For years, I believed strength meant hustle, survival, and never showing weakness. Illness, therapy, and community have since taught me that true power lives in softness—rest, honesty, and allowing myself to be held. To every Black, queer woman who has been told strength is armor: softness is not your liability, it is your birthright.

Becoming in public is not about perfection, it’s about authenticity, vulnerability, and growth. For Black women and queer women especially, the pressure to always appear flawless can feel overwhelming, but transparency is not weakness—it’s integrity. This reflection is both an invitation and a reminder: you are allowed to be seen in process, still growing, and still worthy.

At 36, I’ve learned that healing is not a straight line but a spiral—filled with grief, joy, and rest along the way. What once felt like urgency and survival now feels like softness, pacing, and presence. This reflection is both a letter to my younger self and a reminder that healing is about becoming whole, not racing to be “done.”

Turning 36 invites reflection on what I’m carrying forward and what I’m leaving behind. From rest as resistance to honoring chronic illness and celebrating Black joy, these lessons ground my healing and growth. This is both a release and a recommitment to living with alignment, softness, and purpose.