“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”― Audre Lorde

A few years ago, I went to a concert featuring former American Idol winner Fantasia Barrino. Just as she had been during Season 3 of the program, Barrino was a stage-slaying siren who moved the crowd with every note, and after the set, I decided to stop at the merchandise table buy a tee shirt sharing the title of one of her singles, “I’m Doin’ Me.” The slogan has also become one of my main mantras, especially after entering the 40-plus realm.

It’s probably not a mindset that’s strictly related to growing older, but wanting to prioritize one’s time and how it’s spent is certainly a sign of growth. And because the arrival of a new day is such a gift, I’ve come to realize how essential is to establish that whatever time I have left is too important to indulge in silliness or shenanigans, especially ones that others create.

For example, there’s a difference between being ‘supportive’ versus aiding and abetting anyone’s self-inflicted dysfunction. Friends going through a rough patch should get a shoulder, an ear and maybe a little perspective on their dilemma, not the carte blanche ability to keep me on the phone for hours or ask us to repeatedly alter our family plans to accommodate their lack of foresight. Struggling isn’t fun nor cute, but the perpetual emergencies of the unprepared don’t become my dilemma to fix.

There’s also a tendency for people to want to do as they please, without realizing that others are also free to do the same and won’t always endorse said choices. Let’s say you love you some Josh (or Jamal), and I don’t, or you have one of those ‘complicated’ reality-show-ready unions—-we’ll still be friends, of course, but I’m certainly going to avoid the times he’s with you and he won’t be a welcome guest in our midst just because he feels like tagging along. Respecting boundaries goes both ways.

Speaking of boundaries, too many people make it clear that they don’t possess knowledge of such a thing, physical or otherwise. They say sharing their tacky observations is “for your own good,” question your tastes as if they are the Fashion/Network/Diet Police, yet get offended when you stand firm (or heaven forbid, clap back against their pettiness). Part of being grown is to accept varying tastes and inclinations that don’t bring harm to you or to others, not expecting me to shave off my round edges for your narrow box.

I don’t consider myself an expert on life, but like Oprah is fond of saying, “What I know for sure” is that the older someone gets, the more they should become their authentic selves. Doing what’s easy, trendy or expected just to ‘fit in’ is the quickest way to whittle away one’s uniqueness piece by piece, leaving a sad, hollow shell to live the day-by-day in. Where’s the joy in that?

There have been plenty of occasions that readers see me in person and express surprise at who I happen to be. I’m usually a lot smaller in person than what they thought I was, they tell me. Or I come across as (A) when they were expecting (B).

What matters the most is that what people see is what they get: a petite yet for-real grown woman who loves classic hip-hop, spicy foods, romance novels, goofball comedy flicks, African jewelry and dancing in the aisles as Stevie sings. And please believe that with or without that sassy Fantasia top on, wherever and whenever, I’m doin’ me.