I remember the first day I stepped foot in Atlanta.

It was a hot Saturday; August 7th, to be exact. The kind of Southern heat that settles into your skin and stays awhile. Back then, the city still moved differently. Stores closed on Sundays. You could cruise through the city without interruption. Cheesecake still sat on Peachtree Street like a landmark, and downtown was a place you rarely needed to be. The Underground had already become a memory, not a destination.

2010 feels like another lifetime now.

But even then, Atlanta welcomed me with open arms.

The truth is… I never embraced her.

She loved on me like the city cousin who just showed up to the family reunion familiar, warm, a little loud, but undeniably yours. We had so many similarities, Atlanta and I. We just saw the world differently. Memphis taught me to appreciate the whole wing. Atlanta? She preferred them parted flats and drums, dressed up and ready for the party.

We lived similar lives, but Atlanta had more sparkle. More motion. More possibility.

I never fell in love with the city. Not in the way people say they do.

She just took me in and never let go.

Even when I tried to leave, she held on to me tightly, like she knew something I didn’t. Like she understood that what we were building together had only just begun.

And somewhere along the way, I started to notice her differently.

I love the way she sounds in the peak of spring, when the patios open, laughter spills into the streets, and the sun sets slow and golden across the skyline. I love the way she makes room for everybody. From the scammers to the actresses, from the dreamers to the women still figuring out who they are becoming Atlanta embraces them all without question.

She did the same for me.

As I’ve grown, we’ve grown together.

I’ve watched her rise buildings stretching higher into the sky, the Beltline curving through the city like it was always meant to be there. Even the wing spots, lined up on corners and tucked into neighborhoods feel like institutions. Like churches. Places you return to, over and over again.

Fifteen years later, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

The country cousin learned how to live here.

And don’t get me wrong there are still days I think about giving it all up. Days I crave the slowness, the familiarity, the roots of Memphis. Because Memphis is culture. It’s foundation. It’s home in its purest form.

But Atlanta…

Atlanta raised me.

She gave me space to build a life. To find my people. To be loved in ways that felt real and sustaining. She stretched my vision, widened my perspective, and allowed me to blossom in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

So no, I didn’t fall in love with Atlanta the way people romanticize.

But she loved me anyway.

And in her own way steady, expansive, unwavering she changed me.

So Atlanta, thank you.

Thank you for holding me, even when I resisted you.
Thank you for the community that makes me smile from my soul.
Thank you for the life I’ve built within your rhythm.

Because even though I’m a Memphis girl at my core…

I was seasoned here.

And now, I can say it with pride—

I am a resident of Washington Park, on the Westside of Atlanta, with a 404-area code…
and a story that could have only been written here.

At the table, I honor what has held me.
In my crown, I carry who I’ve become.
And like honey, I’ve learned life is meant to be savored, not rushed.