to a therapist-- it's not the domain of a life coach-- who can help you deal with your own trust issues.

And this leads me to a second thing: What if you snoop-- with no intentions of getting caught, of course-- and find nothing… but then your partner finds out you're snooping? That's a huge violation, a  flashing red sign that you don't trust him, and a sign that he can't trust you. What kind of relationship is that?

Maybe I'm Crazy (33, the Belated Birthday Post)

At 32*, I wrote about not finding that fine line between between being a brand and being well, me. I never figured out which side to fall on. In fact, I’m more confused now than ever. I just habitually line step and hope for the best.

There was a time when I could say what I wanted with out much clapback other than a call from my father about the number of f-bombs I drop.  I was essentially a fart in a mitten, the term once used to describe the societal usefulness of Paris Hilton. I was mostly writing for myself to get the thoughts out of my head so I could sleep at night.

Over time, I’ve been fortunate enough to have people give a f*** (sorry, Dad), which is a blessing and a curse (more on that later). A blessing for the obvious reason—I love what I do and I can do it from anywhere. Writing has brought me a freedom, professionally and personally, that I never imagined. On good days, I marvel at how I operate. The idea of sharing my thoughts and being paid for what I love doing from anywhere in the world? Every time I deposit a check, I’m amazed.

I listen to Alicia Keys’s new album a lot. On "Brand New Me", she sings “It took a long, long road to get here/it took a brave, brave girl to try.” The long, long road? I get that. But I don’t think of myself as brave. More like risky. I wonder how long this lasts. I’m sure about today. It’s the tomorrows that occasionally keep me up late.

The curse is my doubts. I like to think of myself as a hustler—not the get over kind, more like put in work. I met with the publisher of Uptown once, my hustle icon. And he told me when you work for yourself, “you eat what you kill.” When my back is against the wall, I kill. I like that about me.

I lost a cushy contract last month, and didn’t even take time to sulk.  I’d talked to my Dad just after I got the news, when he was on his way to the airport. I hit up my contacts, landed two to replace one in six hours. By the time he landed, I was straight again. He was impressed. So was I.

But sometimes I wonder if I’m just a dreamer who’s luck hasn’t run out yet. Most of what I do is easy. I can write with my eyes closed. I’ve honed a skill that comes naturally. I feel lucky more than I feel talented.

That sounds self-depreciating and I thought that meant something was wrong because I’m supposed to be confident, right? But then, I talked to other women and many say the same thing. I think that’s supposed to make me feel “normal”, but I think no, maybe we’re all just screwed. And maybe that is normal too.

I don’t think I’m supposed to say that as a life coach or advisor though. Life coaches are supposed to have it all figured out. Isn’t that why people hire us? Like if I have fears and doubts, does that make me unqualified to help people work through theirs? Or does that make me more equipped?

I do know that anyone who tells you they have it all together is bold-faced lying and you should run because they are sociopaths. I know a lot of things that are true. Trying to apply them? Sometimes I say and read things that are empowering, but I occasionally have trouble believing them or practing them. Faith is believing what you can’t see or touch. So I have faith, and I hope. I haven't mustered the audacity to wish.

Over the years, I stopped writing about my life so much. I always held back certain details, but I wrote this story once, inching up the curtain higher. It was how I came up, where I go, what I do. I wasn’t bragging, just being honest and setting the scene to make a larger point. What I said wasn’t even impressive to me, as everyone I really know lives a similar life. But I received this huge backlash. Apparently I grew up in a bubble, was living in one and I was bragging. By then there was a book coming, and I was one of the faces of The Magazine and I was popping up on TV.  I panicked about the brand, me, being unrelatable. If they don’t like me, will they still buy the book?  Will they read the column and blog? Will they watch? Will “they” care? I spent way too much time thining about “they”.

Ultimately, I decided: I didn’t work this hard to self-implode here. So I shut up.

In some ways, I felt like I was becoming unrelatable. Of course, there were people who got it, but many more who didn’t. And I blamed “them” for not getting it until I called Tariq to tell him about who called, and what they offered, and who I met that knew my name and where I went and was going and he would just say, “Wow, baby girl!” And then, I called him to complain about this deal and that one and how they conflicted and I how they wanted X in exchange for Y and should I go with A, B or C?  And I wondered if I was being greedy to want both when I "should have been" happy with just one. And my boy, who had always had all the answers said, “Damn, I don’t know. It’s over my head.”

Shit. Mine too.

My world it moves so fast today The past it seems so far away, And life, squeezes so tight that i can't breathe

There was also just weird sh** happening that I'll never get used to. Women come up to me shaking and teary and they say what my blog or my story or my writing did for them. Nothing prepares you for that. I say,  “thank you” and really mean it because I’m glad just writing could resonate with someone. But in my head, I think, “all I do is write. Really?” And then I think about how I couldn’t get my words straight the first time I met Terry McMillan. I’m good, but I’m no Terry McMillan. (Yet?) Other times, I meet people, and they immediately start talking about what they read that I wrote. And I get being a published writer is a big deal in some circles. But I’m a writer. It’s what we’re supposed to do, write, right?

I skipped an annual party I live for to go to Tariq’s wedding in Maryland. It killed me to miss it, but there was no way I was missing my best friend’s wedding. There were a lot of people from college there. These are guys who I vacay’d with, who have crashed on my couch and/or floor, who I’ve driven home because I’d stopped drinking when I realized everyone else wasn’t going to. I’ve been one of two human crutches to get them upstairs and in a bed face down so they didn’t choke on their own vomit. But that was years ago. They’re husbands and responsible fathers now.

I spoke to one of them at the wedding, one of those dudes I looked out for and had looked out for me. I offered a big “Heyyyyyy” and he said, “hello” respecfully and introduced me to his wife as “Tariq’s friend. The one who wrote the book.”  Really? That's it? I wasn't going to start telling old stories there (I've never even written about those years). Plus, I had my ring on and CBW was right there. I wasn’t some perceived threat of a single girl. His wife beamed and told me she read my book and loved it. I thanked her as my heart broke.

Later that night, Tariq’s wife thanked me for coming to their wedding. Huh? “You thought I would miss it?” She said sincerely, “I don’t know. I just thought you might be too busy.” For your wedding?!

I wondered then if it was something I was giving off. It wasn’t the first time I’d been treated apart. It had become something quite common. And I had grown used to it in some circles, but not from my friends. They matter, but somehow I didn’t feel they felt that they did. There was this weird distance between all of us. I talked to Tariq about it after his honeymoon and he said, “You’ve been in New York a longtime. They see you on TV more than they see you, D.”

Wow.

There are so many stories I want to tell, but there are unspoken rules now. You don’t talk about what happens behind the scenes and confidentiality contracts are iron-clad. That and I never want to be perceived as bragging again. Also,  I feel like if I speak about something before the ink is dry, then it won’t happen. And after a good run, I don’t want to look a failure when I say, “I met XX  and they promised YY” and then nothing ever comes from it. So I talk to a small group of five people. And I talk to myself in the mirror too. I say, sometimes through tears, “God didn’t bring you this far just to drop you off here.” And for awhile I’m convinced and then I doubt again. And I start over. When it's nice out, I ride my bike to the park and talk to the ducks. I’m sure people see me and think I’m crazy, but that’s actually how I keep myself sane. Go figure.

I read a Samuel L. Jackson profile in New York Magazine once. He talked about being a stage actor and wanting to do Hollywood. His manager told him to be patient. “If Hollywood wants you, they will call,” he said. So Jackson waited, and waited, and he called his manager every now and again to ask if they called and the answer was “no”. He kept going until one day they called. And then he went to Hollywood.

I got that call, actually three times. I packed my bags with my best dresses and headed West. I had pool side meetings and sat in cushy offices with big windows with views overlooking the hills and sometimes the ocean. I looked out and allowed myself to dream that what I want now is possible. I talked to executive producers at the top production companies and networks.  I did my little song and dance, telling my story and selling myself (but not my soul), trying to make them like me, really like me. They told me I was great I what I’d be perfect for. And I beamed. And they called back and took calls from my team, which my manager swears is a good sign.

I went back and shimmed some more. And a third time. And they still take the calls, and they say, “yes, she’s on our radar.” And I do the auditions and everyone raves. But then projects gets delayed or dropped or they haven’t found the vehicle for me just yet. “Soon” they say. “Soon.” My manager insists this is part of the process. I trust her or maybe I just want to believe my effort isn't in vain. Actually, both.

And so I wait. I watch others get on. And I’m genuinely happy for them. I think of them as paving the way.  I watch how they move and adopt the best practices. Tweak that, fine tune this, expand into uncharted territory.  But I still wait.

The wait is what kills me, makes me think about giving up, getting a day job at the library (surrounded my books) and calling my dreams a wrap.

My manager isn’t just the woman who books me for gigs, she’s also my therapist. So is one of my lawyers. So is CBW. So is my wife. They, along with Tariq, share the full-time job of managing me when I get to listening to Lauryn Hill Unplugged and start equating my life to scenes from The Wire.

“Remember when Stringer Bell wanted to kill Senator Davis?” I begin. CBW knows this is his cue to pause whatever show he’s watching on TV or look up from his laptop. “And Avon told him that Slim Charles wasn’t built for that and Stringer needed a jackal? And Stringer had this plan to get out of drug dealing? And Avon told him he was caught between two worlds? Maybe too good for the street and not good enough for what’s beyond that? Remember that?”

CBW nods dutifully.  We’ve had this conversation a million times.

“What if that’s me?” I ask. "Too good for a cubicle, but not good enough for anything else?"

He assures me it isn’t the case. And I want to believe him too, but I want what I want and I want it now and all I hear is “soon.” Sometimes there’s even a date, but those deadlines come and go. And new unfulfilled promises come too. I‘ve learned not to believe in anything until it actually happens. I think it's making me jaded.

My manager reminds me, “success isn’t an sprint, it’s a marathon.” She reminds me of my best traits and what’s on the table: plenty of offers that come with contracts and hefty lawyer fees. I look at my dwindling account, the money from my book advance and writing round-the-clock. I repeat to myself, "this is an investment in your future." But I also think of how I lived this crazy life to write this blog, to get that book to get that check and I see the money flying out the window. I’m gambling and I sometimes I have the sinking feeling that maybe I’m not the investment that I thought I was. Maybe I should have bought stock.

In the 3AM hours, I think about this woman I sat on a panel with at NYU once. She was pushing for a news anchor job and getting rejected over and over and over. And then someone told her “go where the water’s warm.” So she executive produced her own Internet show, and she’s been thriving ever since. Writing is warm water.  Coaching is lukewarm, but getting warmer. Maybe this is where I should stay. Writing and coaching work out for me consistently. TV is like the water in Cape Town. Cold. Is swimming where I am settling or is it sensible?

I don’t know.  And that’s when I go stand in the mirror and talk to myself.

In the quiet hours when I don’t have a deadline hanging over my head, I wonder if I’m crazy. If I should have stayed in my cubicle and chosen building someone else’s dream over my own. Enough people told me I should have been happy with that and I wonder if I thought too highly of myself by trying to do something different. I remind myself that if I stayed, I wouldn’t be able to "see some world" or earn in a couple days what I used to clear in two weeks at 100 hours. The Magazine had a future mapped out though. It was certain, at least for awhile longer anyway. I liked my work there. I liked my co-workers. It held a prestige. I’d say, “Oh, I work for The Magazine” and people were automatically impressed. I liked that feeling.

I didn’t want to leave. I had to and I was in the position to, so I did.

No time soon will I tell what my breaking point was—the moment that made me reach across the conference room table to my mentor and say, “I can’t do this anymore.” (A month later, I was out.) But I will tell you about the social media conference I watched on YouTube. It was a new entrepreneurs panel, and this guy talked about how he started this side business while he had a full-time job. It was rapidly successful and he ended up on The Today Show. He talked about how it’s so hard to get to that level of exposure, and you have a six-month window to capitalize it. That same day, a prominent new author was on Twitter complaining that Black authors didn’t get the same exposure as white authors. “We don’t get the Today Show,” she wrote.

Actually, I’d taped the Today Show that morning. It would air the next day.

Early one morning, I got all dolled up, and hopped in the black car the studio sent. Traffic was heavy and I was late, but I tried to look at the bright side: more time to practice for whatever questions they might lob at me. (No, they don't give you the questions in advance.) I rehearsed answering every possible question in front of my laptop camera for weeks.

My make-up artist was even later than me. She beat the hell out of my face in 15 minutes, and I ran upstairs to the set barefoot. I waited backstage, nervous like I’d never been as I slipped into unsteady heels, poofed up my falling hair (not enough spritz) as I prayed with my eyes open, “If You gotta drop me off, not here. Just not here.”

After the taping, I kept my fancy dress on to walk in flip-flops around the corner to my office where I changed into a comfier outfit. I sat in my cubicle and pretended the biggest moment of my life hadn't just happened. I'd become annoyingly good at that.

So I watched that live stream, and I read that tweet. And I went to that meeting where what happened, happened, and I reached across the table and said what I said because I had a rare chance, and too I was tired of pretending that what was a big deal wasn't and I thought it would be stupid not go after my dream. Chasing it was "urgent like a motherfucker" (Sorry, Dad.) I had a lot to lose either way. But I’d tried the cubicle and that was that. What would happen if I tried something else, if I tried Team Me?

I couldn’t be okay with not trying.

When I’m feeling optimistic, I re-tell myself that story like it happened to someone else. I remind myself that writing got me to where I was, and to where I am and if I’m not able to get any further, then at least I got here. I tried. If I fail, I can go back to a cubicle, knowing at least I gave me my best shot. I can be okay with that.

I think. I hope. I pray.

Fin

*(I'm at not 33 in this pic. I think this is my 27th birthday)