Nina Foxx's Blog

Closed-But Still Awesome!

It's a wrap for me! 2023 was good to me. in terms of experiences and opportunities that came my way, but now its time for some rest and relaxation.

I'm taking the rest of the year off, from EVERYTHING...day job, passion projects included.

I set goals at the beginning of the year, on reviewing them, I accomplished several, but if it's not done now, it's not gonna get done in the last 2 1/2 weeks of the year. I could sprint for the finish line and fall over, it, exhausted, or I can step back and learn lessons from the 12 months that I worked towards these goals. I'm choosing the latter. I am going to slow down to refocus so that I can step into 2024 properly paced.
Taking a break may seem counterintuitive to some, but it's not a sign of weakness, it's an act of self care.
I'm a writer. I'm a coach, and I am an UX Research Leader.
Creativity fuels my work, but when constantly on the go, the wellspring of inspiration can run dry. Or you just get tired. A break will allow me to fill my creative tank, reconnect with my inner muse, and come back with a fresh perspective and renewed passion for storytelling.
As a coach, I guide individuals to define their goals in order to write their own stories, without apology.

To do that, I need to be present, grounded, and radiate positive energy.
A break will give me the space to recalibrate myself so I can return to my clients and my yoga mat, feeling refreshed and ready to support their journeys with a renewed enthusiasm.

As a user experience research leader, understanding the needs, and motivations of users is what I do. I need to step back from the daily grind and gain fresh perspectives by experiencing the world through a travelers lens. I'll be able to gather invaluable insights that will inform my research and create even more inclusive and enriching user experiences.

Nourishing Mind, Body, and Soul:

I'm going to focus on self-care activities that nourish my mind, body, and soul.
I'm going to:immerse myself in the beauty and cultures of West Africa.practice meditation and mindfulness to cultivate inner peace and clarity.strengthen my connections with my loved ones to share experiences and travel adventures.and, of course read that which will inspire and motivate me to pursue new horizons.I'm confident that taking this break will be the perfect springboard for an even more successful and fulfilling 2024.

I may post a few pictures, I may not, but intend to largely disconnect from all social platforms.

I'll return feeling rejuvenated, brimming with ideas, re-imagining and rebranded and ready to tackle whatever challenges and opportunities come my way!

Your Recharge Journey:

In the meantime, I encourage you to consider taking your own break. It may be just what you need to recharge and come back stronger than ever.

Remember, taking care of yourself is not selfish; it's essential for your well-being and allows you to show up more fully in all aspects of your life. ✨

Until next year, may your journey be filled with adventure, discovery, and reconnection.

Why I added yoga to the menu for The Writing Sisters Summit in Paradise.

 Yoga can help writers in a number of ways. First, it can help to clear the mind and allow space for ideas to erupt. Some writers have described their yoga practices as writing prompts, finding themselves running to the page after finishing a series of poses. “Physical yoga practice is a good place for Svadhyaya, or self study,” writes yoga practitioner and teacher Izzy Arcoleo, “and as we tune into what's going on in the body and mind, the way becomes clear for ideas to be untangled. It can bring about moments of clarity, and with clarity comes a little sprinkling of inspiration.” Both practices, as well, are often done in isolation.

Yoga also teaches us to be still when we're uncomfortable, and to breathe through the twinge of pain we experience in some poses. This can translate into “trusting the process” of writing, so we can more easily manage the inevitable ups and downs of composing longer works. “Often, in yoga, we hold long poses and breathe through discomfort,” writes literary novelist Heather Marshall. “We also learn where our edge is, physically and mentally, when it's healthy to stay at the edge and when it's time to back off and rest.”

Besides its undeniable physical benefits, yoga, like writing, is a reflective, explorative, and cathartic process that can allow us to tap into our creativity. As I explore in my first post for “How to Become a Better Writer Series,” intentions, being present, and accepting what works and what doesn't are an integral part of the writing process–well, of yoga too. Perhaps more importantly, both yoga and writing can teach us how to create meaning –out of repetition, rituals, and movement. As Susanne Harwood Rubin, a yoga instructor and an artists, writes:

“Yoga is a process of self-discovery, and it can be a powerful tool for writers. The practice of yoga can help writers to become more aware of their bodies, their minds, and their emotions. It can also help them to develop a deeper understanding of themselves and their work.

Yoga can also help writers to become more creative. The practice of yoga can help to clear the mind and to open up the body and mind to new possibilities. It can also help to generate new ideas and to tap into the creative process.

Yoga can also help writers to become more focused and disciplined. The practice of yoga can help to improve concentration and to develop a stronger work ethic. It can also help to develop a more positive attitude towards work and towards life.”

If you are a writer looking to improve your craft, I highly recommend incorporating yoga into your daily routine. There are poses you can do that will ease the strain on your body from sitting for long periods of time. It also reduces stress, especially through the breathing aspects of the practice. You may even find that you have greater clarity to write more efficiently. Here are some of the ways that yoga can help you with all that sitting and stress.

Yoga can help to improve your posture. When you're sitting for long periods of time, it's easy to slouch or hunch over. This can lead to back pain, neck pain, and headaches. Yoga can help to strengthen the muscles in your back and neck, which can help to improve your posture.Yoga can help to reduce stress. When you're stressed, your body releases the hormone cortisol. Cortisol can lead to a number of health problems, including weight gain, heart disease, and anxiety. Yoga can help to reduce cortisol levels and to promote relaxation.Yoga can help to improve your focus. When you're trying to write, it's important to be able to focus on your work. Yoga can help to improve your focus by helping to clear your mind and to reduce distractions.Yoga can help to improve your creativity. When you're stuck in a rut, it can be hard to come up with new ideas. Yoga can help to stimulate your creativity by helping to clear your mind and to open up your body and mind to new possibilities.Yoga can help to improve your productivity. When you're able to focus and to be creative, you're more likely to be productive. Yoga can help you to be more productive by helping you to improve your focus, your creativity, and your overall well-being.Register for this Years' Writing Sisters Summit to held in October Here.
Faculty include Nina Foxx (me), Bernice McFadden and Curtis Bunn. 

Grown Ass Women With Nina Foxx- Season 2 Podcast

Grown Ass Women

 Have you been listening to my new (ish) podcast, Grown Ass women with Nina Foxx? I've been wanting to do one for some time and the pandemic has given me time, since I don't have to commute two hours a day and don't go anywhere else. I have have been using all of that time spent in the car to do creative things, I was reflecting on this last episode. Blaxit Part 2: Nathan Nash, Just an American-For the First Time.

Nathan has made a Blaxit--he's moved to Singapore. One thing that struck me about him and the \lLast Guest, Ms R. Both made what they thought were spontaneous decisions (but that were really years in the making), with a minimum level of planning. Nathan actually went to a south Asian country without so much as a hotel picked out and no idea how to contact his friends there. He relied on the kindness of strangers to drive him hours, in a place where he really didn't speak the language or even fully understand the culture.

These days, this is not something that is even feasible, especially for a woman, and there are few of us that would even feel safe accepting a long distance ride from a stranger even in our home town.  I balked when I was interviewing Nathan. Then, a listener reached out to me and my comments made me realize that there had been a time in my life when I was like Nathan. Remembering this made me rethink my judgement. His motivation at that time may not have been "lack of sense", but youthful adventure.

I was an exchange student in London one summer, and decided to cut school one Friday and take myself t...Paris. This was pre-cell phone and pre-chunnel. It was pre-European Union. My gal pal and I just hopped a hovercraft across the English Channel without telling our parents. No one knew we were going, we had no francs, and neither one of us spoke a lick of French. We were poor college students and by the time we arrived in Paris, exchanged what little English Pounds we had, figured out how to use a french pay phone and called our parents back in the US, the school had already reported us missing. My francs rang out on my phone call before my father could stop yelling at me long distance. I hung up the phone...and proceeded to have myself a grand old adventure fueled by the stories my father had told me about the beaches of Normandy and being a soldier in France during WW II.

As it turned out, my friend had an uncle that lived in France. at that time, he was the personal assistant to the King of Brunei. She was able to contact him, and he sent his (gorgeous) son to retrieve us from our state of "what the hell have we done" in a limo. I'd never been in a limo. He was fancy and gorgeous. We had the most amazing 4 day tour of Paris and the French countryside, even though it was peppered by our tour guide's North African Girlfriend screaming at us. She had never heard talk of her boyfriend's American Cousins, and to this day I have no idea what she called us but I'm sure it was not good. In her mind, we were tall Americans...and must have been models that came to steal her man. For geek, insecure, nineteen year old Nina, it was both astounding and confusing that I could make someone feel that way. 

We ended up with a private tour of the Paris Townhouse of the King of Brunei, and then an invitation to a small (30 people) wedding in the countryside in a farmhouse. We understood no one, drank LOTS of wine and to this day I remain convinced that French wine has less alcohol. People at the wedding took turns singing songs to the happy couple, and when it was our turn, we knew no French songs and were encouraged to sing in English. We sang the only song we both knew; the Greatest Love of ALL by Whitney and felt much relief when they overlooked how off-tune we were.

Everything we saw during that trip was alien to my friend and I, both New Yorkers; the language, the food, the small wedding, but we were all able to find a common space in that one, classic song that extolled the virtues of learning to love all of who you are. 

Remembering that adventure reminded me to not judge the spontaneity that Nathan's found in his journey to find a place where he could freely love all of who he is; is intelligence, his adventurousness and his Black skin, but instead made me want to find that youthful need to explore again. Like many in this pandemic, I am reevaluating where I need to be, and have continuously been finding reasons why I cannot work from Belize or Barbados, focusing instead on the responsibilities instead of the possibilities. 

Listen to Nathan's Blaxit Story Here.

This belongs to all of us

There is a lot going on in America now, but I saw a Facebook post that really got me in my feelings. It was from a “friend”; someone I’d worked with some time ago.  We both have moved, but kept in touch, I mean actually kept in touch, by having drinks or dinner whenever I was in her new town a few times over the past few years, and of course, on social media. We have both changed jobs a few times and follow each other on the "social"socials, and on the professional ones, like LinkedIn. I have followed her triumphs and through her posts, have celebrated her triumphs and her joys at work.
We have more in common than a workplace. We do the same job function (not a common one), and our kids are the same age. Our daughters actually spent some time modeling together in middle school. I enjoyed the time I spent working with her, and we were as friendly and respectful as any two people of different races can be when they work together and like each other but aren’t really friends. 
On the evening of May 31st, there was looting in her city, as there was in many others. Her young (adult) son works as a security guard and according to her post, he witnessed some rioting. This is where her post when awry for me. As it should be, it was filled with outrage, but not because of police brutality or solidarity with the protestors fed up with Black Americans being needlessly and wrongfully killed by law enforcement. She was upset because HER son was adversely affected by what he SAW. 
I read her words and was offended and hurt.  Like so many people, I got the impression that the issues didn’t matter until it was HER son that SAW it. My sons (and daughters) saw it too, in another city, but this is not what offended me. As I read, all I could wonder was, what about the Black sons, affected by the fear instilled in them from a young age, fear of _________(fill in the blank) while Black? What about the young sons affected because their daddies were killed by police for jogging, walking, being, breathing?What about the millions of American children, Black and otherwise, who have been traumatized as they watch the multiple video clips of the public killing of George Floyd over and over?And the trauma of Black parents who, 401 years after slavery first arrived on the shores of the New World, still harbor that not-so-little bit of anxiety every time their Black child leaves the house?
Like many people ensconced in the privacy of her own little peace of heaven, such things were never her issue until she was touched by it in some way.
The thing is, just as Black Americans live with the reality of injustice every day, all Americans are touched by this thing that is interwoven in the fabric of America. This belongs to all of us. I don't want an apology from my "friend". I would not answer "That's okay," in response because that, in some ways, would absolve her and those with similar reactions of their feelings guilt and discomfort. Instead, I want her to sit with her feelings and feel every bit of it the way Black people in this country feel discomfort every time they see a police car in their rear view mirror even though they have done nothing wrong, because they know that their innocence or guilt may have no impact on the outcome.Maybe that discomfort and anger will help her empathize with the Black parent that has to  explain to their child that they cannot comport themselves in the same manner as their white friends because, at a very young age, their perceived cuteness will recede and they will be viewed as a threat instead of a teen being a teen.Maybe that discomfort, will move her to action.It is indeed sad that her young man was caught in the middle of a protest turned violent, but it seems like, in this day and age, property is more important to some than genocide, and THIS is where the whole world should take offense.“America. Where property damage is a greater offense than genocide.”
― Darnell Lamont Walker

Waiting for The Apology letter

I finished a book today that made me cry. Like boo boo and sob out loud. It was a story about people’s personal wars and the scars they leave, as well as growth, healing and forgiveness. It’s a story about wounded children of wars of lands and ideals that no longer exist. In it,  the grandmother posthumously tasks her grandchild with delivering letters of apology to those she feels she wronged in her life. 
We woke up today with riots and demonstrations all over the country.  People are hurt and angry, and recent police killings and injustices are  the wind  that helped a fire jump its boundaries, a fire that has been fed by racism, Jim Crow, and economic injustice for over 400 years  and one for which we are still awaiting the apology letter.
I’m not sure if I was crying because the book moved  me so much, or because I couldn’t see when we will heal from our scars and instead of healing we keep inflicting new ones. 
 We. We as in America. We are all hurt and hurting when our human rights are continually ripped apart. There are no apologies, and so there can be no coming together. There are no sides, just wounds that continue to hurt for generations.  

Happy Birthday, Chicken Big

My baby is 23 today. That is really, like, all grown up.  I remember the day she as born, me in that crazy birthing suite with my sister,  my close friend, and not one, but two doulas. I was trying to have natural child birth but also trying to have her father present. He had already taken a job in Texas, and we lived in Arizona, so the doctor decided to induce me right on my due date. It was an interesting time. The night before a major tornado had torn through Jasper, Texas, a town not far from where we would eventually be moving to, and a whole neighborhood had disappeared. I had been fired 9 months before when I’d stupidly told my boss that I was pregnant. I sued and won.
      Anyway, the doctor starting the induction at noon, and since I have crazy high pain tolerance, it took awhile for me to feel anything. It was close to 4 in the afternoon before the labor got going well. I got right up to the end and I started calling everyone motherfuckers. I wanted some drugs. My husband said I couldn’t have any, reminding me the I ‘d said I wanted to have natural childbirth. I grabbed him by the collar and practically lifted him off the floor. I screamed, “Get me some drugs!” He must have felt the seriousness of my demand because he ran from the room and came back with the nurse-midwife. They checked me out and said that it was too late for drugs, and I remember calling more people motherfuckers, finally asking my daughter’s godmother-to-be, my sisters, and even the Doulas to get the fuck out of the room.
      The doctor finally came and told me to push. I didn’t know how as I had not attended the last childbirthing class; that was the class where they also told you about epidurals, and I had no intention (at the time), of letting anyone stick a needle in my spine, so I didn’t attend. The internet was in its infancy but I read every horror story I could find about the procedure and was determined not to have one.
     My doc told me that pushing was like shitting, and with that, Sydney Alia came into the world at the fourth push. I shot her out with such force that the doctor had to practically catch her like a football. They took her across the birthing suite to clean her up and I almost panicked since she was not crying. In the movies, babies always cry. I remember thinking that something must be  wrong, so to appease me, the doctor spanked her on her bum, even though it was against the policies of her practice; no episiotomy unless absolutely needed, no shaving of the mother’s vagina, and no spanking the butt of a newborn. My daughter’s cries sounded like a cat with one eye open. 
     I think I stayed  in the hospital for 24 hours, but I remember not knowing what to do with this mewing creature that wouldn’t  stop moving her legs. In the first days, she slept in a bassinet near my bed, since, like with the natural childbirth, I intended to breast feed her forever and keep her in cloth diapers. I’d purchased fancy European diaper covers and they made this sound whenever she moved and she moved a lot, so I was going to get no sleep.  I remember feeling betrayed for a few days; no one had told me that you bled for a month after childbirth. I had only been told that it was wonderful and everything was sunny. It was not. At least not for about three months.
     I got into the groove of motherhood quickly., I had a doll that ate and needed frequent diaper changes. I bought every cute baby outfit I could find and changed her clothes at least three times a day. She was always looking cute, down to the baby shoes. During one of these changes, she laughed. My grandmother would say it was gas, but my girl laughed and I laughed back. Motherhood finally made sense to me then.
     Now, it’s 23 years later. She’s graduated from college and has a tech job that she starts in about a month. I can honestly say that she gave me the greatest gift when she came into the world. There is nothing that grows you up like  having to fend for another human being. 
Happy Birthday, Chicken Big. 

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