Onyx is black.
And black has always been my favorite color… but not in the way people usually mean when they say that.
It was never just a preference.
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It was a feeling.
People have their own ideas about black. They see it as dark. Heavy. Something that needs to be softened or balanced out.
But black has never felt like that to me.
Black has always felt like something that holds you.
Something that doesn’t move.
Something that doesn’t shift depending on who’s looking at it.
Something that stays the same… no matter what.
And for me, that mattered.
As a little girl, I wanted my room to be black. Not one wall. Not accents. Everything. I wanted to be surrounded by it.
My mom wouldn’t let me.
The most she allowed was one wall — and even then, my bed had to be pushed up against it.
But I didn’t feel limited by that.
I felt lucky.
Because I got to sleep against it.
I got to wake up against it.
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I got to press myself into it and feel like it was pressing back.
That wall didn’t feel dark to me.
It felt warm.
It felt like something wrapping around me without asking questions. Like something that didn’t need me to explain myself
before it accepted me.
And when you’re young… and you don’t always feel understood… something like that matters more than you can explain at the time.
I didn’t have the language for it then.
But I do now.
Black made me feel held.
And once I felt that… I never wanted to be without it.
In cosmetology school, black became our uniform. And even inside those rules, I still felt like myself. Still expressive. Still like I had space to be exactly who I was.
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Because black doesn’t take anything away from you.
It gives you room.
Room to exist.
Room to show up.
Room to not have to explain yourself.
And as I got older, I didn’t grow out of that feeling.
I built around it.
When I opened my businesses, I chose black for the structure — crown molding, baseboards, doors. Where people
softened their spaces with white, I grounded mine in black.
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I did the same thing in my home.
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My car — black.
My closet — two full sections of nothing but black.
Because I wasn’t just wearing it anymore.
I was living in it.
And not in a way that felt heavy… but in a way that felt complete.
Onyx came from that.
From wanting to take something that has always held me… and turn it into something I could carry with me anywhere.
When you put it on, it doesn’t move.
It doesn’t adjust itself.
It doesn’t try to become easier to understand.
It stays exactly what it is.
And there’s something about that kind of presence… something about that kind of stillness… that feels like truth.
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Onyx isn’t about darkness.
It’s about being covered.
It’s about being grounded.
It’s about being held in something that doesn’t ask you to change first.
Black doesn’t ask for permission.
And it never asked me to be anything other than who I already was.
ONYX
