two thousand and nineteen
In three hundred sixty five days, I completed a marathon. I lifted these legs to climb mountains of long ignored insecurities. Unsure of the terrain, my body moved with trepidation. Jagged stone and heavy regret marked my path to the distant top. Beneath my feet lay the shed skin of the woman I pretended to be. This year, I returned to myself.
With hands outstretched, I held a mirror and looked inwards. Gazing at my reflection, I saw the textured scars of commodification - the countless times I was consumed and made to feel shame for my fullness. I traced the genealogies of this mixed race body, ran fingers through 1B hair, and confronted an intergenerational erasure of Black diasporic roots. With mentors, I sutured a colonial wound and rubbed a salve of poetry and forgiveness across my chest.
I traversed each mile marker with burgeoning confidence and learned to tell the truth. About me. And you. With head held high, I leaned in to a power long forgotten and began to live. My body propelled me forward, leaping above fear into an embrace of certainty that only I could offer. Replacing politeness with rage, I spilled into the crevices of stereotype threat and imposter syndrome. I let go of a reality that no longer rang true.
I extended arms strengthened from holding space for others and tried to hold myself. I crafted boundaries to protect me from those who didn't know me, and the people who no longer deserved to. Climbing hills of loneliness, my fingertips brushed the spines of The Temple of My Familiar and Methodology of the Oppressed and learned to strengthen my own. Each step, mired with uncertainty, brought took me farther away from a desire to be liked and closer to the forgotten ecstasy of being whole.
Two thousand and nineteen pushed me to trust the tones of my own voice and uncurl a body mangled by the weight of other people's definitions. I rewrote allegories of desolation with tales of unequivocal pleasure and joy. I moved forward - reached for the compassion of new friends and mentors huddled along the sidelines and replenished my spirit with their reciprocal care. Wrapped in the warmth of Black feminist fugitives, I danced across each hurdle and buried myself in the lush comforts of my body. The finish line was less a symbol of completion and more a marker of growth. The path became cyclical, and with each step I returned to myself. I came home.
