thankful.
I didn’t know my experience was unjust— until I felt what liberation feels like.
Small sips of sweet salvation, a contrast to what I only thought I knew, was enough to say: this is no longer for me.
I allowed. I processed. I rested in the tidal waves carrying me toward all that may be— for the Highest, for the healing, for the harmony never given to me.
When I look back, I see: the injustices done to me, to my ancestors, to all the ways I marched on their path— until the ground shook, my heart broke, my soul dimmed, and my safety nets were gone.
In that breaking, I saw the binds that tied me. I chose to cut them.
I chose to sever the cords. I chose compassion. I chose the chaos of not knowing— crazy, confused, curious, cautious, careful. I chose everything that chose me as I worked to end this harm.
A jolt to the system. Questions, deep and endless: how? why? how again? Unraveling answers I never knew I needed.
Sharp. Sacred. Sweet salve to the horrors of knowing: what my cells are made of, the people I thought I knew, the me I thought I was.
Darkness is our greatest teacher. Pain can be the catalyst to purpose— if we stay and move, Sacred step by Sacred step, never truly knowing the way but trusting that there is one.
There is a light. A spark. A gentle pull in the Universal direction of blessings and beauty, prosperity and peace. Divine timing meeting us at Divine intersections, those crossroads forming a compass to connect closer to the pace, the plan, the pause into Purpose, the pain into Promise.
When you’re in it, it becomes the “normal.” You know no other way.
Now, I see: we never stood a chance, wading through the illusions.
And yet, in all the loss, we now do.
I have healed.
I am healing.
I have chosen.
I am choosing.
I have walked away.
I am still walking.
Not all can. I knew I must.
And I do not take any of it for granted.
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“I still feel tears and deep contractions in my chest every time I revisit that time—the moments that changed me and challenged me, this chapter in my story and the story that is theirs, mine, and ours. The eruption, the catastrophe, our own Armageddon. Even as I continue to cultivate healing and create spaciousness around this wound, and all the intersections that led us to that point, there remains, and I feel will always remain, a lasting imprint of grief and wishful, perhaps even woeful, thinking. It lives within me and all that was born from that time. The grief is immense and carried deep in my chest. The wishes and woes live there too, as well as in my mind.
I have always known this cannot happen again, and in time, I was able to meet it with curiosity and compassion. But before I could make sense of it or find any salve, I had to feel it—surrender to the wound and all the wounds surrounding it. That’s why returning to this place in my story, in my cells, always causes me to collapse just a little, to cry just a little, to remember just a little more of everything that led us to that day: Independence Day. A day when many celebrate the notion of freedom, but in my story, it serves as a cyclical reminder that we were never free. Yet, can I be?”
