Roots
Here, you will find earlier writings—before the framework took shape, before the voice narrowed to women specifically
Move Slowly.
The seeds were always here
Featured
Here, you will find earlier writings—before the framework took shape, before the voice narrowed to women specifically
Move Slowly.
The seeds were always here
Dear reader, do not consider the traits that ‘‘other’’ you to be burdens; rather, they are beacons, whispers of a future in the making.
You are the future.
Despair is not a failure. It is a season. This essay, woven around David Whyte's poem of the same name, is for anyone who has lost the horizon and wonders if it will ever return.
There are two timelines: the one the world runs on, and the one your soul moves through. This essay names the tension between them and what becomes possible when we stop forcing human time onto spirit work.
This essay zooms out from the individual to the collective. What does it mean to live heart-first in a world built on fear and lack? How do we become each other's hope? These are the questions I reflect upon in this essay.
A poem about forgetting and returning. Somewhere along the way, we let others decide what to do with our ideas and our hearts. This is an invitation to remember: your heart knows best.
A poem. Written for Black women, but perhaps for any woman who has carried too much for too long. This is a permission slip to put the bags down.
This is where the exploration began: an encounter with Clarissa Pinkola Estés and the concept of soul-fire. Here, I name the ways we are uprooted from our inner authority: the gilded carriage, the silencing elder, the slow forgetting of who we came here to be.
There are seasons that strip everything familiar away. This essay is an invitation to meet those seasons differently, not as punishment, but as curriculum. What if your hardest moments are asking you to release something you were never meant to carry?
A continuation of the previous essay titled Wildish Nature. This essay moves deeper into what happens after we lose contact with our instinctual nature: the hunger, the shame, the pretence, the slow slide toward addiction and self-abandonment. It is not light reading. But it is honest.