I’ve been staying in Döşemealtı, a small town just outside Antalya, a coastal city in southern Turkey. Tucked away from busy living, I´ve been able to enjoy the quiet: watching, learning, observing.

And somehow, without really trying, I learned so much. About Turkey’s history. It´s people. Its culture. Its landscape. It´s religion. It´s politics. And, maybe, most importantly, the way people care for one another.

One of the more literal things I learned during my time here was the difference between valleys and mountains. Antalya is surrounded by both, and before this trip, I honestly thought anything tall enough to climb was a mountain. I didn’t understand the sharpness, height, and personality of the landscape the way I do now.

Antalya is brutally hot, so hot that I kept wondering how this place wasn’t a desert. But then you look closer. The valleys hold rivers. There is water running underneath the land. The earth is full of it, and somehow that water makes everything so green. The landscape feels impossible: mountains, valleys, blue skies, rivers, trees, flowers. Nature here is breathtaking in a way that photographs don’t quite explain.

And then there are the mosques everywhere, the call to prayer woven into the rhythm of the day. I hear it sitting outside, while shopping in the bazaar, when at a cafe as the sun sets. Islam is deeply present here, not just in the buildings but in the way people move through the world.

There is also something I noticed about how Turkish men treat women—little gestures of service and attentiveness that I found unexpectedly beautiful to witness.

But honestly, the people I met are what I will remember most.

Strangers who somehow became familiar very quickly.

I love that kind of connection, the kind where you establish rapport with someone so fast that it feels like you’ve known each other for years. There is something magical about being able to sit with a person you just met and feel completely comfortable.

And that brings me to one of the most beautiful parts of this trip: my family.

My aunt and my mom live here in this small town, and they have a home that is supported by a small team of people. But calling them “staff” doesn’t quite capture what I was able to witness.

There is Darya, the house manager, who has worked with my family for about five years. My mom has practically adopted her as another daughter, and she is like a sister-friend to my aunt.

They eat together. They go out together. They have afternoon tea together, where they laugh and gossip. She is part of the family.

I remember during my first week, Darya told me that I was a guest and that she had to treat me like her sister. We laughed because, in many ways, my mom had already made her my sister.

After watching how she took care of us, I began to see the impact she´s had on my family’s life.

She cooks. She cleans. She grocery shops. She manages the entire house—this enormous mansion that, by the way, has an elevator. She organizes, solves problems, takes care of my mom and aunt, and carries their well-being on her shoulders with an ease that was beautiful to witness.

And then there is the driver, Tunahan, who is also the gardener, the pool maintenance guy, the handyman, the errand runner, essentially the person who can fix anything.

He arrives every morning with fresh bread and orange juice, along with some beet juice that my mom loves.

They aren’t just workers.

They are caretakers.

They are people who have become deeply invested in the lives of my mom and aunt, and my family has become deeply invested in theirs.

That realization warmed my heart more than I expected.

Let me paint you a picture.

One morning, I woke up early after morning prayer and went outside to sit near the pool and journal. It must have been around six.

The moon was still hanging in the sky while the sun was beginning to rise.

I watched as both of them hung in the sky in the same moment.

The sky was expansive, perfectly clear and a bright baby-blue. The valley quiet, with the air still soft before the daily heatwave would arrive in a few hours.

I sat there writing and talking to myself about the beauty of it all, the valley, the sky, the moon, the sun, the strange peace of being somewhere so far away from my normal life.

Around eight, I went back inside to make coffee.

And then, suddenly, the electricity went out.

My mom woke up and joined me in the kitchen.

At first, I had no idea what was happening. Apparently, during really hot days, the electricity can cut out across the town. But it was still so early, and this was my first outage, so I was completely confused. Darya immediately called the electric company. Something wasn’t adding up. She found out the bank had rejected the monthly electricity payment.

Without hesitation, she paid the bill herself.

She was on speakerphone, speaking rapid Turkish, while I stood there with Google Translate open on my phone, as usual, trying to keep up and learn a little Turkish along the way.

I asked her, “Should I give you my card?”

Absolutely not.

She wasn’t having it.

Instead, she told Tunahan to start the car and told my mom and me to get dressed. We were going to breakfast together. Since she couldn’t cook and had no idea how long it would take for the electricity to come back, she had decided we were going out instead.

Just like that, an electricity outage became an adventure.

Darya paid for breakfast. Made sure we were comfortable. Took care of everything. There I was, sitting at breakfast, watching this woman who technically worked for my family treat us like we were her own.

I thought: Wow. This is a different level of care.

We spent the day painting, laughing, shopping, eating, just being with each other.

And somewhere in that day, I realized something:

These people are more than workers.

These are people you could depend on with your life.

The rest of the trip became even more about family.

I told you about the workers that made our house a home, but I have to tell you about the “elevator house” itself—my aunt’s which she bought during the pandemic in 2020.

The property is insane. Starting from the top, an attic nestled with a breathtaking view of the mountains… Below, three bedrooms and an office, each with its own balcony and bathroom, bidets included. A massive main floor with a kitchen, living and dining room that feels like where kings and queens gather for long meals and deep conversations. And right at the entrance, a gold elevator—the center of it all.

Downstairs in the basement, there’s a hammam where I found myself taking daily baths—a complete game changer. The marble, the warmth, the quiet. It became this unexpected ritual of slowing down, being alone with my body, and giving myself space to just breathe. There’s also a sauna, and even an in-house masjid where Quran can be heard playing at every hour of the day. And, of course, an honorable mention to the pool, the gardens, and all the land surrounding the house.

It’s the kind of home that makes you dream about what ifs, the kind that causes you to look around and think, Why am I living in LA when I could be here? 😂

After nine days with just my mom and aunt, my brother, his wife, and their kids joined us—and suddenly, this enormous house felt full. Breakfasts, long lunches, dinners that somehow felt like a Last Supper every night. Swimming lessons, neighborhood walks, kids running around.

For a house that once felt too big for three people, it suddenly felt exactly the right size.

The house became loud and alive. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.

This trip filled me in a way I didn’t know I was empty.

I got these little treasures with my mom that I know I will return to for years.

Sitting with my mom while she read me Quran.

Listening to her tell me stories about her past.

Hearing her explain the drama of her online world like she was giving me a full television recap.

Laughing with her.

Learning things about her that I somehow never knew.

And then there were my nieces and nephews.

Getting to really sit with them. Listen to them. Watch their personalities unfold. Witness these little humans becoming young adults with their own opinions, humor, fears, personalities, and ways of seeing the world.

I feel like I collected so many memories here.

And I know that when I go back and read my journals from these three weeks, the words won’t just be words. They will be little locked doors. And when I open them, I’ll be back here.

Back by the pool at six in the morning.

Back under the moon and the sun.

Back at the breakfast table.

Back to seeing cats roaming everywhere I go.

Back in the kitchen with my mom & my aunt, drying dishes with my neice.

Back in the car with everyone laughing and talking about the face inside the mountain.

Back at the our hour-long pool lesson days.

Back in the house when it was finally full again.

Back to this version of my family.

Back to Turkey.

Maybe that is what I was really collecting on this trip—not photographs, not souvenirs, but memories I can return to when I’m homesick.

I am so grateful I chose to come.

It wasn’t planned.

Honestly, it came with a lot of fear about the unknown and what the future would hold.

But I came anyway.

And now, with only 48 hours left, I already feel that strange sadness of leaving a place before I’ve even left it.

A little corner of Turkey.

A full house.

My family.

Strangers who became familiar.

Mountains and valleys.

The moon and the sun sharing my same sky.

I’m looking forward to my next trip already.

But for now, I just want to sit with this one.

I want to make so much money that I forget what anything costs. I want the highest tier of capitalist luxury, the kind that feels untouchable. And in the same breath, I want to disappear completely. Never work another day in my life. Both feelings live in me at once, and I’m learning to just sit with that instead of resolving it.

Right now, I’m in the middle of a shift.

For years, I was an entrepreneur, an agency owner, building brand voice and cultural strategy for clients reaching Black diasporic audiences. That work mattered. It was good work. But that chapter closed at the start of this year, and I’m slowly moving toward something rooted more in storytelling, creative community, and the kind of impact that feels personal rather than transactional.

My fellow creative entrepreneur, Lola, who we had the pleasure of working with on our company redesign, wrote something beautiful about our closing journey. She framed it as a rite of passage rather than a failure: the kind of transition multi-passionate people experience when one identity has to make room for another. It's part of her series, Killing Your Darling. Reading it felt like being seen. If you want to sit with it too, here's the link: [HERE].

As a fire sign—a big Sagittarius, obviously—I've always been full of ideas. Always rebranding. Always reaching for the next thing before the last thing has even settled. Lately I’ve been deep in reflection about this pull between chasing a dream of making real money and finally allowing myself to rest.

My new pivot keeps pouring into the art world. It’s a $56 billion industry globally, with roughly $26 billion of that in the US alone, Helloooooo!!!! When I first heard those numbers as a baby art girl, something in me lit up immediately. Hell yeahhh, all the sudden.

I’ve spent years doing curatorial work, producing exhibitions at art fairs, attending art fairs, building relationships with collectors, managed artists. It was always there in the background, a quiet passion that made a little money on the side. Now I’m facing the question of whether this becomes something bigger. The next chapter in a career that’s never been just one thing.

I think about the Knicks a lot these days because, somehow, they feel like a metaphor for where I am. Watching them finally break through after decades of almost. After so many seasons of close but not quite. Not the championship moment itself, but the feeling right before it.

That sharpening.

That sense of a team finding its identity right as everything starts to click into place. For me, these last two months have brought real direction in the art space, real wins, small but unmistakable. I’m not there yet. But I can feel the shape of it forming.

On top of this, summer 2026 feels sexy. Inviting. Playful, in a way I haven’t let myself feel in a while. I’m hopeful, even as I sit in the middle of a big conversation I’m praying goes gently, about someone I love who is facing a moment that will change everything for them. My life feels like it’s buzzing right now. Excitement and nerves and uncertainty all tangled together, layered over a future that feels bright even when I can’t quite see its outline yet.

Mostly, I’m grateful. I’m trying to hold space for both the excitement and the grief, because closing one world while stepping into another is never just one feeling.

A friend said something the other day that I haven’t been able to shake. How funny it is that we never pictured our lives at forty without kids, without a mortgage, without a partner. And yet here we are, and the possibilities of this era feel endless. Ten days until summer. Time to get snatched, and to hold both rest and ambition in the same hand.

Anyway, that’s my life lately: equal parts ambition, uncertainty, gratitude, and summer flirtation. Leaving you with a photo from the MoMA Party in the Garden 2026 because, honestly, it feels very on-brand for this chapter.

I am feeling raw and emotional today, and what better way to break my routine schedule than to come back to Substack and pour my thoughts and emotions into this real community of people who haven’t read anything from me for about three months.

I honestly have been meaning to write, but it hasn’t been a priority. I’ve been becoming a serious gym girlie, busy working odd jobs, managing the stress of financial instability and the closing of my business while still trying to maintain an abundance state of mind and optimism, because I’m wired to have faith.

Which brings me to what’s been on my heart today.

Faith has been a big journey of mine.

Also, we are in the tail end of Ramadan. In a time where a lot of non Muslims are observing and acknowledging this holy month, it feels fair to mention that I was born Muslim. And to be frank, for the majority of my adult life I’ve lived in the duality of my faith, being spirtually full of freedom 11 months out of the year, but when Ramadan comes, I try my best to live very intentionally in the practice of getting closer to God and fulfilling the requirements of my faith.

This year, I set a strong intention to pray five times a day, which is one of the pillars of Islam, and I make an extra effort during this holy month, almost every year.

The fasting part, no food and no water from sunrise to sunset while still working out and doing day to day tasks, is honestly not that unfamiliar to me, nor is it that difficult. Additionally, being intentional about listening to lectures and consuming content that educates me about the religion is actually my favorite part of Ramadan.

Yes, there are days when it’s a little tough.

But I would say the challenging part for me is salat, prayer. I have been missing one of my prayers and not always praying on time. I actually brought this up with my Muslim girl group when we were having iftar, breaking our fast, and we were talking about how this Ramadan hasn’t really been “Ramadaning” lately. As we all discussed the areas where we’re lacking, we reminded ourselves that insha’Allah God sees our efforts, even if we are beating ourselves up about the areas where we wish we were doing better.

So I told myself enough is enough.

I will seriously stand on bussiness of my prayers, especially during the last 10 days of Ramadan, which are considered very important.

This week Monday was the first day. I completely crushed it. Tuesday I missed two of the five prayers because I was away from the house for several hours, which made it difficult. But alhamdulillah I did better yesterday.

Then something happened this morning.

I woke up at 5am to have suhoor, the last meal and water before sunrise, and did my prayer. As I was laying in bed afterward doomscrolling online, I came across this video of a non Muslim woman sharing why she was observing Ramadan.

Immediately my interest was peaked. I love this kind of content. It’s actually my favorite, because growing up in America Ramadan was very isolating from my non Muslim friends and people around me. So I love seeing everyone participating, being supportive, and building discipline through faith and worship.

Back to the content I came across.

This woman was sharing her hardship with getting pregnant and losing her babies, several miscarriages followed by stillborn twins. She said she had lost her faith in God because it felt like her body was rejecting bringing life into the world. She and her husband made a commitment that if she ever became pregnant again, they would work on rebuilding her faith.

To their surprise she ended up having triplets.

Her story was heartbreaking but also beautiful. I was happy to see there was a happy ending, and she shared that fasting during Ramadan was part of her rebuilding journey as she navigates life now with her babies.

I was deeply touched by her story, so I ran to the comments.

There were so many women sharing their struggles with grief and their love for this faith of mine, talking about how generous God is and how they saw ease after many many years of hardship.

I was crying reading those messages.

It was an ugly cry.

I was moved by the power of having faith. It was actually one of my big cries of 2026. Long, ugly, messy, but it was not sadness. It was the kind of cry where you feel the love of God.

It made me think about how it was not luck that I was seeing this story and reading everyone’s testimonies during a period where I was already trying to strengthen my connection with God.

I was grateful to feel that level of emotion.

Especially because lately I had been going through the motions, doing the efforts it takes to make wudu and preparing for prayer, but also feeling numb when I missed prayers. During the rest of the year I typically do not pray regularly, so the bare minimum effort I was making during Ramadan felt like it was good enough, even if it meant cutting into my gym sessions, networking events where I could seek opportunities, or gigs I was working.

But this moment reminded me that devotion is not about convenience.

It is about showing my love for Allah.

Today I cancelled all my plans.

I need this reminder week of ramadan to show up the best I can for Allah!

I will be spending more time in reflection and worship, and seeing how I come out on the other side of it.

If you made it this far, I appreciate you taking this flight of emotion with me. Writing is the only place where I feel safe enough to be this vulnerable.

Today, I am saying goodbye to my thirties with reverence. This decade shaped me in ways I could not have predicted. It taught me how to become more myself, even when that process was messy, confusing, and deeply uncomfortable. I am writing from the lens of my own beautiful museum of mistakes. The missteps. The misreads. The moments where I moved too fast, stayed too long, or didn’t yet have the language for what I needed. I hold these memories with compassion now. They are proof that I lived.

My thirties were unapologetically experiential. As an immigrant, I learned to live through feeling, through movement, through exploration. I chased moments that made me feel alive. I collected memories instead of certainty. I gathered friendships that expanded my heart and places that shifted my spirit. Joy found me often, even when clarity did not. And that, too, was enough.

I am saying goodbye to doubt and to the girl who was still learning how to say I love you. Sometimes I loved without understanding why or how or what it might cost me. I am saying goodbye to the version of myself who was figuring it out in real time, without instructions, without guarantees, trusting instinct even when it led to hard lessons.

I am saying goodbye to the creative career I chose in my thirties, not because it failed me, but because it demanded everything from me. It stretched my capacity, tested my resilience, and forced me to stand in my truth when it would have been easier to disappear. I am saying goodbye to the painful gift of losing loved ones, experiences that cracked me open and reshaped my understanding of time, presence, and gratitude. Through that loss, I met myself more honestly. And today, I can say with sincerity that I am proud of who I am becoming.

I am saying goodbye to performative happiness. To smiling through longing. To yearning to be loved quietly while forgetting that loving myself had to come first. I am saying goodbye to the version of me who was always on, always available, always external. I am welcoming a more balanced self now. An extrovert who honors her inner world. An introvert who still carries fire.

I am saying goodbye to habits that no longer serve me, to old comforts I once leaned on without question. I am saying goodbye to the constant need to move on quickly. This next decade is about moving intentionally. About valuing time early and treating it as sacred. About letting moments be fully felt, not filtered through avoidance, distraction, or escape. Those used to be my default responses to discomfort and challenge. Now, I want to honor the discomfort. I want to sit with it, learn from it, and allow it to guide me forward.

This year, I have reflected deeply on becoming. I do not believe there is a perfect way to prepare for a new decade. If there was a guidebook, I may have missed it. But I am entering my forties with peace. With softness. With trust in my own timing. I am welcoming this chapter quietly, while giving myself permission to express loudly. To take up space. To honor my presence without apology.

The fire is still here. The Sag spirit still burns. Only now, it is more intentional, more grounded, and more aligned with who I truly am.

Here is to forty. Here is to elevation. Here is to ME!!!

P.S. To everyone new here, welcome to my world. Thank you for reading and witnessing this moment. You are officially invited into my 40 club. Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t.

P.S.S. I finished writing this, did a proud little reread, and looked up at the clock. It was 12:21 a.m. Of course. Considering 12/21 is my birthday, that felt like a quiet wink from the universe. Yes, I was up late. No judgment allowed.

First — here’s the very first video I posted when I started this journey five days ago:[WATCH HERE]

(Insert me smoking because these five days have taken me for a whirlwind)

When I launched this challenge, it sounded fun, light, mission-worthy. But honestly? It’s overwhelming too. Editing in real time, posting in real time, while still trying to live life in real time… it’s a lot. I’m realizing how much work it actually takes to show up for myself with the same energy I pour into everyone else.

But the beautiful surprise in all of this has been my DMs.
The shock that I’m turning 40.
The love.
The celebration.
The “girl, wait—40 where?” messages.
People sharing their own 40s stories, their breakthroughs, their chaos, their glow-ups. People cheering me on like this is a community milestone, not just my personal countdown.

My inbox has been full of support I did not even know I needed, and it has been grounding. At the same time, it is a lot of messages to reply to, and I am definitely a 2 to 3 business days reply girly.

Still, every message reminds me that this is not just a content challenge. It is connection, reflection, and reunion. It is people seeing me step into a new chapter and wanting to step with me, my story, my layers, my becoming.

All of me deserves to be seen, not just the curated version, not just the version people remember from a moment in time. When we get older, we get refined in our habits, in our boundaries, in our ways. People think they know us because they knew a version of us once. But we rarely get the chance to reintroduce ourselves.

This challenge is my reintroduction.

Some of my closest friends and family don’t get daily check-ins because life is lifing. We live in different cities, different time zones, juggling different crises. And honestly, 2025 has been a trying year for so many of us. Some people thrived, some survived, and a lot of us were navigating things we weren’t prepared for. The “snake year” came with sharp lessons.

I talked to so many people this year who were challenged in big ways — emotionally, financially, spiritually. And somewhere in that storm, I realized I’ve also been avoiding the one thing I’ve promised myself for years: creating visual storytelling consistently. I let entrepreneurship distract me, hustling distract me, survival distract me. I kept saying: “I’ll share when things slow down.”

But life doesn’t slow down.

So I chose this 40-day challenge as a way to push myself, to prove to myself that I’m still capable of showing up creatively and to celebrate entering this new decade with excitement instead of fear. I’ve never been the type to obsess over age, but I am the type to mark transitions with intention.

And here’s the real reason I’m doing this:

They say move in silence — but what if silence keeps us small?

It’s hard to build in public.
It’s hard to know what to share and what to hold close.
It’s hard when everything feels like a competition, and not everyone clapping is rooting for you.

But the truth is: we’re all under construction.
Every dream.
Every boundary.
Every version of ourselves.

Construction sites are messy — loud, raw, visible. But maybe that’s the point. I’d rather be seen building than wait until everything is perfect. I’d rather build in public and find my safe community than hide behind a polished finish line that never really existed.

So this is me:
Day 5 of 40.
Showing up imperfectly.
Showing up anyway.
Building out loud.

Thank you for being here while I figure this version of myself out.
The work of art continues!

Honestly, I don’t really know what I’m setting the stage for with this Substack. I don’t have a niche or a defined topic. Maybe this is just a public journal — a place to write my feelings and thoughts out loud to the three of you reading. (Thank you, by the way.)

But back to paradise. This is my second year attending this art and food fair in the Bahamas, and something shifted in me this time. It was my introduction to wealth not just money, but proximity to it. Last year, I was mostly managing the booth, hanging out with other exhibitors, going to dinners, and taking in the scene. This year, the energy was different. I found myself in rooms hun and conversations that felt expansive, almost endless,plus of opportunities on this island, potentially more.

I’ve spent less than a hundred dollars this entire week on an island that’s known for being expensive. The rest was covered by the people around me. Lunches, dinners, car rides, hotel stays, even my morning coffee. Everything was taken care of. I met people who live on this island with influence, ease, and grace. I met Lenny Kravitz and watched him perform for the first time in his homeland. That moment felt historic, almost spiritual. To be frank, this is another reason why i am writing reflecting on this soo publicly because I was in-awe!

It’s been a beautiful but exhausting week of art, work, and connection. And underneath all of it, I felt something shift. I’ve been around people who live in abundance. They move through the world lightly. Three-thousand-dollar dinners are paid for without a blink with stranger aka new friends. Twelve-thousand-dollar art pieces sold in minutes. It made me realize how much I want to live in that space too. Not out of greed, but curiosity.

Right now I’m sitting by the pool, watching people laugh and float and order drinks. Everyone looks soft, relaxed, unbothered. I want more of this for myself. I want the peace that comes from stability. I want to create, to live freely, to not worry about the next invoice or whether another project will come.

Every day as a creative entrepreneur feels uncertain. Where will my next opportunity come from? When will I get paid? Am I making the right moves? I don’t know. But even with all that, I feel fired up. I’ve seen what’s possible, and I know I belong in rooms that reflect it.

Maybe that’s the beauty of this life. You sit in the unknown, surrounded by art and ocean air, and believe that somehow everything you’re working toward is already unfolding in front of you. Insha´allah, let us pray for this life. Amen!

and now… hobart street ends this month. october is the last page. i’m lowkey emotional. this spot saw my breakdowns, pitch decks at AROUND THE CLOCK, post-productuon crashes, random after spot nights, random friendships, silent cries, loud laughter. lots lots of gathering because i love to food and now it’s closing and i don’t fully know what my next LA chapter is. there’s a potential free rent situation somewhere which sounds like god trying to help me stretch my coins but also my spirit is leaning towards minnesota to be closer to family and actually stabilize and make money.

so hi, i am a creative entrepreneur who owns an agency that is currently trying not to drown. finding clients this year has been giving “girl, is this your villain origin story??” but i’m pivoting, shifting strategy, realizing some business relationships needed to end and others need real repair. while figuring that out, i’ve been taking on anything i’m good at: digital producing, creative producing, art curation, art fair production, experiential projects. basically all my talents are doing a group project to keep me alive. i’m pending rich but the bank account has been humbling me daily. major love to my friends and chosen fam because they have been holding me down like rent that i still owe. the life of working of YOURSELVES, wallahi needs to be study, frfr

2025 is my budgeting year. i am literally in the trenches building my budget for next year because i refuse to be financially disrespected by life again. i just got a consulting opportunity and i need these checks to ride me until december while i hunt more coins.

october has been chaotic and beautiful and expensive. i’ve been traveling a lot. attended the softest wedding. cried at my friend’s heavenly 40th birthday for sinat (forever). now i’m prepping for fuze in the bahamas. fuze is actually top tier, not even a plug. the art + culinary experience feels like soul food for creative people. i’m excited but also salty because i forgot to pick up my dry cleaning today and they’re closed tomorrow. so some of my trip fits are in laundry jail. also i need to finish this damn budget because i will be representing and i need to not look broke while being broke.

thank you bri for the inspiration. this brain dump already feels like therapy that didn’t charge me $175/session. So yeah, the bills are billing and I genuinely don’t know how they’re getting paid, but insha’Allah, Allah will come through!!!!!

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My greeting hums with warmth and glow,

An open door wherever you go.
With eyes that linger, smiles that glow,
A silent language we both know.

Through skies and lands, my journey flows,
Each meeting blooms, each moment grows.
In every glance, a story stays,
A fleeting warmth to light our days.

So hola, heyy, with sweet delight,
A world of greetings, day and night.
For in connection, life’s charm resides,
In smiles, in eyes, where love abides.

✌🏾

Built on the ruins of the Aztec capital Tenochtitlán, the city radiated an energy that stirred something deep within her. Memories and emotions she had long ignored began to surface. She cried in Roma Norte, waiting for tacos, watching a park performance, and in her cozy apartment—tears of release she could no longer hold back.

One night in her Airbnb, she let the dam break. Tears carved paths down her face as Billie Eilish’s "Birds of Feather" played on repeat. The haunting lyrics echoed her inner voice, and she sang softly, “I knew you in another life... I love you, don’t act so surprised.” The song became a bridge to the pieces of herself she had silenced for so long, granting her the courage to release years of pain. In that moment, the city’s magic intertwined with her own, guiding her toward healing.

Mexico City’s vibrant energy urged her to let go of the armor she had carried for so long. The air seemed alive with wisdom, whispering, “It is safe to be vulnerable here.” She felt herself softening, leaning into the land’s power to nurture her spirit.

Her journal became her lifeline, a space for raw honesty. No more pretending to be invincible. She promised to embrace vulnerability, have emotion-base conversations with loved ones, and seek routine focus joy in small, intentional ways—through music, walks in the park, or quiet meals. These small steps were her path back to wholeness.

She vowed to take it one step, one word, one feeling at a time. As she wandered the streets of Mexico City—a city alive with history and hope—she carried her journal, ready to document the whispers of her soul.

To say it was challenging is an understatement. My childhood traumas resurfaced with a vengeance, I had my first panic attack, and I was stuck in a vicious cycle of self-sabotage and blame. I was exhausted, sleeping a lot but never resting. I didn’t recognize the woman I’d become—I really hated her. It’s hard to say that out loud, but it’s true. The happy, optimistic person I used to be—the one full of light and love to share with the world—was gone. I didn’t have the language to describe how I felt. Everything was dark, and I had no empathy for the version of myself who was navigating that darkness.

Even moments of joy with friends—laughing, playing games, watching shows—felt empty. I was living as two people: one who showed up and went through the motions, and another who was numb inside. My happiness was fleeting—maybe 60 good days a year, while the other 305 felt like a struggle to get through.

The Beginning of Healing

At the end of 2021, I made a commitment to change. Therapy became a non-negotiable. I started reading self-help books and changing my environment. Moving to Los Angeles brought me a new community, and with it came a sense of hope—a belief that I could rebrand myself in this new place.

But even in a new city, with new people, I couldn’t fully escape my sadness. Entrepreneurship was another mountain to climb. I faced daily challenges: finding clients, managing clients & gigs, and learning how to build a business with no prior experience. There were weeks when I couldn’t get out of bed and times when my body physically reacted to the weight of my emotions. Reading The Body Keeps the Score reminded me that I had never truly processed my feelings. I was emotionally deaf to anything beyond the basics: happy, angry, frustrated, or joyful.

A Year of Rediscovery

In 2023, after losing a dear friend, Sinat, I was confronted with the raw weight of grief. Their passing wasn’t just a reminder of life’s fragility; it was a wake-up call to stop waiting and take BIG risks. At the time, I was in LA, uncertain about my path, betting on a business that hadn’t yet taken off, and barely making enough to feel stable, let alone travel. I realized I had been holding onto so many “somedays,” letting fear and uncertainty paralyze me.

The decision alone felt monumental. Packing my life into a suitcase and committing to living abroad for a year was the ultimate act of self-trust. I visited 11 countries, living out a goal that once felt impossible. Sharing this plan with friends and even strangers often brought surprise, envy, and eventually inspiration. Their reactions validated that this was my path, even if it felt uncertain. There were moments when I couldn’t explain my next destination or plan, but I trusted that everything would unfold as it was meant to. Letting go of control was a lesson in itself.

Defining Self-Trust Through Travel

Self-trust, I’ve learned, is about confidence in your ability to make decisions, face challenges, and stay true to your values. For me, travel became the ultimate medium for rebuilding that trust.

Living in places like Mexico City, Kenya, and Morocco taught me that language is more than words—it’s a dance of emotion and intuition. Without knowing the local language, I adapted, relying on gestures, body language, and trust in others. At first, not being able to communicate made me feel blocked and confused, much like how I used to feel about my emotions. Over time, I realized that language—like feelings—could be unlocked by being open, patient, and willing to connect. That shift was powerful. It allowed me to trust my instincts, even when navigating taxis, talking to doctors, or ordering food without the crutch of Google Translate.

Travel also taught me to embrace uncertainty. As a Sagittarius, adventure is my nature, but surrendering control was a new challenge. While I’m naturally free-spirited, I often held back, clinging to a need for structure. This year, I learned to plan just enough and let the rest unfold. Some destinations depended on family and friends who could host me, while others came together through sheer faith and resourcefulness. I leaned into my abilities and trusted that I was guided by something bigger—Allah.

The Greatest Lesson

This year of travel wasn’t just about seeing the world—it was about falling back in love with myself. I learned that trust isn’t a destination; it’s a lifelong practice. It’s in every decision, every moment of uncertainty, and every leap of faith.

For years, I avoided dealing with my passport issues, letting fear and doubt keep me from experiences with friends and family. But in 2024, I reclaimed my life. I made a decision that once felt impossible, and in doing so, I unlocked a part of myself I thought was lost forever.

This journey taught me that when you trust yourself, the world responds in kind. Doors open, paths reveal themselves, and your inner light begins to shine again. 2024 wasn’t just a nomadic year—it was a homecoming to the most authentic version of me. A version that is grounded, whole, and unshakable in the knowledge that I am enough.

Truthfully, I haven’t done much prep. I’ve been jotting down content ideas in my Notes app, a kind of parking lot for my creative thoughts. But I wanted to honor my intention to publish my first piece today, January 9th, aligning with the energy of the number nine. In numerology, nine symbolizes transformation—facing your past while living fully in the present. That’s what I hope my writing becomes: a reflection of where I’ve been, but grounded in the now.

Speaking of the now—here I am in LA, amidst these terrible fires. Thousands of people have lost their homes, their memories, their sense of safety. My heart aches for the lives affected, for the families displaced, and for the dreams put on pause. I pray for healing, for recovery, for the resilience of those who have to rebuild from ashes. These fires are a reminder of how fragile it all is—our homes, our plans, our identities. They force us to confront who we are when the external markers are stripped away. Who are we when we lose everything? Who are we when we have everything? Who are we when we’re yearning for something more?

These questions bring me back to myself.

So, who am I? I’ll tell you this: I’m the queen of silent rebrands. I’ve lived many lives—poet, humanitarian, community advocate in high school and college, party promoter, ambassador of vibes, producer, entrepreneur, dancer, art-and-crafts enthusiast, adventurer, people lover, solo explorer, cashier, freelance marketer, event planner, dog & babysitter, production coordinator, creative director, storyteller, consultant, ex-hookah lover, and definite weed & coffee snob. Sure, DUH, I'm also the obvious—daughter, sister, friend, lover. But at the end of the day, I'm just Hanan—sometimes Hawa.

I’ve reflected, I’ve rebuilt, I’ve rediscovered. And if there’s one undeniable fact about me, it’s this: I am human. Just like you. Just like all of us.

Where have I lived? Everywhere and nowhere. I was born and raised in India until I was ten, lived in Canada for two years, spent a year in San Diego, eleven years in Minnesota, twelve years in NYC, two years in LA, and an entire year living nomadically.

And, oh wow, how did I forget to mention—I’m Somalia. Of course, being a diaspora kid automatically makes you a cultural ambassador. One moment, you’re minding your own business; the next, you’re explaining where Somalia is on a map, why half of Minnesota is Somali, or politely nodding as someone tells you about that one time they dated a Somali or East African and now “totally get the culture.” Meanwhile, I’m over here navigating the identity crisis of being too Somali for Americans and too American for Somalis. Exhausting? Absolutely. But hey, it’s all part of the grand mosaic of me.

The question of “Who are you?” or “Where are you from?” is complicated for me to answer. Maybe I make it more complicated than it needs to be, or maybe I just want people to understand my grandness—my refusal to limit my identity to one location, one place. To me, home is fluid, and identity is expansive. My life has been a mosaic of places, cultures, and experiences that have given me a deep understanding of self.

And that’s just the beginning of the story.

In this series, Emotions of Flights, I’ll be sharing the highs and lows of my nomadic journey. It’s a mix of travel, self-discovery, and revisiting the wounds of my childhood that still echo in my life today. There’s so much I’ve learned, and yet, so much more to explore. This is my chance to push through the fears that have held me back for so long and see where this writing journey leads.

I invite you to stay with me as I open up about my real, raw moments — the struggles, the growth, and the inevitable self-doubt. Let’s embark on this together, because in the end, the only way to truly take off is to be honest and vulnerable with ourselves.

I want this to be fun for me, so I’m writing a combination of 29 essays, digital journal entries, and movie-worthy content for the internet — but honestly, most of it is just for me and my flow, inspired by this phase I’m currently in.

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