Not every battle begins with gunfire or explosions. Some wars unfold quietly, unnoticed by the world, yet erode the spirit day by day, in that fragile space between "I'm fine" and "I'm falling apart." Perhaps the most brutal war of all is the one we fight against ourselves in silence, alone, and utterly exhausted. As we move deeper into the digital era, time that glorifies achievement, beauty, confidence, and power, we learn to adapt like free-spirited artists endlessly painting our lives according to different schools of realism. In this ever-demanding world, we're encouraged to step into the spotlight a space where only the most polished versions of ourselves are allowed to appear. We learn to present an ideal self carefully filtered, meticulously chosen, refined down to the finest detail, always ready to receive applause and praise. As for the parts that aren't bright enough or beautiful enough, we quietly push them aside and hide them behind the backstage of our inner world. Carl Jung once wrote: "Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is". Perhaps the very parts of ourselves we work hardest to deny end up affecting us the most. Yet on the relentless journey toward perfection, we often forget to water our own shadow — the place where unnamed sadness resides, where wounds remain unhealed, and vulnerability is carefully disguised beneath layers of forced strength and a hardened shell. In the race to meet the glittering standards set by society, obsessed with success, status, or whatever the trend demands, we've traded more than we realize. We wear our achievements like medals pinned to our armor and force a polite smile like a mask, even as fear tears us apart from within. Every failure feels like a bomb detonating in the chest. Every comparison is like a sniper's shot aimed at our self-worth. Even when we have shelter, three meals a day, and the freedom to shape our lives, what often breaks us down are the invisible expectations, silent, persistent, yet no less ruthless. It's time to lay down our weapons, to stop the inner war. Release yourself from the chains of perfectionism that leave you depleted and begin a quiet revolution, where rest is no longer mistaken for laziness, where imperfection is welcomed as a true part of being human, and where compassion is no longer seen as weakness, but embraced as a profound form of wisdom. The shadow we've long ignored, in fact quiet testimony that light is still present. It walks beside us, faithful and patient, even when we choose to look away or pretend it doesn't exist. Neglect doesn't make it disappear. It retreats into corners, hardens, withers, and slowly begins to shape the way we see and respond to life. No one is born to shine endlessly. Even the sun must set to rest, and the most radiant flowers need dark soil to bloom. Instead of chasing some perfect version of who we think we should be, we can pause. Return to the inner self. Gently pour love into the corners we once judged or denied. Sometimes, the bravest thing is not to overcome the pain, but to stay, to accept, to listen. Tend to what hurts and let it bloom when it's ready. "Our shadow side is not meant to be destroyed, but integrated" — something that needs to be nurtured until it becomes part of our wholeness.

“She's sick, surrounded by hypocrites, her life is a tragedy.” “A tragedy? Spare me. Does she even have a heart?” “Right — and only you do...” The women spoke loudly in the crowded bus, oblivious to everyone else. The passengers looked away, each hiding behind their own indifference. I glanced at them, trying to escape my spiralling thoughts. Rain trickled down the window. Grey coats, grey faces. A dreary world soaked in hopelessness. It had been a month since I shut down my company, a draining and disappointing grind that barely paid the bills. I was exhausted from doing work I didn't love. Trapped in a life that felt like a dead end. I felt more ghost than person, each day blurring into the next, numbed by regret and fatigue. “Don't crowd at the front!” called the conductor. “Next stop: Railway Station.” As the bus slowed, a man at the back suddenly shouted, “Open Sesame!” What a charming soul, I thought, and smiled. Open Sesame. The magic phrase that unlocks the cave of treasures. Who knows what's waiting just around the corner? What surprise this gloomy April day might bring? Yes. I would carry with me that phrase. My personal spell. And of course, I would go to Shanghai. To hell with fear. I was going. A flicker of light warmed my chest. The fog inside me began to lift. “Achoo!” sneezed a little boy from the front seat. Thank you, little one, for the blessing. I got off the bus early and walked home through the drizzle. With trembling fingers, I turned on my computer and wrote to Trevor Wilson: “Yes. I'm coming.” Trevor was a New Zealander, a university lecturer teaching English as a second language in China. We had met through an online forum connected to my now-defunct training company. We communicated through Google Translate, as I spoke no English just the remnants of the German I had learned at school. He had offered to pay for my travel and invited me to visit. I wasn't sure... until that moment. Something unseen was pulling me east. In my imagination, Shanghai shimmered with Chinese gondolas, fragrant gardens, and birds singing freedom songs in vibrant colours. The air smelled of mandarins and mangoes. I could almost hear the bamboo flutes. Trevor booked me into the Howard Johnson hotel, an elegant, sunlit place where I felt like a visiting queen. The lobby smelled of citrus and wood. The sheets in my room whispered with freshness. Each evening, we dined somewhere new. Trevor's eyes sparkled with gentle mischief as he introduced me to dishes I couldn't pronounce, patiently repeating their names until I could say them with confidence. He was kind and generous, romantic in ways I hadn't expected. The city stunned me. Skyscrapers and neon nights loomed above unfamiliar streets, yet something tugged at me. It was as if I had lived here before, left, and now, somehow, was finding my way back—to this city, to Trevor, to myself. English was my only obstacle. Trevor helped me through it. His encouragement dissolved my fear. I spoke with clumsy courage, and to my surprise, people listened. I began to feel I belonged. At the hotel, I met a Japanese receptionist Emiko, graceful, and bright. She carried the patient grace of someone who believed that every conversation, no matter how halting, was a small bridge across the world. Warmly, she encouraged me to visit Buddhist temples and shop for silk and spices in the old town. There was something familiar about her — the eyes, the gestures, the quiet way her smile lingered. Then it came to me: Julia Roberts. It amazed me how someone from a different world could resemble the American Cinderella from Pretty Woman. I found excuses to talk to her. Emiko patiently corrected my English and repeated difficult expressions. One day she asked, “What's your native language?” “Russian, like most Soviet people, regardless of ethnicity,” I replied. She smiled, intrigued. The next morning, my hotel phone rang. I picked it up. A bright voice with a strong accent said, in Russian, “Good morning, madam! Are you awake?” It was Emiko, my Julia Roberts. She stretched every syllable like a singer, filling me with joy and sending me into helpless laughter. In that moment, the once-distant world opened its arms. And it spoke my language. Now, more than twenty years have passed. I have become an author, writing historical novels and nonfiction books — in English. Recently, I published my first book on Amazon — a little guide to personal growth, illustrated with my own drawings. And I am writing this story with heartfelt gratitude and tender memory of that Open Sesame moment…for my husband Trevor, although he won't be able to read these lines while he is still alive. His love was the first page of the story I was meant to write. Because the magic of that day lives on—in my words, my journey, and in the love that opened every door. Some treasures, once found, remain forever open.

Be the gauze that wraps a hurt, Offer solace in times of sorrow. Let the needy your tears borrow, With empathy always others girt. Let the depressed with spirit spurt, Shoulder burdens on paths narrow. Sing for the voiceless as a sparrow, 'Gainst injustice, righteous energy exert. Fear not the consequences heavy, When the downtrodden you support. Faith shall counter malicious envy, Cause persecution to go athwart. Demons' threats are futile, empty, Your soul's mission never, ever abort!

a daughter's humorous hope for a mom desperately missed OK, so first things first …of course Mom has Vidal Sassoon himself doing her hair and is looking fabulous! Mom met Nora Ephron at orientation and thought she was a cool chick. The two of them hitched a ride to the party with Ferdinand Porche in his 911. The excitement and grandeur was beyond words. Everyone was still buzzing about their Secret Santa gifts. Mom got a painting of a tree next to a cottage, all signs point to Thomas Kinkade. Soon after arriving Nora made a beeline for Helen Gurley Brown. "Are you seriously wearing nylons in heaven Helen?" Mom is definitely wearing "pantyhose" in heaven too, regardless of their extinction on earth. To the squish squash of rubbing thighs she approaches the ballroom in awe. Spotting an empty seat at Henry Hill's table, she goes for it. "This guy has to have great stories" Even in heaven, the scene is reminiscent of high school; the jocks sit at one table, the politicians, actors and musicians all with their respective cliques. The champagne flows. In one far corner Robert Bork, George McGovern and Arlen Spector can be heard having a spirited conversation about the recent election. Daniel Inouye is clearly the most excited. Ernest Borgnine and Larry Hagman haven't budged from the buffet. Sally Ride has clearly had one too many Tangtinis and is chasing Neil Armstrong around with mistletoe. Richard Dawson leads a rousing game of spin-the bottle. Phyllis Diller is thrilled to be the only woman this round. Andy Griffith, Jack Klugman & Sherman Helmsley don't seem to mind indulging the harmless fun until Zalman King takes things too far.James Herr stops by to offer some potato chips. Oh boy Mom, I know you're a sucker for a man in uniform but don't go stormin Norman yet, he just got there! And now, the moment Mom and everyone else in Heaven's Class of 2012 has been waiting for…Don Cornelius introduces Whitney Houston and Donna Summer! Let the party begin. Mommy could not walk for some time, now she grabs Robin Gibb and dances the night away. She never sits down and sings along to every song at the top of her lungs with boundless energy. Adam Yauch is teaching her to rap though she has no clue who he is. Davy Jones stands on a chair for a better view. Free from physical pain and mortal concerns everyone is smiling & laughing. At last, Etta James takes the stage and slows things down. Dick Clark presides over the big ball drop while the room counts down in unison. The Class of 2012 has graduated and the calendar begins again.

I am the black sheep. I am excluded from family events. Birthdays, weddings, holidays. I am talked poorly about. A teenage mother. College drop out. I am forgotten at birthdays. No card. No text or call. I am unclaimed. Not his daughter. Not her daughter. I am the black sheep. Generally, the black sheep of the family is the weird uncle who was convicted of child molestation. The cousin who is addicted to drugs - the one who never seeks help and disappears. The father who is an alcoholic and takes his anger out on his wife. The mother who cheated on her husband and got pregnant. Not the daughter who grew up, realized her trauma and is freely speaking about it. Not the niece who set a healthy boundary and left when the lines were crossed. Not the sister who moved her sibling in, when they had nowhere else to go. Not the daughter who dropped everything on the dime, to drive 259 miles in an "emergency". Funny how that works, isn't it? You're always the antagonist in the story, while they are the victim. All because you recognized the signs of a narcissist. You realized their patterns of abuse. You were conscious of their motives and their actions. They are always quick to tell others what you did wrong. Yet they can't take responsibility for their own actions. And so, you will forever be the antagonist. The unwanted. The black sheep. I'll be the first of them to admit that I've made mistakes. I'm flawed, just like any other human being to walk the face of this planet. The reason I can admit that is simple. I tried, they didn't. I went to counseling, I did the work, I forgave things I shouldn't have forgiven. Now I'm the black sheep for walking away; for bettering my life. I am the black sheep. For giving my children a better childhood than I ever had. For not allowing negativity into my life. For putting my children first. For setting healthy boundaries and enforcing them. For growing as a person, attending counseling and healing from my trauma. For telling the truth. For speaking out about my childhood. For connecting with others who've experienced similar things. For not forcing my children to be in the lives of people who talk poorly of me around them. The list goes on and on and on. I'm the black sheep for speaking my truth and telling my story. In the beginning I'll admit I was terrified. Then I realized that they are still out there proving my point today. My "mother" still a drug addicted, alcoholic nut case. My "father" still a narcissistic, ego driven asshole. I have nothing to be afraid of. I refuse to let them shame me for healing, telling my truth, and living my best life. Because I am the black sheep... and I'm proud. Sometimes the black sheep, is the only one telling the truth.

Aside from introducing myself, I'm really unsure of where to begin. This probably isn't the beginning of my story but it's definitely a start. Have you ever heard someone say, "I had to grow up too quickly" or "I didn't have a childhood"? Those simple statements are the literal definition of my life. At 9 years old, I didn't know how to be a child. I never played with friends, went to sleepovers, or had birthday parties. I was too busy taking care of my two younger siblings. Making bottles, getting them dressed, changing diapers, cooking meals, giving baths... the whole nine yards. I was raising children that I didn't create. I was raising children as a CHILD. My "parents"? They were drunk. They were high. They were fighting. They were passed out. They were somewhere else. One of my earliest memories includes packing lunches for my sister and I before school. We lived in a little trailer in Powell, Wyoming and we walked to school every day. Rain, shine, snow, sleet. We walked. One morning on our way out the door my sister asked for popsicles. Being a child myself, I grabbed us some popsicles and tossed a knife inside her backpack so we could open them on the way to school. Here we are two young children probably 6 & 9 walking to school, eating popsicles and minding our own business. That is until we finally arrived at school and my younger sister's teacher decides to go through her backpack in search of something - but what she finds instead is the knife. Landing my kindergarten sister in the principal's office. Before long the school officer is involved, my parents are called and all of us are sitting in the office. I can remember the tears rolling down her face as the school officer explains how serious this is. Little does he know, I'm the one who put it in there this morning. As he scolds my sister, I can feel the rage welling up inside myself. Because I know it was my fault. The only other thing I remember about that day is getting whopped later that evening after school. It was "MY responsibility" to get us both to school. It was "MY responsibility to make sure she was safe. It was "MY responsibility".... But I was 9. I was supposed to be the child, not the adult. It should have NEVER been my responsibility to set an alarm. It should have NEVER been my responsibility to wake up my younger sister and get us both ready for school. It should have NEVER been my responsibility to begin with. However, looking back now I realize I'd gladly take that beating all over again because it meant that my sister wouldn't have to. I was forced to grow up early. I never got a childhood. I was "mom" to my siblings. I was the adult in my home. Even though I was only 9 years old...even though I was a child.

If you have the privilege as a woman to never have been sexually abused or assaulted, it might be difficult for you to understand the mixed emotions you might have towards your abuser. Let me explain better. When someone you love or admire assaults you, you might not hate them immediately, heck, you might never hate them at all. It's difficult to go from admiration and love to hate. It's also a very exhausting process. When my favourite person in the world, outside of my nuclear family assaulted me when I was barely 8 years old, I didn't know how to feel. I was pretty close to my mum so I just had to tell her. Before I did, I made her promise to not flair up. I didn't want my abuser to feel ‘bad'. Obviously, she flared up and banished him from visiting or sleeping over. This was very difficult for all of us because we really loved this person. His mum (of blessed memory) was my favourite aunt and my mum's closest sister. My brothers also didn't know what happened at the time so they didn't understand why he was banished. The next time I met him at a family function, I was worried sick that he would hate me. To give context, this man is about 20 years older than me. I remember how relieved I was when he smiled at me. It meant he didn't hate me. It's been about 15 years since this thing happened and although he took the time to apologize to me when I was much older, I almost can't stand him. It was like one day, a switch flipped in my head and I instantly became angry. But even then, sometimes I still admire him. It's really exhausting. While interning in a broadcast outfit when I was 18, I went to get this exclusive interview with a (now dead) well-known and loved musician. Apart from the fact that he was loved by the general public, I also really loved his music. The interview took place in an apartment. First, we watched him play his instrument and I videoed the whole thing with a smile plastered on my face. I couldn't wait to show my father. I was watching this man play live! This legend! Throughout my stay there, this entertainer kept looking at me funny and making inappropriate sexual comments. I was starting to get uncomfortable but we were so many in the apartment so I didn't really feel threatened. While trying to leave the apartment, this man rushed behind me, held me behind and groped me. I tried to get away from him but he held me firmly. I almost had to be forced away from his grip after I raised an alarm and I immediately ran outside. I really admired this man. I loved his music but I was highly irritated. When I got home, I still showed my family the video before I dropped the bomb. I went to bed that night watching the videos of the talented musician that I really admired with mixed feelings. The days that followed weren't any better. I had to conduct vox-pops on this man, asking people what they loved about him. I didn't even know how to feel. When he died and I kept seeing the news everywhere, all I could remember was the humiliating incident. My best friend asked me if I was okay, and my mother told me how uncomfortable she felt seeing everyone worship the man and was wondering how I felt about it. How did I feel? Was I glad that he had died? Did I hate him or dislike him? Honestly, no. Do I still think his music is great? Yes. Would I listen to his songs? Maybe. Sometimes I think about these unfortunate experiences and I'm angry with myself for not hating my abusers. I should hate them right? Imagine not knowing how to feel about a terrible thing someone has done to you because you remember all the good that they have done. If you're feeling this way, I just want to let you know that it's okay to feel what you feel. Sometimes you hate them and sometimes you don't. But don't ever beat yourself up about feeling any type of way. If you feel like you can forgive them, it's fine but if you can't forgive them, that's equally okay. I've heard people talk about how it is impossible to heal from abuse if you don't forgive your abuser but I've also read too many articles that say otherwise. People shouldn't tell you how to feel about these things, it's pretty complex so it's okay to heal at your own pace.

Dear Grandpa, It's been 2 weeks since you departed from this earth. They say only time can heal grieving, but I find matters may grow even more sad with the passing of months. The more time goes on, the longer it's been since I heard your voice on the phone or experienced your laughter. I never want to forget the sound of your voice. The last time I talked to you, there was a problem with your phone. The last words of yours I heard were "I can't hear you dear" as I repeated, "Hello? Hello??? HELLO?". I didn't know at the time that would be the last chat I had with you. I didn't know that would be one of your last days. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. I remember when I was a little girl and would hug your legs really firmly from behind. That feels like a separate life, long in the past. Yet, it feels like a vivid, not so distant memory all at once. Oh, how time flies. You lived your life and you lived it well for 89 years. What more could anyone ask for? Now, I'm relived to know you're free from isolation, boredom, and pain at the nursing home, even though it aches my heart to accept you're not here. Writing may seem untrendy in this modern day, but as far as I know it's the only thing that helps me cope, a medicine. We must never forget our dear loved ones. I continue to write about our memories together. Grampy, watch over me and please stay in my heart. Love, Your Granddaughter

"When you truly reflect on life, you come up with such creations. I like the way Adiela has weaved simple poetic stories out of the complex strings of life in which humans remain entangled. From social to soul exploration, all has been done and depicted neatly in this poetic beauty. As a poet, I especially relate to the poetry style that is made very understandable, yet churned out of an ocean's depth." - Ruchika Pahwa Available here: https://adielaakoo.wixsite.com/writer/shop

Aloof? Aloof you say? I'm so sorry if I made you feel that way. It's really not my intention, Though the reaction is of my own invention. You see, long ago I built a wall, A defence mechanism as I recall. So for me to draw close, is still very hard, After misplacing that important trust card. #AdielaAkoo Get Lost in a Quatrain here: https://adielaakoo.wixsite.com/writer/shop

Excited to announce that I have been invited to do a poetry reading at The Alan Paton Literary Festival, being hosted at Eden Lassie, in the beautiful Tala Valley 🙏🌹 Come and get Lost in a Quatrain with me on Saturday the 7th March 2020 from 15h00-15h30 I will be reading poetry from my book as well as some new, unpublished poems Love to see you there 💖 💖#AdielaAkoo

Having Anger to Tea Hey there, Good Morning! You! Yes, You! I See You Lurking. Ha,Ha! But there is no need, Dear One. I would like to invite you in for a cup of tea. I See the shock and mistrust on Your Face. I don't blame You. I've treated You like a “Redheaded Stepchild”, As the Country Folk like to say. Really, though, thanks for giving me some Time Alone. You do wear a person out. Now don't get riled up! JK! I'll stop. I thought humor might Lighten things up a bit. But we will leave the Dawn to that task Here, I will come Outside in the Shadows with You. Aaah, what a Gorgeous Morning! That Breeze is Delightful. It was the Tree Frog in my Garden that Woke Me. I wasn't even irritated upon waking. Just curious as I woke up Light and Mellow And I wondered what it was that caused this Delicious Awakening. So Anger, You are an Intense Girl. But I Love You. Yes, You. You are Real. You Exist. You Exist for a reason. I just wanted that said, Straight Out. Now I would like to Give You a Chance to say something. How about I meditate, Go Head, Heart, Hara, then come back. Was that Roar on the Breeze a Sign of your discontent? I am staying Outside with You. I meant “back” as in back from within myself. So where have you been, my Friend? I asked my mind and it said “She's been here all along. She can snap at any minute.” Well, my Monkey Mind didn't even get a Banana, As that wasn't very nice. My Heart. My Heart said That I am addicted to You. Chemical responses emitted due to Your Presence. Affecting my Dopamine Receptors. Kind of Heavy for Heart. More of a Mind response… And then I went to Hara. Where of course it all made sense. The Hara allowed Your Voice to come through. And I heard Your Response. “I am Love.” Which at first I didn't get. But after a Moment's Reflection I realized all three, Mind, Heart and Hara, were correct. You have been here all along. And You certainly could snap at any time. But I don't think You will. I know You are born from Fear and Hurt. And that I fed You what We thought You Needed. And You became an addict Yourself. But I am Softening You back into Love. Back to Source. I am allowing the Power that is in You to come to Light. Yes, You are Light. You are a Powerful Goddess of Truth, Agnus. If I may call You by Your given Name. I Love Your Power. I can use Your Power for Good. To Create and Communicate all that is Wrong with the World, But more Importantly, how to Fix it. Excuse Me for Hating and Fearing You. That I wouldn't Acknowledge or talk about You. How Lonely and Sad You must up have Felt! What's that? Oh, Sweetie, I Know You were only trying to Help. Oh! I just heard the Roar upon the Wind! Not a Sound of Your distaste, but an Affirmation! How misunderstood You must always Feel! Like Gollum. Like Grendel. Let's have a Fun Nickname to go with Agnus. Because We aren't trying to Change who You are, But how You are Perceived, And My reactions to these Perceptions. Clementine? Well, that might be kind of long for a Nickname. How about Clemmie for short? I think this is the Beginning of something Beautiful, Clemmie. I'm going to check in with You throughout the day. I want to get to Know each other. Learn how to Communicate. Learn how to Understand one another. Because I am You, Kid. And I am Beginning to Love Me. And I guess that means Every Part of Me. Thank You for Being There from the Beginning, Agnus. Oh, You do like Clemmie? So it is. Thank You, Clemmie. For Helping me Survive. And Maintaining the Desire to Thrive. You can take a backseat Now, though. We can be in the midst of this Hurting World And Know that We are Loved Unconditionally. Do You want to Know a Secret? Between New Pals? We Always have been. P.S. Did You Notice it is getting Brighter already? Love You, Clemmie. XXX OOO

I began feeling a dull ache in the base of my left heel. Picture a horseshoe on the bottom of your heel. That's exactly where I felt the ache. After ignoring it for a few months, the pain increased to the point where I needed to see the doctor. He had an MRI done and the result was a large heel spur that was pushing against my tendon. It needed to be removed. He warned me that once the surgery was done, I wouldn't be allowed to walk for about 8 weeks. In order to remove the spur (knows as Haglund's deformity), he'd have to cut the tendon off the bone. That's what take the longest to heal. My husband rented a wheelchair to enable me to move around the house. Leaving the house was more awkward since we have a few steps to master. My friends know that being confined to the house, I'll go stir crazy. Our friends who know my husband know that he doesn't know his way around the kitchen. In order to make things a bit easier for us, they took turns bringing dinners for us to enjoy. Saying “thank you” won't even come close to showing my appreciation. The goodness of people, though, didn't stop there. I belong to a dance group that meets three times weekly with another section (the PC group) that meets in another town weekly. We often interact rehearsing for shows and holiday parades. I have been very blessed to become good friends with most of the PC group. A few days following my surgery, I received a call from one of the women. She asked how I felt and said, “We'd like to come see you. We'll bring pizza. Oh, and tell your husband he's invited to our pizza party.” I was awed. As I said, we are all in the dance group, but they are in the other section and I don't get to see them every week so when they volunteered to bring dinner and spend some time with me, I was beyond thrilled. The women arrived; we all had our share of pizza; we played dominoes. The night flew by and they left laughing. It was quite a night. One I certainly will never forget. While I'm still in the wheelchair, once my foot is healed and I'm back to walking and dancing, my plan is to treat all those wonderful women to lunch. It's the least I can do for friends who went out of their way to keep me company during my recovery. I also intend to make a habit of attending their dance class a few times a month. As of today, September 2, 2019, I am two weeks away from having the cast removed. For a few weeks afterwards, I'll be in a post-surgical boot but at least, I'll be walking. For those who have had any type of extensive foot surgery, you know how I feel and how enthusiastic I am to get my life back to normal. My friends, all of them, will be around to help me celebrate. They are wonderful people on whom I know I can rely. They also made me realize that you can never take friendships for granted. I know, I never will again. There is nothing like friendships.

If there's one thing I've learned in my early 20s, it's to never take your health for granted. My health means being able to get out of bed in the morning without any assistance. It means being able to walk down the block without feeling over-exerted. It means looking in the mirror and recognizing the person staring back at me. For me, my health represents my victory over a severe condition that once limited me from doing all of these things and more. Six years ago, I graduated from Howard University feeling like my next chapter would be spent in a coffin rather than a cubicle. Towards the end of my senior year, I began developing symptoms of severe fatigue, muscle weakness and swelling. Literally right after I crossed the stage on May 12, 2012, my condition took a turn for the worse. What was supposed to be the happiest and most exciting period of my life was instead filled with depression, misery and anger — mostly at God. After graduating, I returned home to Michigan with my parents, since there was no possible way I could work or live on my own. After being in and out of the doctor's office and getting a slew of tests run, I was finally diagnosed with dermatomyositis (pronounced dur-mat-oh-my-oh-sigh-tis), an autoimmune disease characterized by severe inflammation, muscle weakness and chronic fatigue. I was required to take medication for about six months before tapering off completely. Today, six years later, I am in full remission and am medication-free. During my journey to healing, I realized there were some things I needed to do — aside from taking medication every day — in order to witness significant changes in my life. These things included: 1. Talking to God: I prayed, a lot. I literally had full-fledged conversations with God about what and how I was feeling every day. The more I spoke to Him, the more I felt His presence. The more I felt His presence, the better I felt physically, mentally and spiritually. 2. Encouraging myself: I would literally force myself to think positively every day. I would wake up in the morning, look at myself in the mirror and recite a list of affirmations my family sent me: “I am healthy. I am strong. I am thriving. I am beautiful. I am grateful. I am flourishing. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am powerful beyond measure.” 3. Listening to my body: I was extremely cautious about my intake of certain foods. Whenever I ate something, I paid very close attention to how it made me feel. I noticed that whenever I ate bread or pasta, it would drastically enhance my symptoms. That's when I decided to cut gluten — which is typically found in wheat-based foods — out of my diet. I discovered that other people with autoimmune conditions have a hard time consuming foods with gluten because it triggers inflammation in the body. So, I implemented a lot of anti-inflammatory foods into my diet, which helped improve my health tremendously. 4. Staying lifted: My theme song was “Sweet Life” by Frank Ocean, which stayed on repeat every day. I would listen and sing along to the cheerful melody, which helped keep my spirits lifted. 5. Focusing on my vision: I would literally sit for hours working towards my newfound vision, Free E.G.O. Apparel (the acronym stands for empowerment, gratitude and optimism). Although I was still trying to recover from my condition at the time, I became inspired to start something that would encourage others to develop and maintain a positive mindset and lifestlye. Launching an inspirational clothing line was my outlet to focus on encouraging others through my testimony instead of focusing on my illness. 6. Forgiving: Right before graduating, a friend and I had a pretty big disagreement that put a damper on our relationship. She was getting married that summer, so I decided not to go to her wedding. But as time went on, I let go of my bitterness and decided to support my friend on her big day. Although I was still battling my illness during her wedding, my health improved immediately afterwards. Oftentimes, we miss the fact that the act of forgiveness isn't for the people who hurt us, but for us. And for me, I believe forgiveness — along with the other things listed above — played a huge role in my journey to healing.

As I put the phone of one of my family friend's down the other day and murmured with a sharp satire, ‘We need to talk', I discovered that I am encountering this phase often and frequently now more than ever. Wonder what had I done to deserve to hear this so often? A lot! I had aged 26 and was not married yet. I was working in one of the biggest international development partner bodies in the country but was only a beginner and not at a stable and secure position and so that is easy to belittle and obviously does not matter. I did not know a thing about cooking, my job with frequent field visits had taken over me maintaining a healthy diet, beautiful skin and the life of a social butterfly. To me, none of these sounds too bad because somewhere lost and caught up with so much expectations of so many people, I sometimes feel that my only true identity is probably this struggling job. I don't really feel sorry for myself for not living up to other people's expectations, I don't kill the peace of my mind over increased weight and hair fall and stressed skin for I knew my inside was stressed from so many things and it is normal to show up on my skin. I pursued a yearlong full-time master's program besides my full-time job and that turned my average days into 14-16 hours a day which equals to two full times. I would leave early morning for my office, would complete my office by the late afternoon and would catch up soon for the evening classes. Coming back to the great family friend story, the phone call was mainly to remind me that I am not aging backwards with the passing time and how I needed to start thinking and expediating the thought and materialization process of getting married but in my own mind and conscience, was I ready for marriage just because I was about what they call past the age for marriage? No, I was not and to be frank that does not matter. It is difficult to explain to your family that how you are of the ‘marriage' age and are still not ready for it? People can get mean on so many levels but one of many beauties of being born as a girl to a south Asian conservative set-up is that ‘mean' means normal and justified and words like ‘considerate' and ‘civic sense' pretty much do not exist. In fact, the dominant conservative south Asian countries are a warehouse of interesting norms. When it comes to the girl in the family, everyone in the family think that they have a right to decide what she should wear- the length of her hair and her dress, what and how much she should eat, what should be her skin color ideally and if it is not that which it is not mostly then how she should achieve that, where and with whom she should go out and with whom she should not and at what time and by what time she should be back and most importantly, when should she get married, have her first child, have her second child and the list goes on. To tell them that they do not actually have the right to decide and more often, their opinions are not welcomed if not asked for, is a sheer audacity and is a sign of questionable upbringing. Not that I ever liked the phase ‘we need to talk' but the frequent encountering the phase made me realize the extent of dislike I possess for this 3-word sentence. I had just turned 26 and was struggling with my new job in the multilateral entity. I was struggling with almost everything and was looking for my breakthrough in the job through the bumpy journey. Wonder how I feel confessing that I was still a beginner at 26 and was struggling with my job instead of having it mastered by this age and heading towards at least a semi managerial position if not managerial? Well, the answer is proud. I feel proud of myself and all small accomplishments of mine. Through the fast paced 25 years of my life, I have learnt that the life we live is indeed very small and so if what we achieve in it are small too, it is alright. Not everyone needs to climb the Everest or make it to the space, the valleys in the countryside hill-stations can make a wonderful escape destination too. Another thing I feel while I write naked confessions of my weaknesses and difficult times and that is carefree and brave. I feel brave because I know from my very short-lived life experiences that not all of us have the courage to admit to our faults and flaws and I feel carefree because I love my flaws and dents as much I love my strengths and stamina. Little do I know that the road to my beauty is paved through my flaws and the road to my power is paved through my fears and insecurities.