It was one of those years that still feels difficult to put into words, as if the act of trying to do so creates an ache. The kind of year that held joy, adventure, ugliness, and pain all mangled up together into something impossibly complicated. A year that, taken at face value, should be effortless to name, and yet, extraordinary as it was, when I truly allow myself to step back into the past, and unravel 2025, it leaves me with the most imperceptible, yet undeniably bad taste.
I pulled the throw over my chest and tucked my book into my lap, shifting until I was just a little more comfortable. Pen, check.Sticky tabs, check.Cup of tea, check. This has been my preferred state of existence during nearly every free evening I’ve been …
Last year, on the night of the summer solstice, I turned 32, and you 31. We laid side by side on a flimsy blanket, snuggled next to our significant others, gazing up at the night sky. It was late – or early depending on how one saw it, but despite the countless wildfires that were hazing up the summer skies, we were graced by a nearly cloudless night. It was another one of those moments, the kind the four of us shared so effortlessly. Time stood still, as we existed amongst one another in a silence that salved our souls, while we peered out into the center of the Milky Way, tracing its curves with our fingertips. Minutes passed before we spoke, and in those mere minutes I remember recognizing that feeling. The kind where nothing else mattered, because past and future remained in their place, and only that single moment, that sliver of time meant everything. I realized that on this night of the summer solstice, when I turned 32 and you 31, the four of us created a memory, one that would forever be etched into a small, folded corner, of a single page of our existence. A moment that captured the wonder, the awe, the essence of what it feels like to be lying side by side, next to the people you love, gazing up into infinity. Nothing but a minuscule spec of dust, floating through the vast Universal timeline, a memory that not a single individual would remember once the four of us ceased to exist, and yet somehow, one I felt, must have etched its mark into forever. A moment of feeling alive, feeling connected, and feeling beyond grateful for this version of the timeline where we get to exist, together.
You told me that these moments, regardless of how complete or incomplete they felt, would always be a part of something bigger. That they deserved to be felt, and shared, because they would always mean something. I, unlike you, hoard moments; experience them, capture them and save them until they feel important enough to share, to mean something to someone else. But you reminded me that as long as they meant something to me, that was more than enough.
So here’s to another year, and another night, where I turned 33, and you 32 and I get to realize once more, how grateful I am for these moments together. Here’s to you, the one who never let go, Happy Birthday!
I have not been able to write for 3 years now. Sounds dramatic, I know, but it’s not untrue. Whatever skill or discipline I developed for myself since I began posting my writing in 2015 has mysteriously vanished since 2020, and I’ve been grasping onto as many faint strands of whatever is left of it ever since.
I watch the corners of your mouth curl up, as you tilt your face towards the sun and close your eyes. It’s the perfect October afternoon, the kind where the air is crisp, the sky is a nearly cloudless blue, and the sun is still …
Whether it’s something that looms across the entirety of our day, or perhaps it’s a single thought that only occupies a few fleeting moments of our time, in any case, I’ve come to realize that we are all going through something. We are all thinking, processing, internalizing, pushing aside, accepting or letting go of something, and it’s truly unfortunate so many of us go at it alone. We subconsciously carry these expectations of ourselves, to know how to 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 and how to 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭 all on our own, as though we were born to deal with anxiety, self-criticism, and overstimulation in the same way that we’ve evolved to deal with our innate needs. And although the idea of having the ability to handle all of this on our own may seem like a great feat, it’s also not sustainable.
Today, I learned that many of the thoughts that slosh around in my head, and those emotions that may fill up my throat, those things that can make me feel different, and isolated, are very likely the same things that might make 𝘺𝘰𝘶 feel that way too. Today, I felt the power of connecting, sharing, and realizing that we’re not alone in any of this, or at least we don’t have to be.
Although each of us have our own unique situations, and challenges, and we may never fully comprehend what others are going through, sharing our kindness, and a little bit of our time can make a world of difference to the people that we interact with. More often than not, we need to fight the instinct to pull away and be on our own, and rather seek connection amongst one another, and meet each other with a sense of compassion. Today I realized that although we are all going through something, we don’t have to go through it alone.
. . .
Today was a good day. I spent the afternoon hiking with my girlfriends. Despite living less than an hour away, we still don’t see each other nearly enough. But today felt like a breath of fresh air as we embraced one another with the most familiar of hugs, the kind so tight you feel immediately lighter. We shared, we laughed, we acted in the same silly way we only do with each other, and we reminded each other that none of us are in this alone, nor will we ever be. <3
Here’s to no longer being afraid of my age, to no longer fearing falling behind, or feeling like I’m not there yet. To no longer measuring myself up next to someone else’s ruler, comparing my life to someone else’s path, or my accomplishments against someone …
the air is thick, this room is hazy I know you’re close, heart beats are racing. a sea of bodies surrounds me, not a face of despair I catch yours in the crowd, and I can’t help but stare. you smile back somehow, you make …
In 2020, I identified a serious gap in my understanding of Black history. In a small, but much-needed attempt to fill that gap, I decided to begin my learnings with this highly recommended story. In support of Black History Month, I thought I’d share.
Homegoing is a stunning illustration of a multigenerational story that follows the descendants of two Ghanaian half-sisters, Effia and Esi across six generations. Through one ancestral line, we see the direct consequence of the British slave trade and the centuries of warfare ignited between the Asante and Fante nations, as well their struggles to stay on the surviving side of British colonization. Through the second ancestral line, we see the aftermath of the British slave trade and the atrocities it led to in America. We see how slavery forever interrupted, altered, and stole from the lives of African Americans, whilst perpetuating a culture of deep-seated racism for centuries to come. The unfolding of both stories depicts two sides of the same coin, demonstrating how British colonization and the concept of white supremacy, forever scarred the people of what is now Ghana, both inland and across the sea. Gyasi did an exceptional job of weaving together each story and each chapter, creating a thorough and vivid depiction of the tragedies that black people and their kin have had to endure. Homegoing is a story that provides a very real perspective of the slave trade as well as the trap of a prison system that followed even after its abolition. It details the forces that centuries of colonialism have had on African people and the lasting effects it continues to have on their descendants. Homegoing is an absolute must-read. It is a story that will likely fill you to the brim in frustration, and heartache, but at the very least it will flood you with a sense of empathy and understanding that every one of us should carry at a bare minimum. In addition to all of this, it evoked in me the curiosity to want to learn more about the events that shaped black history, and for that alone, I believe this story did what it intended to do. 10/10.
I’ve been reflecting a lot about the past year, and how different it’s been from the previous ones. This year felt like the longest year of my life, yet it leaves me completely bewildered that the now infamous month of March is only 3 months …
An Ode to my Favourite Season; here is one of my favourite pieces. As the Wind ran his familiar fingers across my cheeks, he played with my hair, freeing strands from under my scarf. Unfazed and determined to catch my bus, I continued to walk. …
The Sky was a cloudless pale blue, as I stepped onto my deck on a cool August evening. I rested my head against the backrest of the patio chair, and gazed out into the backyard, past the neighbouring homes, and at all that I could see beyond them. Long, shadowy figures grew across the Earth, as the last bits of sunshine stretched out from beyond the horizon. The streetlights, hadn’t yet turned on, providing for a few moments of Night to ease in, undisturbed, as the world fell quiet around me. Splashes of orange and yellow lights peaked out from behind closed blinds, as everyone settled into their nightly routines. I however, stayed outside. With my legs pulled up onto the seat, one arm cradling a knee, completely relaxed, I looked up to the Moon, brilliantly radiant in an empty sky, and smiled. How many times had I sat out on my deck, alone with my thoughts, and in the company of the Moon, the Sky and the Night, existing in comfortable silence like old friends? One thing was for sure, no matter how much life has changed and will continue to, this place, this feeling, and these moments, will forever remain the same.
Every now and again I feel this restlessness, as though there’s this pressure cooking up inside of me that needs to be released. When this happen, journaling doesn’t always feel like enough, and I feel this need to run until my legs protest, and then …
Over the past few months as I’ve struggled to find the words to write, I rediscovered my love for sketching and playing with colours. I began with putting pencil to paper, before moving on to experimenting with pastels. But recently, for my birthday I was …
Yesterday I read a story about a girl and about her love. Love for a boy who she fell for much too quickly, and love for a new beginning of which brought her more excitement than she’d felt in years. It was a new adventure, a promise of a better future, a story of love much like the others where the doe-eyed main character dives in head-first, believing that this was it, that this was the real deal. As I skimmed through the pages, I watched her use line after line, page after page, to contain her excitement; a charming boy with soft lips and pretty words, a vibe that couldn’t be matched, and promises far heavier than either of them could carry. I smiled at how foolish it all seemed, how far away it all felt. But as I read, and watched her fall deeper and deeper in love, giving away more and more of herself, my heart stung.
You see I knew this story; I knew the beginning, the middle and the end. And almost instinctively like an older sister who knows better, I looked toward that girl and felt an urge to protect her, to reach out to her, to wrap my arms around her, and cradle her against my chest. I wanted to pull her down from that fictional high and save her from what was coming. My heart ached for her, she was so naive, so blind, dancing along the jagged edges of a tremendously high cliff, having no idea what it felt like to slip. Tears escaped my eyes as I gripped onto each painful word, standing by helpless, having to watch it all unfold; I watched the hurt creep into her life, knocking her off the edge, I watched her mighty fall into what could only have been an abyss, and I watched her hit the ground and break. I closed the journal and placed it back on its shelf.
Scars are a funny thing, no matter how much time goes by they still sting, even when they appear to be completely healed. I love reading my journals because I take value in understanding how my experiences have shaped me, how much I’ve grown and how far I’ve come, but it comes at a price. Even though I’m still trying to figure out what love is, each time I try and piece my heart back together again it becomes a little stronger, and a little wiser. But even with every lesson I can’t help but hope that the next one will be the last one; the one to put all others to shame, the one that’ll make me so grateful that it never worked out with anyone else. As silly as this is, a part of me wonders if there’s some future version of me reading these entries, just as I read the ones of my past, wishing she too could reach out to me. Only she’d wish to pull me into her arms and tell me to not lose faith, tell me that all of this will soon fade into an insignificant memory because what was coming, would be a love story that even I couldn’t write. That my story was just beginning, and that I hadn’t even scratched the surface of the life that I would live. She’d want to hug me tight and tell me to just enjoy the ride, because this story right here, my story, would definitely be, one for the books.
The past couple of weeks have been very much up and down. For the first two weeks I was miserable, and albeit probably just as miserable to be around (bless my family for always being so patient and understanding). I had a very difficult time adjusting to the changes that were unfolding because it felt as though some of the best parts of my life, as well as the parts that I was looking forward to were slowly vanishing. It felt like a domino effect, one thing leading to the other with a succession of change that felt completely beyond my control.
I often find myself in a state of reflection, combing through aspects of my life, contemplating my experiences, teasing out lessons here and there. It used to clear my head, but nowadays, I feel trapped by the clutter, as if pushing against the walls only …
