Beyond It All

Yes, the world is on fire, but look at all the beauty that remains.

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Pro tip: You can listen to me read this full essay by pressing play on the article voiceover.

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Trigger Warning: Death

i. this little light

Technically, I'm a journalism school dropout. However, it wasn't entirely my choice. Housed within the larger school of communication at my university, a concentration in journalism required four foreign language credits. I chose Spanish, because it had to be easier than learning something like French or Japanese. I took my first Spanish class my junior year of high school. I didn’t learn much. It wasn't long before my teacher, someone who actually spoke Spanish, was out on a leave of absence. She returned with her leg propped up on a red scooter that cradled her knee. She struggled to maintain the attention of our class. Life colored her face in varying shades of defeat and pain.

While she'd been away, they'd given us a substitute teacher. Unfortunately, they knew no more Spanish than we, the students, did. That, paired with a learning style I wasn’t aware of, created a recipe for disaster entering my college Spanish lessons. I cried during exams, struggling to remember what I spent the prior weeks learning, leaving more questions than not blank.

All these years later, it's ironic to be living in Mexico, battling my fear of learning Spanish while observing the reemergence of my journalistic writing itch. Due to my language learning frustration and my college advisor's well-intentioned advice to pivot, I shifted my focus to public relations. Frankly, I was never too fond of it, not because of what it was, but because of what it wasn't.

I'd attended college with high hopes of eventually writing for a mainstream magazine. In my early teenage years, I ditched my Word Up! magazines with the multiple-page spreads of B2K and Bow Wow in exchange for publications like Glamour, which offered the human-interest stories I'd taken to over the years. I consumed these pieces as if they were the air I needed to breathe. In many ways, writing has been just that—a vital part of my functioning.

From this young age, I understood the power of a story. I loved getting lost in the lives of people I didn't know, connected only by the words on the page inviting me to bear witness to their existence. Because even then, I recognized that regardless of who society says has a story worth telling, we all have something resting on the tip of our tongues ready to spill out.

ii. the stories we tell

Last week marked twelve years since the car accident that killed my two linesisters. Myself and another survived. For days leading up to it and following it, I tried to write, but I couldn't. I'd sit at my computer, typing a little bit here and an incoherent paragraph there, but nothing stuck.

One of the hardest lessons I'm learning regarding my writing is how I create boundaries with myself and my readers. I've shared so much over the years, and it's been incredibly therapeutic. When I write about many things, I'm actively navigating them and trying to understand what they mean. However, this time, as I tried to write about one of the worst moments of my life, I decided against it. Instead, I looked at old notes I’d written my linesisters and prayed to the Gods above that they knew how much they were loved and missed. Words, no matter how well crafted, would never be enough.

Historically, this stretch of the year is difficult. It often brings a deep depression, and each time I’m left wondering if I’ll have the strength to muster through. But the darkness hasn't come yet, and all I can really say is, praise be. This part of my story has always felt so heavy; this year, it feels lighter. This year I feel hopeful, and instead of teleporting myself back to the scared and scarred twenty year old self I was, I can honor the person I am today.

iii. after the rain

Yall, I've been through so much, and my writing has always been centered on pain and suffering. For so long, that's all I knew, even if only in my mind. There's more to this world than the misery society subjects us to on an eerily consistent basis. There are so many other stories to be told, and I want to write these stories

When I was on a flight back to Cancun last Sunday, after spending the weekend in North Carolina with my linesisters, I cracked open the latest copy of Essence magazine I'd purchased at one of the overpriced airport mini markets. Once I arrived at the horoscopes, I was surprised to see how much they spoke to me.

This year, speak or write your truth about who you're becoming...

-my horoscope

Yall, I want you to know who I am beyond my suffering. It’s not that I’ve arrived at a point where life is perfect, but I'm more aware. I'm more at peace with myself and my story, even the complicated parts. As I enter this new chapter, I want to write about where I am and who I am. I want to write about the beauty of silver linings. I want to write about who I'm becoming, and how even the most twisted and treacherous paths can lead us home to ourselves. I want to write about healing and how I’ve found it in so many places; Mexico, food, laughter, community, books, nature. I want to write about the joy of finding my voice and how I feel more courageous than ever. The truth is, I'm not the girl I was twelve years ago, and my writing should reflect this.

Some of your best ideas come from deep within your emotional center, but it's important to consider others' stories, too. We all have something to share.

- my horoscope

I'm eager to explore something beyond myself. I have a thirst that only the wisdom of elders, peers, strangers, and ancestors alike can quench. I find myself in such a mesmerizing place in life. It's like I'm coming into my own while finally understanding how deeply connected we are. These are the stories I wish to tell, stories of life and how each one of us plays a significant part in making this world what it is. I'm ready to tell the stories that say, "Yes, the world is on fire, but look at all the beauty that remains."