Dear Jesse,

With my toes in the sand and the sun on my skin, I took your hands in mine and promised to never let go.

I ran my hands lovingly over the hem of my wedding dress and wondered if I'd find something as blue as your eyes.

I spent weeks rewriting my vows and learned each line like the lyrics to our favorite song.

We exchanged promises and side eyes and (disjointedly) swayed to #NewFreezer for our first dance.

From pressed loose leaf, the back of postcards, crumpled napkins, and post it notes, to blank computer paper and sketchpads, writing feels like paradise. In that space, it is just me and my voice. In college libraries, I would run my fingers across the worn spines of Toni Morrison, Anna Julia Cooper, and Jhumpa Lahiri texts; I imagined what The Fire Next Time could look like and day dreamed about The Temple of My Familiar. I found comfort in chronicling the threads of my thoughts and learned to stretch across those dog-eared copies of feminist literature to look within, and toy with the idea of perhaps, one day, being free. In these moments, Black and Brown women were deified beings – their labor the metaphorical bridge towards my personal liberation. When the revolution comes, prolific Feminist Freedom Warriors felt like the only people capable of leading real change. I was not ready yet. I needed more time. More instructions. More education; in fact, I needed a Ph.D. before I could partake in the type of change I so desired. With these tools, I would be able to bridge my feminist imagination and my geopolitical realities. Then, I would be ready.

The creaking of our old wooden stair case wakes me up like clockwork. Enveloped in the 4:00 am darkness, my mother yells “mek hase” as my sister mumbles obscenities into my pillow case. A night’s worth of expectation and excitement left me with little sleep as I rub my eyes and make my way downstairs. Each step towards the kitchen is a practice in saying goodbye. Among mismatched suitcases and bags of microwaveable macaroni and cheese, my father is frying thick slices of queso frito and buttering a fresh tennis roll. My mother sucks her teeth at my disheveled appearance. “Yah nah ready yet?” she sighs, as she pulls me in to an unexpected hug. My voice cracks as I start to say it, but she interrupts me with another suck of her teeth and a mug of hot tea. I’ve never had to say goodbye before, and the words seem foreign on my millennial tongue. Our bellies full of unspoken “I love you”s and brown sugar, we packed our car for the three-hour trip to the University of Delaware. I looked at the fingerprint stained walls and gold framed pictures with new eyes and whispered “I’ll be home soon” to the memories I left behind in my bedroom. This would be my last morning waking up at home.

I can describe each twist and turn. I memorized the texture of every brick that paves this imagined path. The slight arches of my feet ache with every step, but I remember to stiffen my back and hold my head high with humility. The High Road. Its image takes new shape with different circumstances. From fights with friends, conflicts at work, passive aggressive silent wars with my husband, and moments of tension, I can hear my mother’s voice firmly say, “take the high road Kristian”. In those moments she is imparting generational wisdom, because women like us did not have the luxury of feeling. She would tell me to be classy, to never give them the satisfaction of my uncontrollable fury, to use my words – the ones I learned from library books – and to always take the high road when dealing with other people and their messiness.

Two thousand and eighteen gave me two thousand and eighteen headaches. I left a position I built and loved, and said goodbye to a community of students I love more than myself. I folded into myself after learning to stand tall in weekly therapy sessions. I found comfort in my reflection and forever in my husband's embrace. I won awards and was scared I made the wrong decision in leaving my job.

I am an apparition. I am looking at my long, sinewy, fingers and I wonder if the weight of your ring is the only thing that makes me real. An imprint of my nose and the scent of my breath are the remnants of my being here, smudged on my bathroom mirror. Pressed up against the glass, I'm not even sure I see me anymore.

Here, I feel like an apparition. My body takes up space, my voice reaches across the conference table, and my loneliness sits with me in class. My peers nod in my direction and my papers feature ambiguous lines of feedback while I collect "you're brilliant" compliments. I keep them in my "intimidating" jar.

What volume is your self love? Do you blast it on high, with its bass vibrating through your fingertips? Or is it a muted melody, softly accompanying each step? Perhaps its somewhere in between. Perhaps it is a song you haven’t written yet, or one with an open beat and unrefined lyrics. For me, I’m not quite sure.

I remember hearing my name on the loudspeaker and walking to the main office of my middle school on the morning of September 11, 2001. I thought I was in trouble and frantically thought of all the things I could have done to warrant a visit to the office. I remember feeling even more confused when I saw my Dad holding my younger sister's hand while she was crying.

We didn't talk much during the car ride home after my Dad shared that something bad had happened in New York City and we didn't know where you were or if any of our family were okay.

I remember crying in my room, holding my sister, Courtney, and wondering if we'd ever see you again. This was one of the few times I've ever seen my Dad cry. I remember feeling scared that my family in New York City- my aunts, uncles, grandmother, and cousins- were harmed or that I would never see them again.

What does trauma look like on a resume?

It's 3:00 am and I'm hoping that the answers to my fears are somehow etched into the grooves of the ceiling.

If I stare hard enough, the flickering shadows seem somewhat calming, and I pretend to be less nervous about what's to come. I'm two days away from moving into my apartment and a week away from orientation.

Is it true? Is a woman's worth the man who loves her?

When I think of loneliness, I picture the steel walls of the [redacted] elevator. I can see the murky reflection of my round face in the sliding doors and I instantly feel the familiar tinge of hotness in my cheeks.

My happy place is a fully stocked Sephora. Not a Sephora Inside JCPenney with its limited stock (#noshade) or a drugstore with six options of foundation for women like me. But I digress.

When I was a little brown biscuit with knobby knees and an uneven hairline, the world of makeup was fascinating. I loved watching my mother draw on thicker brows and powder her brown skin. As an adult armed with credit cards and a YouTube subscription, I could upgrade my mother's makeup bag to one of my own. The aisles of eyeliners, powders, and skin tone shades were at once mesmerizing and soothing. I fell in love with my dark complexion and developed a penchant for blinding highlights.

So it's safe to assume that you can find me, on direct deposit Fridays, swatching ultraviolet eyeshadows and on the never ending quest for a true match in foundation. Recently, one such adventure gave me pause as I noticed a consistent theme among many skin products: food.