KK Dixon: “When I first met Ja Morrant, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure about him

KK Dixon: “When I first met Ja Morrant, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure about him. He wasn’t exactly my type. At that time, I was focused on my own life and career, and I didn’t really think much about relationships. Ja Morrant, on the other hand, had this effortless charm about him. He was outgoing, funny, and definitely had that basketball superstar vibe. But, I wasn’t sure how to take.

KK Dixon reflecting on her early experiences with Ja Morant:

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**When I first met Ja Morant, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure about him.**
He wasn’t exactly my type. At that time, I was focused on my own life and career, and I didn’t really think much about relationships. Ja Morant, on the other hand, had this effortless charm about him. He was outgoing, funny, and definitely had that basketball superstar vibe. But, I wasn’t sure how to take that. Part of me admired his confidence. Another part of me wondered if it was just charisma or something deeper.

We met through mutual friends, the kind of casual introduction that didn’t feel like anything monumental. We were young. I was working on my goals, building myself up, and chasing a version of life that didn’t involve attachments. Ja was already getting buzz on the court. Even back then, you could feel it—he had something special. People gravitated toward him. His energy was loud in the best way, contagious, even. But I stayed on the sidelines, so to speak. I was used to staying in my lane.

But something about him kept pulling me in.

I remember the first real conversation we had. It wasn’t about basketball or fame or anything flashy. We talked about family, about where we came from. He told me stories about his little sister, about how important his parents were to him, especially his dad, who had trained him since he was a kid. I talked about my ambitions—writing, entrepreneurship, trying to find a path that made me feel proud. That conversation broke down something in me. He wasn’t just the athlete or the guy with the million-watt smile. He was a young man with dreams just as big as mine.

And suddenly, I started seeing him differently.

There’s a moment in every relationship—or potential relationship—where you feel the shift. With Ja, that moment came quietly. We were sitting in a car, eating fast food after a late night of talking and driving around. He was telling me about the pressures of being noticed so early in his career, how people had expectations he hadn’t even set for himself yet. He was vulnerable in a way that caught me off guard. That openness, that rawness—I saw the boy underneath the star. And I realized I wanted to know more.

Dating Ja wasn’t always easy. How could it be? You’re dealing with someone who’s not just chasing greatness but is also being pushed toward it by the world around him. There were cameras, fans, critics—even before the NBA spotlight fully turned on him. It was intense. But when it was just us, things were simple. He made me laugh. We danced around the house. We argued about silly things. We took road trips just to escape the noise. There was a realness there that grounded us, at least in the beginning.

Then came Kaari.

Becoming a mother changed everything for me. It’s one thing to be in a relationship with someone rising to stardom. It’s another to raise a child with them. When I found out I was pregnant, I was overwhelmed—scared, excited, uncertain. I was young, still figuring myself out, and now I was responsible for someone else. Ja was supportive. He wanted to be involved, to be present. But the reality of our lives was complicated. His schedule was relentless. My needs as a mother—and a woman—shifted overnight. We had to grow up fast.

There were days we didn’t get it right. Arguments, misunderstandings, distance. There were moments I questioned everything. But through all of it, Kaari remained our anchor. That little girl changed both of us. She softened parts of Ja I hadn’t even seen before. Watching him with her—how he lit up when she smiled, how he tried to balance fatherhood and fame—it made me respect him in a different way. Not just as a partner, but as a father.

But the truth is, love isn’t always enough. As much as we cared for each other, as deeply as we were connected through our daughter, we were also growing in different directions. Ja’s world was expanding rapidly. Endorsements, games, appearances. And mine was changing too. I was finding my voice, speaking out, pursuing new goals. We tried. We really did. But sometimes trying isn’t the same as thriving.

There’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from betrayal or anger, but from evolution. From realizing that who you were when you met someone isn’t who you are now—and that’s okay. I had to come to terms with the fact that loving someone doesn’t always mean staying. Sometimes it means letting go so you both can grow.

That doesn’t mean there wasn’t pain. There were tears. There were sleepless nights. There was the weight of public speculation, social media noise, strangers with opinions. It’s one thing to go through heartbreak privately. It’s another to have it dissected by the world. But through all of it, I kept reminding myself of one thing: I have to protect my peace and my daughter’s future.

And Ja—despite our differences, despite the challenges—he has always been a present father. We’ve had to learn how to co-parent, how to communicate when emotions are high, how to put Kaari first no matter what. That takes work. Real work. But it’s worth it.

People often ask me, “What was it really like being with Ja Morant?” And I never have a one-size-fits-all answer. It was beautiful. It was messy. It was passionate. It was frustrating. It was real. We were young, ambitious, and full of fire. And sometimes, fire burns out.

But I’m grateful.

I’m grateful for the love we had, because it taught me what I value in a partner. I’m grateful for the lessons, even the hard ones, because they made me stronger. And above all, I’m grateful for Kaari, who is the best part of both of us.

Looking back, I don’t regret anything. Ja showed me a kind of love I hadn’t experienced before. We pushed each other. We challenged each other. And while our romantic chapter may have ended, our story is far from over. We’ll always be connected by our daughter, by the memories we made, by the growth we went through.

I’m still figuring things out—still healing, still building, still dreaming. But I know one thing for sure: I’m proud of the woman I’ve become. I’m proud of the mother I am. And I’m proud of the way Ja and I continue to show up for our daughter, even when life gets complicated.

Love isn’t always forever. But the impact it leaves can be.

And for that, I’ll always hold a place for Ja in my story—not just as the basketball star, not just as the father of my child, but as the man who taught me how to love deeply, how to let go gracefully, and how to rise with resilience.

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KK Dixon, turning it into a reflective personal essay-style piece. This elaborates on the relationship’s beginnings, growth, and her perspective on life, love, and personal development:

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**”More Than Just a Game: My Story with Ja Morant”**
*By KK Dixon*

When I first met Ja Morant, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t sure about him. He wasn’t exactly my type. At that time, I was focused on my own life and career, and I didn’t really think much about relationships. I had plans, ambitions, and goals that didn’t necessarily include love—at least not right then. But Ja had this effortless charm about him. He was outgoing, funny, and had that unmistakable basketball superstar vibe. Yet, beneath all that confidence, there was something more subtle—something I wouldn’t understand until much later.

To appreciate how our story unfolded, I have to go back a bit. I wasn’t someone who swooned over athletes. I admired hard work, sure, and I loved basketball—I played sports myself growing up—but I always imagined I’d end up with someone more low-key, someone whose life was more private and structured. Ja was the opposite in so many ways. He was in the spotlight, full of energy, and constantly surrounded by people. He was always “on,” whether it was for the game, the fans, or the media. That kind of life looked exhausting to me.

But what people didn’t always see was the person behind the persona. Away from the court, Ja was thoughtful. He listened—not just the way people listen to respond, but to understand. He’d ask me about my goals, and not in a passing way. He remembered the details, followed up, celebrated my little wins even when he had major ones of his own. That surprised me. It slowly chipped away at my assumptions.

We met during a transitional time for both of us. I was finishing school, juggling projects, internships, and all the stress that came with carving a path for myself. He was on the brink of stardom, right before his career took off in a way few can ever prepare for. There’s this energy you feel when something big is coming, and he had that around him. Still, he never made me feel like I was living in his shadow. In fact, he encouraged me to shine in my own lane.

Our early relationship wasn’t flashy. We didn’t post everything. There were no big declarations, no curated images for public consumption. It was just the two of us, figuring things out. And it wasn’t always smooth. We had arguments, miscommunications, and moments of doubt. We were young and learning how to communicate, how to be vulnerable without losing ourselves. Being with someone whose schedule was ruled by games, travel, and appearances was difficult. It required patience and understanding from both of us.

One of the biggest turning points in our relationship came when we found out we were going to be parents. That day changed everything. It brought fear, joy, uncertainty, and hope all at once. I remember sitting in silence for what felt like hours, trying to wrap my head around it. I was going to be a mother. He was going to be a father. We were about to raise a child in a world that already had its eyes on us.

There’s a myth that motherhood softens you, but I found that it strengthened me. It made me more sure of who I was and what I wanted for my child. I wanted stability, love, and honesty. And that meant having hard conversations with Ja—about our future, about co-parenting, about boundaries and support systems. It wasn’t easy. We didn’t always agree. But we both loved our daughter fiercely, and that love anchored us even when we drifted apart.

People often ask me what it’s like to co-parent with someone so visible, so scrutinized by the media. The truth is, it’s complicated. There’s a version of our story that the public thinks they know, and then there’s the real version—the one with quiet sacrifices, therapy sessions, missed calls, heartfelt messages, and yes, occasional disappointments. We are both human. We make mistakes. We grow. We try again.

I think back often to the version of myself who wasn’t sure about Ja when we met. What I didn’t realize then was that love isn’t always about checking boxes. Sometimes it’s about how someone makes you feel when the world is quiet—when you’re tired, when you’ve failed, when you’re just trying to make it through the day. Ja has shown up for me in ways that mattered. Maybe not always perfectly, but genuinely. And I’ve tried to do the same for him.

One of the things I admire about him is his relationship with our daughter. No matter what’s happening in his career, he makes time for her. He talks about her with pride, posts her milestones, and protects her fiercely. Watching him as a father gave me a deeper appreciation for the man behind the athlete. It’s one thing to be celebrated on a court. It’s another to show up at home, to kneel down and tie a shoelace, to sing lullabies off-key, to sit through cartoons you don’t enjoy just because your child loves them.

We’ve both changed over the years. Fame does that. Life does that. But through everything, I’ve held onto my identity. I’ve built a career, started projects I care about, and continued to advocate for young women finding their voices. Motherhood didn’t slow me down—it gave me new perspective. It taught me resilience. It showed me that you can hold multiple truths at once: you can be proud of your past, cautious about your present, and still hopeful for your future.

I know people love a simple narrative—either you’re together or you’re not; either it’s all good or it’s all bad. But life is more layered than that. There’s love in how we speak about each other, even when we’re not speaking. There’s respect in the way we show up for our child. And there’s history—years of growing up, of learning hard lessons, of discovering who we are both individually and together.

Do I still believe in love? Yes. But I believe in a love that evolves. A love that gives people space to grow. A love that acknowledges hurt and still chooses healing. Ja and I may not fit the mold of a fairytale couple, but that doesn’t mean our story lacks beauty. Sometimes the most powerful relationships are the ones that challenge you to become better, not just for each other, but for yourself.

So when people ask me about Ja Morant—the man, not just the player—I smile. Because I know a side of him most people don’t. I know the way he used to text me after every game, win or lose. I know how he practiced baby talk before our daughter was even born. I know how he struggled with balancing fame and fatherhood, and how hard he’s worked to find that equilibrium.

Our journey isn’t over. It’s just different now. And that’s okay. We’re building something lasting—not necessarily romantic, but real. Something rooted in mutual respect, shared responsibility, and a deep love for our child. That matters more to me than any perfect Instagram post or public appearance.

If I could go back and talk to the girl I was when we met, I’d tell her not to dismiss people too quickly. I’d tell her that sometimes, the person you weren’t sure about turns out to be one of the most important figures in your life. Not because they complete you, but because they help you find new dimensions of yourself.

Ja and I—we’re still writing our story. Maybe not in the way others expect, but in a way that’s true to us. And in the end, that’s the only story that really matters.

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