On Saturday, February 14, 2026, Los Angeles pulsed with nostalgia and celebration at the iconic Kia Forum as DJ Cassidy brought his electrifying Pass The Mic Live! experience to the stage. It was a Valentine’s evening wrapped in rhythm — a love letter to late ’80s and ’90s R&B and hip-hop culture, where grown women, professionals, entrepreneurs, mothers, and creatives gathered not for chaos, but for joy.
The lineup was nothing short of legendary. Mýa glided across the stage with timeless elegance. Lil’ Kim delivered bold confidence. Ashanti and Ja Rule reignited memories of early 2000s love anthems, while Fabolous kept the hip-hop energy sharp. Surprise appearances from Nelly and Busta Rhymes shook the arena. And when En Vogue stepped out — flawless and powerful — it felt like royalty reclaiming their throne. Yo-Yo and others added to the celebration.
For many of us, it wasn’t just a concert. It was cultural therapy. It was grown-woman fun. It was supporting artists who shaped our coming-of-age soundtrack.
But here is where the story shifts.
Behind us stood a group of women. We were dancing, singing, fully immersed in the experience. My dear friend had her purse with her, and in the excitement — like many people at concerts — she momentarily placed it behind her while we stood and celebrated. What we did not know was that we were being watched.
Smiling faces. Sister energy. Or so it seemed.
When we returned to the car, her phone began sounding alert after alert. American Express notifications. Other credit card charges. Nearly $1,000 spent in less than an hour — McDonald’s, Wingstop, store purchases — a fast and intentional spending spree. Two cards had been quietly removed from her wallet without her knowledge.
We were seated near the front.
We were visible.
We were targeted.
Thank God for real-time alerts. She shut everything down immediately.
Yet the violation lingered.
Here we were — hardworking, educated, ambitious women — coming together in peace to celebrate music, love, and culture on Valentine’s Day. And four women chose to prey on another sister instead of protecting her.
This is where the conversation about being a woman of substance — a goddess — truly begins.
A goddess is not just fashion, glam, or curated selfies. A goddess embodies:
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Integrity when no one is watching.
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Protection of sisterhood, not predation.
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Respect for boundaries and property.
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Moral strength over opportunistic theft.
Your purse is your purse. Your cell phone is your cell phone. Your belongings are not communal property.
It is heartbreaking that at concerts, expos, and festivals, women must now guard themselves not only from strangers — but from those who look like us, smile like us, and dance beside us.
So let this be both reflection and reminder.
Be mindful at concerts and large gatherings:
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Keep your purse in front of you, not behind.
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Use crossbody bags with secure zippers.
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Hold your phone tightly or use a wrist strap.
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Never set your belongings down, even “for a second.”
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Turn on real-time banking alerts for every card.
Joy and vigilance must now coexist.
The concert was great — absolutely phenomenal. But could you imagine supporting and saluting iconic R&B artists, celebrating love and nostalgia, while thieves stand behind you — females with smiling faces — studying what you have in your hand, calculating their next move?
We were within the first few rows. These women were clever. They watched carefully. They waited strategically. And we still do not know how many other people they targeted that night.
That is not goddess behavior.
That is not sisterhood.
That is not substance.
Being a woman of substance means honoring sacred space — even in crowded arenas. It means protecting each other, not profiling each other. It means choosing dignity over desperation.
Let us dance freely — but wisely.
Let us celebrate artists boldly — but stay guarded.
Let us embody substance, not surface.
Because a true goddess protects what is hers — and respects what belongs to another.
