Dose Of Chevvi

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  • Politics Found Me Before I Found Politics 

    I believe everything is political.

    Not because I want everything to be political.

    But because, at some point, you realize that some of the things you have experienced personally are connected to decisions much bigger than you.

    I think becoming an adult has made me understand that more.

    I came to Canada as a child from Jamaica. I grew up here, went to school here, built my life here, and learned what it meant to navigate this country as someone who was Black, a woman, and an immigrant child.

    But growing up, I don’t think I had the language to understand how political some of my experiences actually were.

    I just thought I was figuring life out.

    I thought everyone had to figure things out.

    I thought everyone had to learn how to navigate institutions, education, employment, money, housing and adulthood.

    Then I got older.

    And I started realizing that the ability to “just figure it out” isn’t distributed equally.

    Some people have family members who can help them financially when things get difficult.

    Some people can call their parents when they need somewhere to stay.

    Some people have someone who can help them get their first job.

    Some people have a safety net they don’t even realize they have because they’ve never had to live without one.

    And then there are people who become adults and realize that they are the safety net.

    I know what it feels like to have to think about money, housing, education, employment and my future all at the same time.

    I know what it feels like to have responsibilities that don’t always wait until you feel ready for them.

    I have had to learn how to advocate for myself because there isn’t always someone standing behind me who can do it for me.

    And I think those experiences changed the way I see politics.

    Because eventually, you start realizing that the things we call “personal problems” are sometimes connected to much larger systems.

    Housing isn’t just about whether an individual can budget properly.

    Education isn’t just about whether someone works hard enough.

    Employment isn’t just about whether someone is ambitious.

    Immigration isn’t just paperwork.

    Poverty isn’t always a matter of poor choices.

    And opportunity isn’t distributed simply based on who wants it the most.

    There are policies, institutions and systems sitting behind all of these things.

    And those systems have consequences.

    That realization hit differently for me because I am a Black woman.

    I cannot separate my Blackness from my womanhood.

    I cannot separate either of those things from the way I experience the world.

    There are things I notice because I am Black.

    There are things I notice because I am a woman.

    And there are things I notice specifically because I am a Black woman.

    Sometimes I walk into a room and wonder whether I am being underestimated.

    Sometimes I question whether my voice is strong enough.

    Sometimes I wonder whether what I have to say actually matters.

    And sometimes I have to remind myself that the fact that I am questioning my right to be in the room doesn’t mean I don’t belong there.

    Maybe that’s why representation has become so important to me.

    Because when you don’t always see people who look like you in positions of decision-making, you start wondering whether those spaces were ever meant for you.

    And I don’t want to spend my life wondering that.

    I want to be in those spaces.

    Not because I think being Black or being a woman automatically makes someone a better leader.

    It doesn’t.

    But because our experiences shape the questions we think to ask.

    They shape the problems we notice.

    They shape the communities we think about when decisions are being made.

    And I want people like me to be part of those conversations.

    I think about my family too.

    My mother is still in Jamaica.

    So are other members of my family.

    And there is something strange about building a life in Canada while people you love are still somewhere else.

    Immigration can sound like a policy issue when you’re reading about it in the news.

    But it feels completely different when your family is on the other side of the policy.

    That’s when you realize that these aren’t just political debates.

    They are people’s lives.

    They are mothers.

    Children.

    Families.

    People waiting for opportunities.

    People waiting to be reunited.

    People trying to build something better.

    And that is why I struggle when people tell me that politics shouldn’t matter so much.

    Maybe it doesn’t have to matter to everyone in the same way.

    But it matters to me.

    Because I have experienced what it feels like when the systems around you don’t necessarily make life easy.

    I have had to learn independence earlier than I would have liked.

    I’ve had to make decisions about my future while still trying to understand who I am.

    I’ve had moments where I’ve been scared that I wasn’t doing enough, that I wasn’t successful enough, or that maybe I simply wasn’t capable enough.

    And yet, the more I learn, the more I realize that resilience shouldn’t be romanticized.

    Sometimes people aren’t “strong” because they wanted to be.

    Sometimes they were strong because they had no other choice.

    And I don’t want a society that constantly praises people for surviving circumstances that could have been prevented in the first place.

    I want us to ask why those circumstances existed.

    That’s political.

    I want us to ask why some people have safety nets and others don’t.

    That’s political.

    I want us to ask why some communities have resources and others are constantly fighting to be noticed.

    That’s political.

    I want us to ask who is sitting at the table when decisions are being made.

    That’s political.

    And maybe that’s why I believe everything is political.

    Because once you have had to figure out certain parts of life for yourself, you start seeing the connections.

    You realize that your personal story exists within a much larger story.

    My story is not just about me.

    It’s about immigration.

    It’s about race.

    It’s about gender.

    It’s about family.

    It’s about opportunity.

    It’s about education.

    It’s about economic security.

    It’s about belonging.

    It’s about what happens when someone has to build a life without always having the same safety nets as everyone else.

    And I’m still figuring out what I want my role in all of this to be.

    I still have moments where I’m afraid of my own voice.

    Moments where I wonder if what I have to say is important enough to make a difference.

    But maybe that’s exactly why I need to keep speaking.

    Because someone who has spent so much time wondering whether their voice matters should not spend the rest of their life silent.

    I don’t want to simply complain about the systems that affect me.

    I want to understand them.

    I want to question them.

    I want to participate in them.

    And maybe one day, I want to help change them.

    Because I don’t believe I came this far just to learn how to survive.

    I want to learn how to build something better—for myself, for my family, and for the people coming after me.

    And if that makes me political, then so be it.

  • A soft Reintroduction

    My name is Shavesha.
    A name that doesn’t come with a clear definition. No quick Google search. No one-line meaning to explain it.

    For a long time, that felt like something was missing.

    We live in a world where names are often tied to identity—where people can easily say, “my name means this” or “I was named after that.”
    And I didn’t have that.

    But over time, I started to see it differently.

    I guess this is a soft reintroduction to who I am as a person.
    Because in many ways, I’ve been changing, growing, and becoming—and my name has grown with me.

    Maybe my name wasn’t meant to be defined for me.
    Maybe it was something I was meant to grow into.

    So I began to sit with it. To hear it differently.

    “Sha” — soft, almost like grace.
    “Vesha” — a presence, something that is seen and felt.

    Not exact definitions. Not something you’ll find in a dictionary.
    But something I connected to.

    And somewhere in that, I found meaning.

    Not given—but created.

    I realized I didn’t need a formal definition to understand my name.
    I just needed to understand myself.

    Because the truth is, I’ve been becoming my name this whole time.

    In my growth.
    In my discipline.
    In the way I’ve had to rebuild parts of myself.
    In the way I’m learning to show up more fully, more intentionally, and more honestly.

    That’s what Shavesha means to me.

    A graceful presence.
    A woman becoming.

    And the more I think about it, the more I realize—I actually love that my name isn’t easily found or defined online.
    Because it’s unique.
    And with that uniqueness comes a kind of quiet power—one that I’ve had to discover for myself.

    This space—Dose of Chevvi—is an extension of that.

    A digital scrapbook of becoming.
    Of learning, unlearning, and stepping into who I’m meant to be.

    Fully. Openly. Unapologetically.

    My name may not have come with a meaning…
    but I’ve given it one.

    And I’m still writing it.

    ~ ps. Just a girl navigating her 20’s

  • Untitled post 616

    What’s a quote that perfectly describes your outlook on life

    Dose of Chevvi

    “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

    If someone asked me, “What quote perfectly reflects your outlook on life?” my answer would be:

    “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

    It’s more than just a quote to me—it’s how I’ve lived my life.

    I remember being in high school when my father took away my laptop because he thought I was misbehaving. Unfortunately, I had an essay due the very next day. Most people would probably see that as the end of the road or a valid excuse for not completing the assignment.

    I didn’t.

    Instead of asking myself, “Why did this happen?” I asked, “How can I still get this done?”

    That’s when I turned to our smart TV. It had internet access, so I used the remote to type my entire essay—one painstaking letter at a time. It wasn’t convenient, and it certainly wasn’t fast, but it got the job done.

    Looking back, I realize that moment revealed something about who I am.

    I’ve never been someone who gives up just because Plan A doesn’t work. My mind naturally starts searching for Plan B, C, or even D. I don’t see obstacles as the end of the story—I see them as invitations to think differently.

    That mindset has stayed with me throughout my life. Whether it’s school, my career, advocacy work, or chasing goals that seem out of reach, I always come back to the same question:

    “What’s another way?”

    To me, innovation isn’t always about creating something revolutionary. Sometimes it’s simply refusing to let your circumstances dictate your outcome. It’s about making the most of what you have, even when it’s far from ideal.

    So yes, if I had to choose one quote that reflects my outlook on life, it would always be:

    “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

    Because I’ve learned that determination doesn’t always remove obstacles—it teaches you how to move through them.

    This feels very authentic to Dose of Chevvi: it’s personal, reflective, and ends with a clear life lesson tied back to the original question.

    ~ p.s.

    Just a girl navigating her 20’s

  • Redefining Success

    What are the most important things needed to live a good life?

    For a long time, I thought a good life was about reaching milestones—graduating, getting a good job, making money, owning a home, and proving people wrong.

    But the older I get, the more I realized a good life is built on a few simple things:

    Peace of mind.
    Meaningful relationships.
    Purpose.
    Health.
    And the ability to stand on your own two feet.

    That’s why I work hard. Not because I want to compete with anyone, but because I want a life that no one can take away from me.

    A good life isn’t about having more than the next person. It’s about going to bed knowing you’re becoming the person you were meant to be.

    That’s enough for me.

  • Dear Me

    Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.

    Dear Me at 100

    I wonder if you finally love yourself—really love yourself.

    If you stopped overthinking every decision , every silence, every “what if.”

    If you learned to let life rise and fall without trying to fix it all.

    Did years of therapy finally pay off? Did you stop shrinking for people who couldn’t see you, stop giving pieces of yourself to those who only took?

    Did you accept that some people are on different cliffs than you, walking their own paths, and that it’s okay? That letting go doesn’t mean losing, it means surviving, growing, becoming whole?

    I hope you let yourself cry when you needed to.

    I hope you rested when you were tired.

    I hope you stopped staying in love that drained you, that used your body or your heart as if it were disposable.

    I hope you found love that lifts instead of breaks, that builds instead of takes.

    But even if you didn’t, I hope you discovered that the most important love was always the one you gave yourself.

    Please remind me, the younger me, that walking away isn’t failing.

    That choosing yourself is courage, not selfishness.

    That reality—messy, imperfect, painful reality—is where love grows.

    And I hope, after all the hurt, all the waiting, all the letting go… you finally feel at peace.

    With hope,

    Me

  • The Daily Habit That’s Changing My Life

    What daily habit do you do that improves your quality of life?

    Self – validation

    you asked me what small, daily habit has made the biggest impact on my life, my answer might surprise you: it’s giving myself the validation I used to look for from others

    For a long time, I believed that love, recognition, or encouragement had to come from outside of me—whether from a partner, a parent, or a friend. When it didn’t, I felt overlooked, unseen, and not good enough. But I’ve realized that waiting for someone else to validate me is like waiting for rain in a drought: you can’t control when or if it comes.

    So instead, I’ve learned to give myself what I need.

    Some days, self-validation looks like whispering to myself:

    • “I did my best today, and that’s enough.”
    • “I’m proud of myself for showing up, even when it’s hard.”
    • “My feelings are real, and they matter.”

    Other days, it’s simply pausing to acknowledge that I made it through another day, despite the challenges.

    This practice hasn’t magically erased my struggles, but it has shifted the way I carry them. Instead of walking through life desperate for someone else to notice me, I’m practicing noticing myself. And that, in turn, helps me set healthier boundaries, trust my own voice, and recognize my worth—whether or not anyone else sees it.

    Validation doesn’t always have to come from the outside. Sometimes, the most healing words are the ones you say to yourself.

  • Right now

    How are you feeling right now?

    Right now , I feel the sting of being overlooked. Growing up, my dad wasn’t really there for me, while others around him were. That’s left a mark — one I still feel in relationships today.

    Sometimes, it’s frustrating, sometimes it hurts, but it also reminds me: I’ve learned to protect my own heart and care for myself first.

    Let’s talk:

    • How do you protect your heart when others can’t meet your needs?
    • Do you find yourself giving more than you get in relationships?

    I’d love to hear how others navigate this.

  • Journal Entry: May 20, 2025

    Is this enough?

    I don’t even know why I’m still asking. But here I am, wondering if this, whatever this is—is enough for me.

    I’m tired. Tired of waiting around for something that feels like it’s always just out of reach. Tired of feeling like I’m the only one trying to hold on while he’s halfway gone. Tired of wondering if I’m too much or not enough, if I’m crazy for wanting clarity, or if I’m just overthinking it all.

    The truth is—I’m scared. Scared because I don’t feel safe here. I don’t feel wanted. I don’t feel like someone who’s really chosen. I’m in this constant state of trying to read the signs, decode his silence, catch the small moments where maybe, just maybe, he actually cares. But mostly, I’m left empty. Waiting. Anxious. Alone.

    I knew this was going to hurt. I knew that from the start. But I never imagined it would hurt this much. This kind of pain—the kind that crushes your chest and leaves you breathless. The kind that makes you question everything about yourself. That’s the worst kind of pain.

    And it’s not just about him.

    It’s about every time I’ve ever been left behind. Every time I’ve been ghosted by love, by people I trusted. Every time I felt invisible, like I was just background noise in someone else’s life. Every time I was left standing outside looking in, hoping to be seen, hoping to be chosen—and never being.

    This—this relationship—is a trigger for all that old pain. It pulls it right to the surface. The abandonment, the broken trust, the aching loneliness. It’s like every wound I’ve ever had is being rubbed raw all over again.

    And what breaks me most isn’t just the silence or the distance—it’s the words.
    The echoes he throws out like knives:
    “I don’t like you.”
    “There’s no space for you here.”
    Those words don’t just sting. They cut deep, deeper than I want to admit.

    I’ve been shrinking. Shrinking my needs. Shrinking my voice. Shrinking myself just so I don’t scare him off. But that’s exhausting. And I’m so damn tired of pretending that’s okay.

    This isn’t love.
    But he already told me he couldn’t love me—so why am I surprised?
    Why did I keep hoping I’d be the exception? Why did I stay, believing I could be enough to change his mind?

    This isn’t what I deserve.
    This is loneliness wearing a disguise.

    I’m done hoping that caring more will fix it. I’m done believing that if I try harder, he’ll finally see me. Because I see now—what I want, what I deserve—is so much more than this mess.

    I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if I’m ready to let go.

  • Almost

    By chevvi

    I miss you like we had something,
    like I held a title I never wore.
    Like your silence was a language
    I kept trying to translate
    into love.

    We were never “together,”
    but I showed up like I was.
    Softened my voice,
    waited on texts,
    folded parts of myself small
    just to fit the space you offered—
    and even that felt like home
    for a while.

    I loved you in the in-between,
    in the pauses,
    in the maybe somedays
    and not yets.
    I gave you my care
    without conditions—
    you gave me confusion
    dressed as closeness.

    So how do you grieve
    someone you never had?
    How do you explain
    the pain of being
    almost chosen?

    Still,
    I’m learning that
    almost love
    isn’t the same
    as being loved.

    And I deserve more
    than the almosts.

  • Shattered silence

    All I have is my pen and my paper,
    When the words won’t come, and silence screams,
    I turn to the page, where I can breathe,
    Where thoughts spill out like shattered dreams.

    My mouth is tight, my voice feels small,
    But in the ink, I can steal it all—
    The clutter, the noise, the endless fight,
    Bouncing words like shadows in the night.

    They tell me to be alone, to forget the past,
    To learn to love myself, make it last.
    But how can I, when doubt wears me thin?
    I fight a war inside, unsure where to begin.

    Imposter syndrome, cold and real,
    Makes me question the woman I feel—
    I know who I am, but the fear runs deep,
    I’m Shavesha Steele, but can I even keep
    The strength I’ve built, the life I’ve made,
    When doubt’s grip keeps me afraid?

    I am more than the weight I carry,
    More than the scars that still make me wary,
    Even when the world says, “You’re not enough,”
    I will rise, even if it’s hard, even when it’s rough.