I do not know or remember how words became my solace. I guess I am my foremothers, those who held so much to say, yet perhaps spoke little, expressing themselves in songs and Imigani, with guarded hearts. Maybe that’s why I prefer writing some things rather than saying them, because in writing, I can choose to let them remain abstract. I belong to this new generation that bursts with words like the tears of an old, broken heart I do not know. At the very least, I write for them too.

I embrace it everyday, and it fascinates me to reflect on it. The same way the other day I reflected on how I radically seek closure, because a past version of me still longs to be understood or acknowledged.

What I find interesting is how I notice the same pattern in so many others, as if we share fathers. Today, I only try for it not to be an obsessive battle I fight with, because it was never something to get from others, but rather something I create within.

I also believe it’s one of the beauties of this era, that those who seek self-awareness are learning to reflect, feed themselves information on the subject, and curate their lifestyles to align with who they want to become. Most importantly, they hold space for their younger selves who once wrote so much about confusion, because through that journey, so do they hold space for their foremothers. And that is how I found myself wanting to write about this.

Many times, I say writing and art discovered me, perhaps because the force of the universe recognized the soul I was born with. Without creative expression, I might have lost myself in this world. Or perhaps it saw my forefather and mothers, whose talent was cut short, and chose me to hold the torch so their spirits could live on through me. What’s remarkable is that I find myself constantly observing and listening to their stories. I feel them profoundly. I’ve yearned for closure for so long, often becoming preoccupied with it in every experience, as I seek resolution not just for myself, but for the many souls before me. Now, as I learn to release what I cannot control, I still at times cling to fear, the uncertainty ahead, like holding onto a fraying rope while trying to climb. So I practice self-forgiveness each day, offering myself the grace to acknowledge it, not to be harsh with myself, but to listen to melodies that comfort my spirit and remind me that it is always okay.

Perhaps that is why this path has always felt inherently familiar, expressing my thoughts through writing, stepping onto the stage, and embracing the art of storytelling. There is a profound sense of belonging in moments of stillness, where silence amplifies my inner voice. I find immense gratitude in the ability to articulate emotions that often feel too complex to grasp. The creative process offers not only clarity but a deep connection to something larger than myself. It is in these quiet revelations that I am reminded of the purpose and power of artistic expression.

View more on my Medium profile.