Becoming Whole: Letters to the Woman I Am.

I Sit in My Chair: A Space for Love Worthy of Me

I sit with my tea in my usual chair.

Steam curls like prayers rising gentle, warm, sure.

And I breathe into the quiet knowing that fills my chest.

This much I know:

I want to be chosen, not simply picked.

Picked is random.

Picked is convenient.

Picked is standing on a shelf, waiting to be noticed

by someone who isn’t even sure what they’re looking for.

But chosen.

Chosen is sacred.

Chosen is deliberate.

Chosen is seeing my soul and saying, “Yes, her.”

Not because I’m perfect.

But because I’m real,

and enough,

and whole in all my becoming.

So until such time,

I leave space.

Sacred space.

For the one who comes not to fill a void,

but to build a home beside me.

He will see me not just the light in my eyes when I smile,

but the shadows I carry quietly.

He will treat me with intention,

with care in the small things,

with kindness in the pauses,

with reverence in the chaos.

There is one.

Yes, one.

who is loving, not just in grand gestures,

but in everyday offerings:

The soft check-in when the world overwhelms.

The joy that bubbles when my smile breaks through.

The hand on my back when I don’t ask for it,

but need it just the same.

He won’t ask me to shrink.

He won’t silence my strength.

He will dance with my dreams

and sit in stillness with my sorrow.

He will choose me freely, fiercely, daily.

Not someone who fits me in

between the lines of his schedule,

but one who writes me into

the rhythm of his days.

So I sip my tea.

And I wait not passively,

but with dignity, with peace.

Because I know what I deserve.

And I know love like that is possible.

And I am already enough.

Whether he comes tomorrow

or not at all.

I am already enough.

But still,

I leave the light on.

HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?

A Love Letter to Every Woman Ready to Be Seen

I sip my tea

as I sit in my morning chair—

my place of truth,

my place of reckoning.

Today, the decision sits heavy in my lap,

yet there is a quiet strength brewing within me,

just like the Moroccan mint steeping in my cup—

bold, bright, alive.

I am losing my hair.

Not in shame,

but in surrender.

Most of it—male pattern baldness, they say.

But what I see now

is something far more sacred:

a transformation.

And I don’t want to cover it.

Not with wigs, not with pretense, not with shame.

I want to show the world who I am.

Not edited.

Not concealed.

Not filtered through someone else’s idea of beauty.

So I made the decision.

To shave it all.

To bare my crown.

To walk into this next chapter

bald, bold, and breathtaking.

I thought I would cry.

I thought sadness would hold court.

But it didn’t.

Instead, I felt… free.

I felt… strange.

I felt… me.

There was power in that moment the hum of the clippers,

the last strand falling like a past self shedding,

the cool breeze greeting the skin of my head

for the very first time.

And what rose in me wasn’t grief,

but sovereignty.

This is me.

All of me.

No more hiding.

No more apologies.

No more shrinking in rooms that demand smallness.

This is me,

in my fullest form.

Unmasked.

Unbothered.

Unstoppable.

And so I say to the world

How do you like me now?

This is not brokenness.

This is not loss.

This is arrival.

This is truth,

shining from the top of my head

to the depths of my soul.

And to you yes, you, beloved woman

who sits quietly in the bathroom,

combing thinning strands,

watching the hair fall into the sink

like petals after a storm this is your invitation.

You are not broken.

You are not less.

You are not alone.

To the woman who scrolls through photos

of what once was whispering, “I used to be pretty”

darling, you still are.

To the woman who dreads the wind,

terrified it will lift the illusion—

you don’t have to live in fear anymore.

Unless you choose to wear the wig,

unless you find joy in it,

then wear it with pride.

But not out of shame.

Not out of silence.

Not because the world said you should.

Because bald is not just beautiful.

Bald is sacred.

Bald is free.

Bald is powerful.

What if your baldness is not the end of something

but the beginning of a becoming?

What if the shedding is the blessing?

Let your scalp feel the air and the sun.

Let your true features be framed

by confidence, not concealment.

Let the world adjust to your truth.

You are not your hair.

You are your light.

You are your courage.

You are your voice,

your grace,

your fire,

your fierce softness.

You carry healing in your veins.

The ancestors whispered it long ago.

You were called before birth,

before fear,before shame ever touched your name.

So rise.

Bare-headed and glorious.

Walk tall in your temple.

Speak your name into the wind.

Shine, sister.

Shine all the way through.

Because your beauty

has never lived in your hair.

It has always lived

in you.

And the world

has been waiting

to see you just as you are.

I am a healer

Today the tea I sip is a beautiful Moroccan mint—

refreshing, bold, and alive.

Moroccan mint tea, also known as atay, is more than just a drink.

It is a symbol of hospitality, tradition, and warmth in North African culture.

Made from a blend of Chinese gunpowder green tea and fresh spearmint leaves,

sweetened generously with sugar,

this tea is typically poured high from a silver pot into small, delicate glasses—

a ritual that both cools the tea and honors the guest.

As I sip this vibrant infusion,

I feel its coolness awaken something deep within me.

A reminder.

A returning.

Today, I will not dim my light for anyone.

Not for comfort, not for approval, not for belonging.

I will not shrink from my greatness to make others more comfortable with their smallness.

I will not apologize for my fire.

I will not abandon my calling for anyone.

Because this calling was written in my bones.

It was whispered to my soul

before I ever drew breath.

This work—this healing—

was not a career I stumbled into,

but a birthright I remembered.

It becomes my solemn duty to make a difference in the world.

To speak truth when silence is easy.

To show up when others hide.

To love fiercely, to serve boldly,

to walk with the wisdom of women who came before me.

I knew even before I was born there was a calling on my life.

I felt it in the womb.

I heard the ancestors humming it

in lullabies only my spirit could hear.

I am a healer.

And I will no longer shrink from that.

I carry medicine in my words,

remedies in my hands,

comfort in my presence.

I am water in a dry land.

I am balm to the weary.

The ancestors gave me this gift,

wrapped it in courage,

sealed it with purpose.

And so I rise.

And so I serve.

And so it is.

Reclaim

I sip tea.

I sit in my favorite chair.

Today, I reclaim the part of me that I abandoned.

The soft, unguarded woman

who once laughed without asking permission.

The girl who dreamed aloud

before the world told her to whisper.

Today, I set boundaries,

not walls—but gates.

Gates that open for love

and close gently to what drains me.

Today, I put forth the best of me

not the polished, not the perfect,

but the true.

That part of me that says,

I am worthy

even when no one claps,

even when the room is silent.

That part of me that is carefree,

who dances barefoot in the kitchen

and sings off-key in the shower.

That part of me that rejoices

when another woman rises,

knowing her light doesn’t dim mine—

it reminds me to shine.

That part of me that gives,

not to earn love,

but because love lives in me,

freely, endlessly,

beautifully.

Today, I sip tea.

I return to myself.

And that… is more than enough.

My Why.

Today I sit in my chair and I sip—not tea, but a tisane.

I sip Desert Sage. Simply, simple pleasure.

A cooling blend of peppermint and spearmint.

It wraps around me gently, yet with quiet power.

It is not my usual morning cup,

but today it’s exactly what my spirit craved.

Because it takes me back—

to the hills of my childhood in Jamaica,

to early mornings where the scent of mint rose from the kitchen

like prayer in steam.

To a time when women gathered in wisdom,

when herbs healed more than the body.

Today, I sip because I need to reconnect.

Today, I want to speak of my why.

The world sees the what—

the travels, the speaking, the teaching,

the company, the campaigns, the relentless movement forward.

But it is the why that anchors it all.

The why that beats at the core of every action, every choice.

It is my why that led me to walk among rebels in the Democratic Republic of the Congo,

to sit beside women whose lives had been torn apart by violence,

to look into eyes that had seen too much and say:

“You are seen. You are sacred. I will not turn away.”

It is my why that draws me back to Ghana again and again,

to stand shoulder to shoulder with midwives,

to teach compassionate patient care

not just as a medical protocol,

but as a spiritual calling.

To whisper to the weary: you matter, and so does the way you serve.

It is my why that birthed Desert Sage,

not just as a lifestyle company,

but as a living circle of healing and purpose.

A space where the sale of tea funds scholarships—

so young women can rise, study, become midwives,

and catch life with their own hands.

Because this is not just about tea.

It is about transformation.

It is about legacy.

It is about rewriting the story

for women who have been told their dreams are too small

or their lives expendable.

My why is not a mission statement.

It is a calling.

It is the quiet fire that burns in my chest when the world is sleeping.

It is the sacred thread that connects my grandmother’s garden in Jamaica

to a birth room in Accra

to a healing circle in Congo

to a kitchen in Coconut Grove.

And so today, I drink deeply.

Not just from my cup, but from the well of purpose.

Because I intend to live this life unapologetically and fiercely.

Because I remember who I am.

And I remember why.

Don’t Count Me Out

I sit in my usual chair, and today I’m sipping a beautiful white tea from Nepal,

an award-winning tea, light as a whisper, yet bold in its quiet strength.

There’s something about white tea that speaks of resilience.

It’s the youngest leaf, the tenderest bud—yet it survives frost, wind,

and the careful hands that pluck it with reverence.

It reminds me that gentleness is not weakness.

It reminds me that beauty can rise from pressure.

And as I sip, I think of life how often we are called to bounce back from places we never expected to fall.

People will discount you.

They will size you up with small imaginations and tell you who you are not.

They will forget your name while borrowing your light.

And yes, even the ones you trusted may disappoint you.

They may drop your heart like a passing thought.

They may look you in the eye and still not see you.

But here is what I’ve learned:

You do not belong to their measurement.

Your worth is not up for debate.

Your brilliance is not dependent on their recognition.

You rise.

Like this tea—soft but unforgettable.

You learn how to heal without hardening,

how to remember without being bitter,

how to weep and then wipe your own tears with sacred hands.

You hold your head high not in arrogance,

but in the quiet knowing that storms refine,

and losses, if held with care, make you wiser.

So if you’ve ever been counted out,

if you’ve ever been let down,

if your heart has known the cold hush of disappointment drink deeply today.

You are still here.

You are still unfolding.

And like this white tea from the mountains of Nepal,

you are rare.

You are worthy.

And you carry within you the power to begin again—

not as someone who was broken,

but as someone who became whole in a new way.

Unstoppable Me

Today, as I sit in my chair,

cradling a cup of English Breakfast tea,strong, steady, ancient in its lineage.

I let the warmth settle into my bones,

and I ask the question that trembles with possibility:

What would it be like

if I truly believed I was unstoppable?

Not the kind of unstoppable that never breaks

but the kind that breaks open

and keeps going anyway.

The kind that sees the storm

and still sets sail.

If I believed I was unstoppable,

what would I dare to do in this world?

Would I laugh louder

a full, uncontained laugh

that fills rooms

and disrupts silence?

The kind of laugh

that says I belong here,

in this moment,

in this life.

Would I speak truth to power

without flinching?

Would I walk into boardrooms, courtrooms, classrooms,

and name what must be named

even if my voice trembled?

Even if my knees knocked?

Would I gather women in circles

and remind them of their brilliance,

their beauty,

their birthright?

Would I write books that shook the dust

off silenced stories,

and whispered to every woman:

“You are allowed to take up space”?

Would I love more boldly?

Not just others,

but myself—

my aging, becoming,

always-changing self.

Would I say yes to rest

without guilt?

Would I say no without apology?

Would I dance barefoot in the grass,

and let joy spill out of me

like sunlight?

Would I return to the places that broke me

and plant gardens there,

because even in ruin,

I know how to grow things?

Would I stop trying to shrink

so others could feel tall?

Would I finally understand

that being unstoppable

has never meant being perfect—

it has always meant

being fully alive?

So I sip again,

and the tea reminds me:

You are already her.

You are already on your way.

And you don’t need anyone’s permission

to rise.

Today, I remember:

There is power in this chair.

There is vision in this stillness.

And there is an unstoppable woman

looking back at me

every time I dare to believe.

Space between the Thought.

Today I sit in my chair,

and I sip a beautiful Earl Grey—

so fragrant, so soft, it curls around me like a morning mist.

The bergamot lifts, floral and citrus,

a perfume that asks nothing but presence.

I breathe in the warmth of the cup,

and I wonder—

what does Eckhart Tolle mean

by the space between thought?

It is not silence, exactly.

It is not absence.

It is a presence so full,

so unburdened,

that it has no need to speak.

It is the moment before the next moment.

The inhale before the word.

The pause where nothing is missing.

And everything just is.

In that space,

I find a stillness that does not cling or grasp—

just awareness,

just breath,

just the steam rising from my cup,

and the knowing that I am here.

Not thinking, not solving, not remembering—

but simply being.

And perhaps that is what he meant:

not to dwell in thought,

but to dwell in the life

that lives between the thoughts.

The sacred space where peace is not earned,

but remembered.

So I sip again—

and let the next thought arrive

in its own time.

Practicing the Presence

I sit in my chair.

I sip my tea—a golden turmeric blend, earthy and warm,

with notes of ginger and quiet courage.

It settles in my belly like truth.

And I breathe.

There is no rush here.

No audience.

No task pulling at my sleeve.

Just this moment—whole, complete, and asking nothing of me

but my presence.

Practicing the presence is not a ritual of grand gestures.

It is a return.

A return to self.

To breath.

To awareness.

To now.

It is the holy noticing—

of steam rising,

of the weight of the cup in my hand,

of the way the light rests on the table just so.

It is choosing not to flee the ordinary,

but to fall in love with it.

In the presence, there is no performance.

I don’t need to be wise.

Or ready.

Or healed.

I simply need to be.

To be here.

To be still.

To be open.

To be wrapped in the quiet knowing that this moment is enough.

It is in presence that I meet the Divine—

not as a distant power,

but as a breath within me.

A whisper.

A warmth.

A nearness too often missed in the rush of doing.

Today, I do not rush.

I do not reach for meaning.

I let meaning come to me—

in sips,

in silence,

in stillness.

This is the practice.

Not once, but daily.

Not perfectly, but honestly.

To practice the presence is to make a home in the now—

and remember that peace is not found later,

or when things are better,

or when I am better—

but here.

Now.

With breath.

With tea.

With Spirit near.

Finding Your North Star

I sit in my chair.

I sip my tea

a delicate green jasmine, light as morning fog,

its fragrance like a soft guiding hand resting on my shoulder.

And I think about direction.

About longing.

About the quiet ache of not knowing the next step,

but moving anyway.

We all get lost sometimes.

In the noise.

In the expectations.

In the endless turning of other people’s opinions,

as if their voices were our compass.

But the North Star

she does not shout.

She does not chase.

She simply shines,

steady and unbothered by clouds.

Finding your North Star is not about arrival.

It is about alignment.

It is about knowing that there is something inside you,

something true,

something ancient,that remembers the way—even when you forget.

It is the dream you shelved long ago.

The truth you whispered into your pillow when no one else was listening.

The pull you feel in your belly when you’re standing in the wrong place too long.

Your North Star is the yes that lives in your chest.

The tug.

The knowing.

The holy unrest that says,

“This is not your home. Keep going.”

And the beautiful thing is—

you don’t have to see the whole map.

You only need to take the next faithful step.

One quiet, intentional step in the direction of what feels right.

What feels whole.

What feels like you.

So I sit.

I sip.

And I listen.

Not for answers,

but for the sound of my own soul waking up.

Because sometimes,

finding your North Star is not about finding something out there—

it’s about returning to what’s already within.

And remembering you were never really lost.

Just waiting to look up.

The Beauty of Stillness

I sit in my chair.

I sip my tea—

a deep, earthy oolong with notes of roasted chestnut and something older still,

something that speaks in the language of memory.

It warms my heart.

And it haunts.

Not with fear,

but with the grace of generations.

Women tea farmers, hands weathered and wise,

walking narrow footpaths in mist-covered hills,

plucking leaves like blessings from the bush.

Their quiet labor carried in each steep,

their stories swirling in my cup.

And in this moment, I surrender to stillness.

No deadlines.

No devices.

No demands pulling at the edges of my attention.

Just the breath between sips.

The whisper of steam against my skin.

The quiet recognition of being alive.

Stillness is not empty.

Stillness is full.

It is the space where the soul exhales.

Where truth softens its voice and says,

“I’ve been here all along. You were just too loud to hear me.”

Stillness teaches.

It teaches me that rest is not idleness,

that pause is not weakness,

that silence is a kind of prayer.

I think of the women who came before me—

those who woke before dawn to boil water over open flame,

who harvested leaves with reverence,

who sang while they worked,

whose hands held both grief and beauty with the same strength.

Stillness brings them close.

It calls them home.

And so I sit.

I sip.

And I remember that the world does not need more noise.

It needs more women unafraid of the quiet.

It needs more cups poured slowly.

More chairs that hold us like altars.

More afternoons that are not rushed into usefulness.

This is the beauty of stillness.

A holy hush.

A cup of tea.

And the knowing that in this moment—nothing else is required but breath.

In the Waiting

This morning, I sit in my favorite chair—quiet, worn in the most familiar way. The sunlight filters through the curtain just right, and in my hands is a cup of golden tea. It’s a delicate jasmine oolong, lightly floral, with a whisper of earth and honey.

The steam curls up and greets my face. I lift the cup to my lips and take a slow sip. The warmth is immediate, a soft bloom across my tongue. First, the scent reaches me—a breath of spring blossoms. Then the taste follows: smooth, layered, and alive. There’s a quiet complexity to it, like something that has waited to unfurl. I close my eyes.

And I savor it.

This is not a hurried cup. This is not a morning rushing out the door. This is a cup for being still, for breathing, for listening to silence speak.

And as I drink, I think about the waiting.

The not-yet.

The prayers that feel unanswered.

The doors that haven’t opened.

How often we confuse delay with denial.

But what if the waiting is not punishment—what if it is protection?

What if it is preparation?

I have learned that waiting is not a void. It is an altar. A sacred pause. A space where the soul stretches and learns to trust what it cannot yet see.

The world may say, “You failed.”

The mind may whisper, “You’re forgotten.”

But the heart—the faithful heart—knows to pray differently.

This or something better.

This or someone greater.

And so I do not beg. I bless.

I do not force. I flow.

I trust that the divine is not delayed, only deliberate.

And if I must wait longer—

May I wait like the tea I drink:

Steeped in stillness,

Infused with patience,

And poured from a place of love.

For in the waiting, I am being made ready.

And the answer is coming—

on time,

in full,

and more beautiful than I ever imagined.

I Come from a Line of Strong Women

I sip tea in my beautiful chair.

And I feel them with me those who walked before, those whose names echo in the marrow of my bones.

I come from a line of strong women.

I come from Nanny of the Maroons, warrior of the Jamaican hills, who fought for freedom with fire in her heart and strategy in her soul.

I come from Wangari Maathai, the Kenyan mother of trees, who planted forests where despair once lived and dared to stand tall in a world that tried to cut her down.

I come from Rosa Parks, who sat down in defiance so an entire people could rise. A quiet storm who changed the course of a nation.

These are my women.

Not just by blood or history but by spirit.

By courage.

By calling.

I come from women who resisted in silence and in song.

Women who made healing from herbs, hope from ashes, and dignity from dust.

Women who were told no and lived their yes anyway.

So hear me when I say:

I am not afraid.

I do not walk alone.

I carry the fire.

I carry the legacy.

I carry the knowing.

I come to tell you I’m here to change the world.

Not with arrogance, but with purpose.

Not to be famous, but to be faithful.

To the dream.

To the people.

To the assignment that calls me in the middle of the night and says: Get up, there is work to do.

I come with stories in my blood and prayers on my tongue.

I come with truth in my hands and love that does not flinch.

So if you see me quiet, know I am listening.

If you see me still, know I am gathering strength.

If you see me rise, know the ancestors rose with me.

I come from a line of strong women.

And I come to take my place among them.

I Sit in My Favorite Chair: The Company I Keep

Today, I sit in my favorite chair.

I drink tea—warm, grounding, familiar.

And I let the quiet settle around me like a shawl,

softening the edges of the day.

I look over my life,

not with judgment, but with honesty.

And my thoughts wander to the company I keep.

What do they bring to my soul?

Do they offer joy like sunlight in winter?

Or do they carry with them the sharp edges of tension,

the quiet discomfort that unsettles peace?

Do they walk beside me in reverence—

treating my spirit as something sacred?

Do they speak love,

not only in words but in actions woven into the everyday?

Do they understand the language of silence,

the way I sometimes retreat to restore myself?

Do they know how to hold space,

to offer care without condition, presence without pressure?

Do they celebrate my becoming—

my wins, my changes, my growth?

Do they hold me when I am unsure of myself,

and lift me when the weight gets too heavy to carry alone?

Do they tap my shoulder when I grow weary,

not to remind me of what I haven’t done,

but to remind me that I am not alone?

I ask myself:

Is there partnership in the way they show up?

Is there kindness in the way they speak of me when I’m not in the room?

Is there honor in how they hold my story?

I sip again.

And in the stillness, I make a vow—

to only make room for those

who bring peace to my table,

who speak truth to my heart,

who walk beside me not out of convenience,

but because they cherish the journey.

I will choose the company I keep

the way I choose my tea—

with intention, with warmth,

and with deep gratitude for what fills my cup.

Because this life is sacred.

And the company we keep

is the echo of how we love ourselves.

I Love Food

I sit in my favorite chair.

I sip tea, a gentle jasmine today, fragrant and soft—

And I begin to think, as steam curls like a sigh,

About my love affair with food.

I love food.

I love food that is alive, that whispers of the earth it came from.

I love when vegetables still taste of soil and sun,

When fruit carries the kiss of the morning dew.

I love food that is clean—

Not scrubbed sterile, but honored, respected,

Touched only enough to coax its true self forward.

I love food where the chef steps back,

Becomes more a poet than a puppeteer.

Where olive oil is used like a loving accent—

Not an eraser.

Where salt is a punctuation,

Not the whole sentence.

Where herbs dance quietly in the background,

And the tomato sings lead.

I love a plate that tells me a story:

Of the hands that picked the greens,

The grandmother who made broth the old way,

The fisherman who knew the tide.

Food that has not forgotten its lineage—

That still remembers the field, the flock, the root.

I love food that asks nothing but presence.

No distractions. No disguises.

Just the sacred act of nourishing.

I do not eat to fill a void—

I eat to meet the divine.

I eat with reverence.

I eat with gratitude.

I eat with joy.

So today, as I sit in this chair that knows me,

As I sip my tea and listen to the hush of the afternoon,

I give thanks for the plate.

For what grows. For what feeds.

For food that feeds more than the body—

Food that feeds the soul.

Let the food speak.

And I will listen.

I Choose You

The steam rises softly from my cup—today it’s a golden oolong, smooth and grounded, like the peace I try to find in quiet moments such as this. The cup is warm between my palms, and the light filters in just right, touching my cheek as if to remind me I am still here, still choosing love, even in its most uncertain form.

And so I begin here—again—with this truth:

I choose you.

Not because you gave me all the right words.

Not because you swept me off my feet.

But because somewhere in your stillness, in your smile, in your silence… something reached my soul.

Something whispered: Here is a man with grief tucked beneath his ribs, but still he breathes, still he tries.

I saw that sorrow, not fully named. I felt the ache you carry—not for me, but for your recent loss. And still, I chose you.

Even when I wasn’t sure.

Even when you couldn’t give me the kind of romance I once dreamed of.

Even when the attention was fleeting and the love came like rainfall in a drought—just enough to make me hope, not enough to quench the thirst.

I chose you because connection like this doesn’t come often.

Because in a world where people meet and pass like shadows,

You stayed long enough for my heart to recognize yours.

I chose you—

When I could have guarded my time.

When I could have withheld my energy.

I chose you when I could have said no.

But I didn’t.

Because choice matters.

Because love—even when it’s unreturned or unclear—is still sacred when given freely.

You see, I’ve built a life.

I’ve stood on platforms across more than 20 countries.

I’ve walked through the Congo, Somaliland, Ghana—teaching, healing, working to save the lives of mothers and babies.

I have known danger. I have known calling. I have known purpose that burns bright and asks everything of me.

And still, when your name lit up my phone, I answered.

When you texted me to meet you for dinner, sometimes at the last minute, I came.

Not because I was idle.

Not because I had nothing better to do.

But because I chose you.

Deliberately.

Consciously.

Softly.

I carved out space for you in a life already full.

And that should mean something.

So no, I am not a woman who chases.

I am a woman who recognizes energy.

I am a woman who honors soul connection.

And I gave you the gift of my time—not out of desperation, but out of devotion to what I felt in my spirit.

I chose you.

And that choosing was not weak.

It was strong.

It was sacred.

It was love.

And still, I sit in this chair, tea warm in my hands,

And I honor the choice I made.

Even now.

Even still.

I Sit With Tea and Truth

I sit in my favorite chair, as I do.

The steam rises from my cup like a soft exhale of all I’ve held in too long.

Today, it’s a deep, grounding oolong. Earthy. Real. Honest.

Much like the conversation I’m finally having with myself… about you.

What I hate most is the ambiguity

this cruel tenderness we’ve fallen into,

this half-light you keep me in.

You draw me near with warmth, then disappear like mist.

I never quite know if you’re arriving… or leaving.

There are days when your silence feels like absence.

And days when your presence feels like promise.

But never do I feel like I have all of you.

Not the way I give all of me to you.

I understand.

I do.

You’re living with grief

a thick, relentless grief that clings to your shoulders,

that clouds your heart and dims your voice.

I know you’ve lost something sacred.

I know your soul is sorting through fragments.

But somewhere in that swirling storm,

you reached out and pulled me in.

And now I’m lost too

not in your grief, but in your indecision.

And that is its own kind of sorrow.

You see, I think I’m special.

Not perfect, but present.

I’ve been soft when the world has been sharp.

I’ve stood by when others would’ve run.

I’ve loved you in ways that made me tremble.

I have believed in you.

And because of that,

I believe I deserve to be held sacred.

To be protected

not just from your shadows,

but from the company of those who dim me.

You see, grief does not give permission for neglect.

And love should never be buried under the weight of what once was.

I have always said it is possible to hold two truths at once.

Love and loss.

Longing and letting go.

But I will not be made a casualty of your confusion.

I deserve to feel your care.

I deserve the clarity of your desire.

Not just in whispered moments,

but in the broad daylight of your choosing.

Because I am always vulnerable with you.

Always there.

Always hoping you will rise and meet me whole.

But until then…

I sip my tea.

And sit in my favorite chair.

And hold space for the woman I am—

the one who loves deeply,

who gives freely,

and who, even in pain,

still chooses herself.

Why I Write

I sip my tea.

I sit in that familiar chair—

the one that holds me,

knows me,

reminds me that I belong.

I feel the weight of my body settle,

the quiet hush of morning,

the way the steam rises

like a prayer from the cup in my hand.

And I know—

I am in the right chair.

I am drinking the right tea.

Because today,

the ancestors want me to pour out.

So I do.

This is why I write.

I write to tell my story—

not the polished one,

not just the accolades or the triumphs,

but the whole story:

the tears that came before the rising,

the failures that shaped the voice,

the sacred burden I carry

as a woman, a healer,

a witness to lives on the edge of the world’s attention.

I write to speak the names of women

who die every 90 seconds

from complications of childbirth in Sub-Saharan Africa.

I write because I’ve touched their hands,

prayed with midwives under open skies,

and sat in circles where healing is sung, not prescribed.

I write because not enough people are listening.

And silence is no longer an option.

I write what I know.

I write what I’ve seen.

I write for those who still have voices,

and for those who were silenced too soon.

I write always.

I tell the truth.

Because writing is my reckoning—

with joy, with justice, with memory.

I do not hide in the writing.

I become visible.

Fully. Vulnerably. Unapologetically.

Some days, the words come like a waterfall—

rushing, demanding, relentless.

Other days, like a quiet stream,

meandering, soft, slow—but present.

Still, always, I write.

I write because there’s always a story to be told.

Always truth waiting to be shared.

Sometimes I write from pain—

the ache of injustice,

the weight of witnessing.

Sometimes I write through joy—

the lightness of laughter,

the radiance of hope,

the beauty of tea shared in sisterhood.

But always,

I write.

And when I do,

I am transformed.

I return to a place that is ancient and familiar—

a space between worlds.

I sit among the ancestors,

and I ask them:

What is it you want me to say today?

And then I stop.

I listen.

And I write.

Because writing is how I tell the world my story.

How I tell their story.

How I remind us all that we are more connected than we know.

Writing is powerful.

It is a bridge.

It is medicine.

It is mirror.

It is memory.

It is prophecy.

It brings us into one beloved community,

where your story touches mine,

where truth is honored,

where the sacred is named.

When I write, I am home.

When I write, I am whole.

When I write, I am free.

I write

because I have no choice

but to write.

I Choose Me

I sit in my chair, as I do every day .

The light pours gently through the window,

my tea in hand, warm and grounding,

a silent witness to my unfolding.

Today, like every day, I choose me.

Every moment, every breath, every truth.

I choose me.

Not out of bitterness,

not out of anger,

but out of reverence.

The fact that I loved you unconditionally was never weakness.

It was the strength of my spirit,

the vastness of my heart.

It was my soul saying, “I see you”

even when you were unsure of yourself.

Even when you could not see me.

I invited you into my life.

That was my choice.

I opened my world, wide and welcoming.

That was my choice.

I gifted you my time,

offered you my grace,

softened myself in your presence.

That was my choice.

I silenced the unease.

I gave you the benefit of the doubt.

I poured from my well without asking for anything in return.

Because I wanted to.

Because that is who I am.

And so now, I make another choice

with the same heart,

with the same grace.

I choose me.

I choose peace over chaos.

I choose clarity over confusion.

I choose joy that does not depend on someone else’s readiness to receive me.

I choose to walk away,

not because I didn’t love you,

but because I finally remembered how deeply I must love myself.

And so, yesterday—

I walked away.

With no regret.

With no rage.

Only love.

Only prayers.

Only hugs sent on the wind,

wrapped in softness,

carried by the same spirit that once welcomed you in.

I choose me now.

Every day.

Every time.

Everywhere.

And that, too, is love.

A Morning Love Letter to Self

I sit in my chair,

the one that has caught my stillness

through many dawns.

Steam rises from my cup—

today’s tea, warm and familiar—

cradled in both hands

like something sacred.

And I realize, with no hesitation,

I am in love.

Truly, wholly, and undeniably

in love… with myself.

I love the part of me that is strong—

the one who does not flinch in storms,

who walks into unknown places

and builds bridges with bare hands.

I love the part of me that is brilliant—

bright-eyed and thinking,

quick with words,

always learning,

always searching.

I love the part of me that gives—

gives time, gives truth,

gives tenderness without needing to be asked.

I love the part of me

that wears compassion like second skin,

who weeps quietly

for those I’ve never met

but fight for every day—

mothers and babies across oceans,

across borders,

across hope.

I love the part of me that tries—

tries to be kind,

tries to be better,

tries to leave every place, every person

a little more whole than before.

I love the part of me

that loves with her whole chest—

even when it aches.

Even when the love I offer

returns as silence,

or delay,

or absence.

And still, I love.

Not because I’m a fool,

but because this heart is brave.

Because it refuses to harden.

And no—

I will not apologize for that.

I will not apologize

for being vulnerable,

for hoping,

for opening myself to joy and pain

in equal measure.

So I sit.

I sip.

And I say to myself,

softly but surely:

You are enough.

You are radiant.

You are loved—by you.

And perhaps,

that is the beginning

of everything.

Note to Self – A Morning With White Tea

It is early—earlier than usual.

The world is hushed in soft shadow,

and I have wandered into the kitchen

not out of habit, but out of something deeper—

a stirring that refused to let me sleep.

I brew tea, slow and mindful.

A delicate white tea from Nepal.

Its leaves unfurl like the quiet truth

beginning to unfurl within me.

I pour it into my favorite cup

and return to that familiar chair,

the one that knows all my turning seasons.

And like the gentle roll of water

over those sacred leaves,

my thoughts roll.

But this morning, they are not fogged.

They are clear.

Crystal clear.

Ambiguity does not serve me.

I have danced too long in shadows,

read too much between lines

that never meant to be read.

Not being made to feel special—

no, that does not work for me.

I was not born to be tolerated,

to be a passing thought,

a maybe, a someday.

And emotional unavailability—

that famine of the heart—

no longer will I sip from that dry cup.

I need presence.

I need depth.

I need the kind of listening that meets the soul.

So today, in the silence of this sacred hour,

I reclaim something vital.

I take back my power.

Not from you,

but from the part of me

that kept hoping you would offer more

than you were ever meant to give.

And I see now:

This is not your fault.

This is my learning.

My awakening.

My soft and radiant unfolding.

I accept it all.

Not with bitterness,

but with grace.

Because I know who I am.

And I know what I need.

And I know that I am already whole.

So I sit.

I sip.

And I let the tea remind me

that even what’s delicate can be strong—

that even quiet mornings

can bring loud clarity.

I rise not heavy, but light.

And I carry this truth with me

like steam rising from the cup.

Good Morning Self

A Sacred Pouring In

I sit once again in my favorite chair—

tea in hand, steam rising like prayer—

and I breathe.

I breathe in the memory of Ghana,

ten days wrapped in golden sun and grace,

ten days that whispered to my spirit

what it means to be poured into.

I remember the rush before leaving,

the bustling to prepare Desert Sage,

entrusting it to another’s hands.

And then the flight—

not just across oceans,

but into something ancient,

something eternal.

A stirring lived in me,

deeper than purpose,

wider than duty.

Yes, I was going to teach,

to speak with mothers,

to walk hospital halls and lay groundwork

for 2026’s And the Women Gather Africa .But something more awaited me.

Africa was ready for me.

Mama Africa,

with her knowing eyes and open arms,

was ready to pour in.

The guest house was the same as last year—

same room, same soft familiarity.

And when I mentioned, in passing,

that I’d love a few fresh flowers,

they said nothing.

But when I returned,

there they were—

fresh-cut blossoms arranged

as if my spirit had been heard

without needing to raise its voice.

And every day,

they asked—

Where would you like to eat?

Did you sleep well?

Are you okay?

And every day,

I was met not with demands,

but with care.

For once, I did not have to pour.

For once, I did not have to shrink

or explain

or bend myself in the name of grace.

No justifications.

No hoping he, she, or they would show up better.

No need to point out the absence of tenderness

and wait for its return.

In Africa, I simply was.

And that was enough.

They knew.

They felt.

And they gave—freely, abundantly,

without asking for anything in return.

And so this morning,

as I sit with tea in hand,

I thank you, Self,

for making that journey.

For saying yes to the call.

For letting Mama Africa remind you:

You, too, are worthy of tenderness.

You, too, deserve the flowers—

and not just the ones you arrange for others.

This is my morning prayer.

This is my sacred remembering.

This is the gift Ghana gave me:

To receive,

to rest,

to be held.

Thank you, Mama Africa.

You saw me.

You filled me.

You loved me—without me asking.

Could You Love This Woman?

(A Reflection from the Teacup)

Again, I sit in my chair.

My hands cradle a warm cup of tea,

its steam curling like whispers from the Divine,

and I feel it again—

the stillness, the knowing, the quiet fire.

I am that woman.

The one who loves deeply—

not carelessly, not quietly—

but with a heart so wide it gathers nations,

with arms ready to hold the weight of dreams

that don’t even belong to her.

I am the woman who lives fiercely.

Who rises early not just to conquer,

but to listen,

to feel,

to serve.

I am the one you call when the sky is falling,

when your hands tremble,

when the world forgets how to be kind.

You can trust me.

I will hold your secrets with reverence.

I will not flinch at your scars.

I will sit beside your sorrow

and still see your light.

I care—

not in passing, not in pretense—

but in action, in devotion.

My love is translated into midwife scholarships,

into training in rural villages,

into clean beds for laboring mothers

and lullabies for babies born too soon.

I am the woman who walks into the storm,

offering not just hope,

but hands that build,

that heal,

that remember what the world has tried to forget.

I am a woman of worth.

Dignity lives in my spine.

I read poetry and medical reports with equal awe.

I travel not to escape, but to arrive—

in places that need tenderness,

in places that need voice.

Fierce, yes—

but I will cry with you.

Powerful, yes—

but I will kneel beside a broken crib

and whisper prayers only mothers understand.

So I ask—

not out of uncertainty,

but out of the invitation that love always offers:

Could you love this woman?

Could you meet her eyes and not flinch from their truth?

Could you sip tea with her in the still hours

and not be afraid of the fire she holds

and the softness that undoes you in the most necessary way?

Because she is here—

tea in hand,

purpose in heart,

and she is waiting for a love that is not afraid

to match her depth.

Could you love this woman?

Tea Teaches You to Trust Your Voice

Each morning, I begin not with the chatter of the world but with the silence of steeping leaves. I sit in the same armchair, day after day, a small ritual that has become a sanctuary. The steam curls upward like incense in a temple, the warmth of the cup grounding me. This is not just tea—it is a teacher.Tea teaches me to trust my voice.In the stillness of morning, before the demands of the world arrive at my door, I wrap my hands around my cup and close my eyes. I take a breath—not just any breath, but a deep, intentional one. A breath that says, I am here. I am listening. And then I ask, softly, reverently: Tea, what is it you want to teach me today?Because tea, for those who are willing to listen, is never silent. It speaks in whispers. In intuition. In gut feelings that rise from the belly and settle in the bones. Tea asks me questions that no one else dares to:Do you love yourself enough?Do you create boundaries that protect your peace?Do you allow people to see your light, and demand that they honor it?Do you understand that the future—yes, your future—is grand, wide, and waiting?These are not casual reflections. They are the architecture of a life built with awareness.Tea teaches me to trust my gut.Because wisdom often comes not from thinking, but from feeling. And every steeped leaf has memory. Every herbal blend holds stories—of the women who picked it under the rising sun, of the rain that nourished it, of the lands that breathed it into being. When I sip my tea, I am sipping resilience. Strength. The unshakable knowing that lives within every woman who ever paused long enough to listen.There are days when I don’t have the answers. Days when the world feels too loud, too sharp. But in that chair, with tea in hand, I remember who I am. I remember that my voice matters. That my gut does not lie. That the Divine speaks not in thunder, but in the quiet rustle of jasmine leaves and the earthy breath of rooibos.Tea is my teacher.Tea is my companion.And with each sip, I remember:The world does not define me.I do.And that truth is brewed, steeped, and served every single morning—in the sacred stillness of one cup.

Love Finds Me in My Cup

So another morning is here.And I sit in that chair—the same chair I sit in every morning. The one that holds the shape of my body and the rhythm of my breath. The one that has come to know my quiet sighs, my hopes, my whispered prayers.Tea in hand. Silence all around. And a question rises like steam:Will love ever find me?Are some people simply born to walk this world without it?Is love a gift for some and not for others?I do not rush to answer. Instead, I sip. Slowly. Reverently.And in that sip, I remember.I remember that I give love—freely, constantly, without condition.And I remember that love finds me too—in unexpected ways, in sacred encounters, in the grace of a sunrise or the laughter of a friend.Love comes quietly sometimes, not in grand declarations but in soft gestures: a warm cup, a remembered name, a shared moment of stillness.And I remember this truth:An open heart will always invite love.A heart willing to stay soft in a hard world will always be magnetic.The Divine has not forgotten me. No, the Divine has steeped my life in something tender and profound. In this extraordinary opportunity to savor tea from every corner of the world. To taste the lands. To honor the hands—especially the hands of women who pick these leaves. Women who are often unseen. Often unnoticed.But I see them. I honor them.And in that honoring, I find love.In every sip, I find love.In every cup, I find comfort.In this moment, I find gratitude.So yes, love finds me.In the warmth of this tea.In the sacred quiet of my chair.And most of all, in the open chamber of my heart.