RE-ENTRY

Re-Entry

Today I finally returned home from ten soul-stirring days in Ghana. It was magical. It was glorious. It was everything.

I touched the hem of purpose. I stood in the presence of midwives—warriors in white coats—who hold life and possibility in their hands. I taught. I listened. I laughed. I felt seen. I poured out all I had, and somehow, I returned fuller.

And then, I landed. Orlando. Back to the West. Back to the fast and the frenzied, to honking horns and headlines, to the place where the clock ticks louder and silence is hard to find.

As I waited for the shuttle to take me to my car, a message lit up my phone like a candle in the dark: "Take it easy, my sister. Re-entry is sometimes difficult."

Yes. That.

Because re-entry is not just about flights and customs and baggage claims. It is about soul rhythm. It is about the tender ache of transitioning from one frequency to another. Africa had a different beat—wide and deep and ancestral. It is complex, yes, but its complexity holds a kind of ease. Its soil remembers. Its people look you in the eye. There, I felt purpose breathing beside me.

But here—Here, the pace is relentless, the smiles sometimes shallow, and the question often becomes what do you do instead of who are you becoming.

And so, I reminded myself, as I drove the familiar one-hour road from Orlando to DeLand, Take it easy. Don’t rush to “catch up.” Don’t race back into the roar.

Instead—settle. Honor the space between the worlds. Carry the grace home.

I hadn't slept in nearly 18 hours, but still—I drove to the store, because I knew I needed something simple to anchor me: fresh flowers. Not a grand bouquet. Just enough. A whisper, not a shout. Because on Sunday, I’ll return to the orchid farm and let their elegance fill my home with poetry.

But tonight? Tonight, I needed one thing: the ceremony of arrival.

I placed the flowers on my table. I lit a candle. I sat in the chair that knows me best, the one where I sit every day and sip my tea.

And there—in the quiet hum of evening, with steam rising from my cup and light flickering from the flame—I remembered who I am. And all is well.