Dear Readers,

It has been months since I last shared an update, and frankly, I am still processing my thoughts. Not for lack of trying or inspiration—there’s a collection of untitled and unfinished passages (much like the men—the mistakes of my past) waiting for me to revisit them. Rather, these life lessons are still cooking.

Meanwhile, my spirit is restless, brimming with anticipation for the moment I can finally showcase the greatness that’s been simmering beneath my skin, singeing my insides, threatening to crack my ribs—an unyielding current, desperate for release.

At the edge of my 26th year, I am painfully aware that I’m not the first to admit I never imagined my life would look like this.

During these past months, where each day seemed in competition to be my worst, the sky never looked so blue. The sun felt impossibly close, as if I were the only one so burdened that I needed to cry—to be watered and washed anew—so that even here, in my lowest moments, I could stumble into growth. But while waiting for the rain, in the gaps between being and becoming, I became a witness.

A witness to the stories of people I never would have encountered had I not wandered into the crawlspaces and backroads of my own narrative.

I met a woman with multicolored hair and as many missing teeth as she had presence. She carried the weight of motherhood, battled her health, endured illegal and unsafe working conditions—and still, she brought coffee and breakfast to share each morning. She covered shifts to make everyone else’s day easier. She taught me that kindness is intrinsic, proactive, and infectious, and you give it like you don’t want to take home leftovers.

I met a veteran whose service left him traumatized and whose return introduced him to homelessness. He met his partner while unhoused, and together they built a home. Now, he wages war on others experiencing homelessness, calling them an “eyesore.” He taught me that shared experience doesn’t always produce empathy.

Through teaching, I time-traveled to simpler times—
Back when a family-sized bag of peanut M&Ms or a pack of gum was the only key to friendship and popularity. I was interviewed by eager seventh graders who refused to let me be a chameleon and fade into the background of their classroom. They demanded to know my name, my hobbies, my story. With every account of their favorite games or adventures, they reminded me of a scary truth: I can’t recall the last time someone was genuinely so excited to see me.

I wore uniforms that concealed not only my femininity but my humanity. I became something between product and delivery, between desire and timing. I worked jobs that were mentally unchallenging, leaving my mind thirsty and neglected, while my body bore the brunt of exhaustion and age. These jobs robbed me of time, energy, and sought to isolate me from my community. Right there, I learned what it must have been like for my parents.

I held hands with children who were stronger and more resilient than I could ever hope to be.
They spoke their own language, unrestricted by politeness, dishonesty, or even conventional vocabulary. They taught me to celebrate the small things, to know that there are no small things—or small people. Even in silence, I could hear them scream, “We are here too.”

And the paraprofessionals¹ who encouraged, redirected, and educated them daily taught me that love is patient and kind, but also firm. Sometimes you don’t know how you got somewhere or exactly why—but you’re exactly where you need to be.

I met men from the motherland², who carved out new lives for themselves in a place once proudly called a “nation of immigrants,”³ before the first Trump administration removed that label. They brightened my commute when I wasn’t driving, and in their stories, I remembered that the world is both infinite and finite. While sharing my phone number, I thought what a privilege to be the first to walk so you can leave the next person a trail.

This is my trail.

Though I’m still unpacking and redirecting, I continue to believe, as I wrote at 18, “Until the dirt and the stars reclaim me, it has truly been a blessing.”⁴

Footnotes

1. Paraprofessional provides support to the teacher and especially to students with disabilities in the classroom who need modified instruction or assistance, in keeping with their Individualized Education Program (IEP). 
2. The motherland is a reference to Africa
3. The phrase “nation of immigrants” refers to the United States and emphasizes the country’s history of being built and shaped by people who immigrated from various parts of the world. It reflects the idea that the U.S. is a melting pot of cultures, ethnicities, and traditions brought by immigrants over centuries. This identity has been celebrated in various contexts, highlighting diversity, opportunity, and the pursuit of the “American Dream.” Kennedy, John F. A Nation of Immigrants. Harper & Row, 1964.
4. A quote from the Poem December 8th, 2016 written by me at 18yrs old and is a reminder that some things don’t change