“It was only when I began to write in my diary to push that memory into the farthest part of my

mind that my metamorphosis gradually, like sand in an hourglass, came. Writing became a

therapeutic offering to myself as I chipped away at those parts of my life that were so confusing,

so ugly, so unkind.”

I walked away from violence and today I am here, many years after all that tragedy, stronger than ever, raw, with memories and marks in my mind and soul that would never disappear. They are emotional scars that I am not sure I could ever delete from myself. But I also have no regrets about the things I did. It was never my fault, this was the most important fact for me.

As a writer, I find myself constantly looking for new ideas but also trying to delve deeper into the issues that matter the most to me. I never tire of swirling around the events of the day in my mind - trying to gain a deeper understanding of how I interact with the world. It takes a conscious effort to live with purpose - to be able to act on the ideals that you have formed about yourself and the world around you.

Six months ago, you laid there for the first time. The paper on the examination table sticks to your thigh with sweat making you shift uncomfortably. You knew you should be nervous, but the Ativan kept you calm. *knock, knock* three women came in and one began to explain that she’s the doctor who would be performing the abortion and that the other two were for support. She asked you to put each foot in the stirrups, and before you knew it, your mistake became a part of a stranger’s daily routine.

My pregnancy experience gave me insight into the cold and unfeeling approach that doctors often take towards the female body. It comes as no surprise that Black women are experiencing fibroids and unnecessary hysterectomies (removing the uterus) at alarming rates. I wanted to reclaim my body.

The Africa that is sold to us is not my Africa, the dry and desolate place filled with starving people and war lords is not my Africa. My Africa is filled with trees that are a heavenly green and the soil bleeds red. My Africa is beautiful so therefore, I am beautiful.

I learned about good sex in my grandmother’s bookshelves. The summer of 2004 was spent reading on the sun-drenched, living room floor of her house in the suburbs of Chicago. At twelve years old, I read as easily as I breathed. Though the content was questionable, I could tear through a YA novel in a few hours and be bored again by lunchtime. What that often meant, was my selection of books considered to be “age appropriate,” ran out pretty quickly.

How did a woman’s strength go from a pillar of empowerment to a self-damaging anchor? I am not sure how we let strength morph into Wonder Woman Syndrome, but I let the idea of strength smother me. As women, we must care for everyone around us while balancing career aspirations with grace. We glorify being Wonder Woman while ignoring what the pressure is doing to our mental health.