Writing

essays / poetry / journal entries

This November I moderated things, cuddled little humans, explored nearby parks, enjoyed being read to by my kids, made library and beach trips and haven’t finished a single book so far. Who am I?! This is a story that reminds you people are slowly defined by the environment they grew up in. This is the trope I was fed a little too much of. It’s one I’m still trying to figure out. There’s something to be said here about dreams coming true. I want to go on and on about how much this book means to me, how humbled I am to see my name on a cover, how happy I am to stop feeling like an imposter when talking about the unpublished novel I’ve been working on for three years. Because love doesn’t protect from resentment. It doesn’t cancel out the unease inside that grows when we’re silenced. Somewhere along the way, womanhood became an act of service. And I really wanna talk about it. “Good” girls, hands up! 🙋🏽‍♀️ Rest isn’t quitting, it’s space to grow. Tried every angle.

Go back

Your message has been sent