TWKN Network Presents Side Porch Stories: Successful People-ing

This episode of Side Porch Stories is sponsored in part by the Luxury Recharge Collective—the place where Black women identify unspoken pain so rest becomes easy. Learn more at www.luxuryrecharge.com Hey everybody. Welcome to my proverbial side porch. I’m Lisa N. Alexander, founder of This Woman Knows— and today, I’m your side porch aunty, here to share a story or two. This is where secrets and stories get told… in housecoats and bonnets. Where bras and shoes are optional— because there’s no company to impress here. That’s front porch energy. This summer audio series invites you to slow down. To listen. To laugh a little. To maybe even learn a thing or two… from real-life stories. Like the time I found healing not in a therapist’s office, but in a yoga studio run by a little brown woman who taught us to breathe through the hard parts. Or how my friend—living with constant pain— built a community of care without ever leaving her house. Or how I tried to bring African dance to the suburbs— because I knew we needed more than HOA meetings and polite hellos at the mailbox. This episode is about community. The kind we create on purpose. The kind that saves us—quietly, slowly, in kitchens and comment sections, on yoga mats and message threads. So pull up a chair. You snap the green beans— I’ll make the tea. You ready? Alright. I like to say I stumbled upon Sharon’s yoga studio by chance— but I don’t think it was chance at all. Things were shifting. I needed to ground myself, steady myself— and I found Sharon, and the beautiful community she’d built. I’m so glad my first yoga experience was with a little brown woman who gets it. Who reminds us, “If you’re not breathing, you’re not doing yoga.” This wasn’t about performance. It was about presence. Strength and ease. Saturday mornings are sacred. After class, we break bread. Literally. Fresh bread comes out the oven, and we gather—talk, eat, ask questions. Sharon shares her wisdom, and somehow, we always leave a little more whole. That space helped me rebuild. Because real community? It reflects your goodness back to you. And gently reveals the parts still in process. Now let me tell you about my girl, Jamesina. She’s a sarcoidosis warrior, stroke survivor, and survivor of a botched surgery. Her body stays in a constant state of negotiation— with pain, fatigue, and mobility challenges most folks will never see. But what you do see is brilliance, humor, and grit. Jamesina is an advocate for incarcerated families, a speaker, and a force. She’s built a digital gathering place—right there on Facebook. That’s where she shares her “From the Mind of Jamesina” posts, holds space for Marketplace Ministry, delivers wisdom, and activates her community with real calls to action. Yes, she has a YouTube channel— but her primary porch is Facebook. That’s where she shows up. That’s where people show up for her. And when her body says no to leaving the house, that online space becomes sacred. It’s her platform, her pulpit, her prayer circle. For her, social media isn’t extra. It’s essential. And while I’ve chosen to spend less time on that platform— and my life has improved from the quiet— I don’t romanticize that choice as “better.” Because I am able-bodied. I can leave the house. I can sit in a friend’s kitchen. I can gather in person. Jamesina can’t always do that. So I go back and check on her. I text her. I call. Because even if I’m not on Facebook like I used to be, I still want her to feel the knock on the door. And when I think about what community really looks like— what it’s always looked like for us— I think about a woman named Georgia Gilmore. I learned about her while watching High on the Hog. During the Montgomery Bus Boycott, Georgia was baking desserts and pastries— and selling them. She sold to beauty salons, barber shops, and churches. But she wasn’t doing it alone. She built an underground network of Black women who baked, packaged, and delivered. And when people asked where the goods came from? She simply said, “Nowhere.” Not because she was being coy. But because telling the truth would’ve been an invitation for opposers to disrupt the network. That kind of gatekeeping? It wasn’t about exclusion. It was about protection. Black women have always known how to protect what’s sacred. How to move quietly so the work could keep moving. Because when the cause is righteous, not everyone deserves access to the supply line. That money paid for the movement. It funded cars, gas, insurance, maintenance— so folks could still get to work even if they weren’t riding the bus. That’s community. That’s strategy. That’s care in motion. And that spirit? That’s what we need now. Because today, far too many women are being pushed to the margins— job loss, layoffs, caregiving, chronic illness, ageism… it’s all colliding. And just like back then, those who have the means are choosing to show up. To bake. To give. To pass the basket. It might not be pound cake and peach cobbler this time— though Lord knows I love a slice. But the energy is the same: Love made practical. Strategy wrapped in sweetness. Community that refuses to leave anybody behind. Our current climate demands that we show up for each other. Not with performative allyship or pretty graphics. But with presence. With money. With food. With time. With a yes. Here in the States, the grind is glorified. Multiple jobs, multiple gigs… no room to breathe. And when survival is the baseline, connection becomes something you have to fight for. But I’ve heard from Black expats— and they say something else. They say: “It’s easier to make friends overseas.” Why? Because the pressure is different. There’s no grind culture telling you your worth is tied to how exhausted you are. People have time. They have presence. And that opens the door for real connection. I wrote about this in The Last Great Migration: The Hustle, The Lies, and the Exodus Out. “Black Americans were often shut out of the very programs that made middle-class life possible— denied home loans, good union jobs, and the same GI Bill benefits that helped white families build wealth… Today? The system isn’t just squeezing Black folks— it’s squeezing everyone except the ultra-wealthy.” We are asked to grind— not to thrive, but to barely survive. Some years ago, I tried to create community in the most literal sense. I sponsored an African dance class right here in my suburban neighborhood. When my family moved here, we were one of the few Black families around. But things started to shift— and I saw a chance to bring us together. I hired Dr. Keisha Davis— she brought drummers, dancers… energy. And we danced. We moved. We laughed. We saw each other. It only lasted a few months— I couldn’t fund it long term. But what we built in that short time? It was magic. In the year of our Lord twenty and twenty-five— we need each other. This moment? It demands community. It demands intention. It demands presence. Not the polished kind. The kind that’s raw. Real. Sometimes virtual. Always sacred. So wherever you are—find your people. Or be somebody’s person. Even if all you’ve got is a warm message, a shared meal, or a knowing glance— sometimes, that’s enough to remind us we’re not alone. Thanks for sitting with me. Until next time— May the tea warm you, and time on the side porch soothe your soul.