Below, you’ll find a piece penned by Nadia, “Shame Witch,” which personifies shame and reflects the untrue versions of ourselves that can emerge through social conditioning and rigid societal expectations.

In Nadia’s words:

“Expressing how this past conditioning has painfully shaped me has brought me closer to myself and others, breaking down barriers.”

Shame Witch

by Nadia

School was already a drag. Boring, old square building. Drag, Whiteboard and colorless paper. Drag. Lunch lines, rows of desks, no talking, no joy, just a drag.

The thought of boring, quiet Galinda trailing behind me made me want to play possum and never open my eyes every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, n’ Friday. My protests to this idea fell empty to my father. He insisted. And as I stalled through the days, my energy to argue fell away.

The night of Galinda’s arrival dumped on my head with a thunder and somber grayness. It matched her stiff gait as if she had hairbows bound around her legs. For the entirety of the next day, her lips never parted more than a sliver, only taking in so much air, I marveled at how she was alive at all. Well, she’d fit right in at the dreamless rectangular void where we all went to suffocate on our teacher’s criticisms.

To my shock, Galinda didn’t shadow behind me despite only fashioning tones of grey, neutral, and black. Much like her voice that flattened then disappeared into nothing, the audible expression of regret.

Grey, drab Galinda. How could I be related to someone so lifeless

“Janice, why don’t you introduce us to your new friend?”

“Yeah, why don’t I-”. I started to mumble before receiving a stark look from Ms. Brown.

I sighed, “sure this is-”

“I’m Galinda, and my family is from Connecticut”. Everyone felt the air move ever so slightly, even the chatterboxes in the back took notice.

“Well, we are so happy to have you dear, take a seat next to Elizabeth, I’m sure y’all will get along just fine” I’ve never seen Ms. Brown smile at nothing in such a way.

Galinda took in morsels of food at lunch while I scoffed down a turkey burger. I kept her locked away in my mind, like a pet. I’d go back and check that the cage was locked whenever she did something I wouldn’t expect, which was often.

Galinda was supposed to be a ghost. Nightly, I’d place my finger under her nostrils, always a shallow breath.

Ghost Galinda in human form. Her wardrobe melted into the walls of any room. But I always noticed how everyone still seemed to see her.

Still not exchanging a word, we’d dig tunnels at recess with the ferocity of a gopher. Tunnels to nowhere, to beyond, to right in front of us, to places far away from the drag of Armstrong Elementary. From ourselves, or at least who we thought we were.

It was then that I realized I never wondered how Galinda thought of me. If I kept her locked away, surely she did too. What else was there to do?

Under the heat of southern May, above the rich mulch of the Playground, next to the pulling, dark rectangular void, I asked Galinda the first question.

“Do you like it here?” She shrugged the shoulders under her long, drab cardigan, and drew an “X” in the dirt. We would have more work to do, I figured. However, my senses perked up, noticing our neutral, grey gravity pulling on the outskirts of shrieking, giggling, crying, and playing.

Galinda didn’t pretend, there was no guessing game. She didn’t trail, she floated through the hallways, between the realm of the living and the dead.

Though virtually lifeless, something about it made school less square. Instead, it started to bend into a formless, shapeless thing. Her cage was loosening, and I knew I was a step closer to discovering what her cage for me looked like, felt like. Invisible threads tugged us towards each other.

Nadia can be reached on Instagram @where.s.nadia and on Substack as , and by email at nadiasmalling33@gmail.com

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“I am well-versed in the power of female friendship. I write about it so much because I believe in it.” Shonda Rhimes

All Houstonians awake with the burning passion to ‘be someone,’ and I chose to be a writer. Growing up, I learned that my hands were faster than my mind at times; hours of handwriting felt like seconds. New worlds formed before my eyes, somehow existing in the one I seek to liberate us from. A place beyond the asteroid belt where we can appreciate our darkness. I consider myself a writer of the times, sojourning through Texas, hoping to find the rebirth of revolution.

I’ve witnessed injustice deprive my people of their autonomy, families in cages, burdened mothers and children that never make it home from their destination. I am the nightmare of the American dream because I refuse to be silent for those resting on our backs for comfort. The purpose of this column is to reflect on Black women’s social and political practice of community organizing. Reflecting on our past, contemporary, and futuristic praxis helps us understand how to create spaces that prioritize liberation and artistic creation effectively. These spaces should redefine theoretical approaches to systemic violence against women and decolonization. The writings from this column will serve as a tool of radical practice through testimony. I believe that we can only begin to heal from actions that have silenced us by telling the truth. I imagine a new world where Black women are free to love and enjoy the planet as their ancestors intended. And through writing, I could get to the bottom of what causes disconnection and suffering in communities.

What are we going to do to stay alive? Will we run toward the trees? Or will we continue to choose a life in solitude? I long for us to follow the call of stewarding the land, leaving. In the face of collapse, we will create stronger roots that, when chopped down, will loudly crush the axeman. As I ask these things, I think about the beginning and end of the world, two things I’m likely to see in my lifetime. For the dreams I have now will eventually end up in the minds of another generation. The least I could do is give them some words to remember that it’s their time.

I said yes to communion because I’m a free outlaw in a sisterhood full of rebels. I admire revolutionary women who spent their whole lives dreaming and writing about some of the freedoms I enjoy. They were fearlessly alive. Just like those writers, my existence as a writer, one who is queer and Black, is a disruption to the perfect stories our oppressors are trying to convince us to believe. Communion is an act of rebellion, especially for women in the South. This rebellion is revealed in our friendships, our solidarity, and the power in our hands that eliminates suffering.

As a true believer in the limitless creation capabilities of women, I’m compelled to write and testify how I’ve seen the divinity of communion. Remembered Rapture, bell hooks wrote about the ways in which women use writing as a tool of divination. Her writing led me directly to the sisters of the yams Writing Society. I agree with hooks that not all my art is divinely inspired, but yet I have every reason to write. Toni Morrison once said I do it because I’m compelled to do so, and I too feel this compulsion to write. I have read many books by hooks, and Remembered Rapture is one that I feel best answers the question of how we can heal and resist in the face of domination and subjugation.

I was disconnected from communion with women, and I had the power to change that. I saw these revelations all around me; stars aligned, and then I realized I didn’t take myself seriously as a writer despite all that I have poured into my writing. I had to give up on the myth that I am the only person worth liberating, realizing that my goals and dreams will never truly be seen if I am rendering others invisible, including myself. I made more time for women, therefore making more time for myself and my newfound well of inspiration. This led to a fascination of documenting the creative processes of Black women. How their manifestations have led them to transformation through “the presence of divine spirit.”

I chose to highlight women’s stories because they are the voices that came to me and encouraged me to stay faithful to my craft. The new era of T.G.W is dedicated to understanding “that it’s okay to want to be seen” and “being numb no longer suits me.” No longer will I operate from the shadows when my club is standing in the sun. There is no sense in being a small, coy woman and a writer when my words transcend generations and spectrums.

Xandria McGilber

About the author:

Xandria McGilber is an Afro-Texan political scientist and essayist. In 2023, she founded TexasGirlWrites.com, a virtual and in-person writing forum dedicated to transforming the radical Black womanist tradition. The forum operates under the guiding belief that Black women and our comrades must be able to defend themselves from gender-based violence, determine their own futures, and build camaraderie through sisterhood.

For more of Xandria’s work, please visit texasgirlwrites.com and follow her on IG @texasgirlwritesx

Xandria can be reached at xandriamcgilber2@gmail.com

During our introductory Sweet Communion Parlor, D Gemms read this powerful poem to close the evening. The Parlor was a beautiful tapestry of voices from Black women and femmes spanning generations, topics, forms, and reasons for writing. We gathered, listened, felt, sighed, clapped, exhaled, and resonated with one another. Excerpts from essays, poems, Substack posts, articles, academic journals, and more were shared, followed by respectful, thoughtful, honest, and candid feedback.

There is something about reading your work aloud in front of others that gives it new life. The words shift. The piece begins to reveal things you hadn’t noticed before, and expands through the presence of those willing to witness it.

Please register below for our next parlor on July 29th!

July Sweet Communion Parlor Registration

Please enjoy, like, share, and comment below!

THE WAVE IN THE WATER

I am the wave that traverses the sea.

Dashing itself away against the rocks to measure

their strength against my brute ambition.

And as high as the mountain may seem,

I dash away at it too, endlessly, knowing one day

I will attain my dream of vast horizons

uninterrupted by obstacles of might.

I am the wave that carries memories in its waters.

Playing with the wind and laughing with the sun

as I glisten with reflections of existence.

I am a rumble, I am a sight, I am a force

to be reckoned with.

I am a part of a greater creation,

one that spans the depth and corners of continuance.

I am the wave that houses life in my breadth

and in my journeys.

I have greeted, carried and delivered to many destinations,

unknown to many yet familiar to me.

And within the midst of this I have yet to know

the lengths of my own extent, the power of my own energy.

I am a wave, fluctuating, free and untethered.

I am the sea in its integrality.

- Gemm

Diamond can be reached on Instagram @d.gemm and dgemms@substack.com

D Gemms

Unrefined expression. Raw emotion. A finding of treasures within self and this life's experience. Here I drop gemms.

By Diamond Ashman

Epistolary writing is intimate and offers glimpses into someone’s interior life, raw and without edit. Corryncia penned the following in response to the prompt

“What pain lies beneath the surface? What do you carry that needs to be released for transformation?”

In this piece, “Recipe for a Strong, Black Daughter” we witness a stern sincerity and a display of truths that hide in plain sight, as the author communicates what lies beneath.

Please enjoy, like, share, and comment below!

Corryncia can be reached at corryncia.morgan@gmail.com IG/Threads @C.M._Dawn

Recipe For a Strong, Black Daughter

By Corryncia Morgan

The world hasn’t been good for the black woman for at least a millenia.

The best that she can hope for is to survive.

Let her know, no, make her understand that the world is not her oyster, time is not on her side, and she is the mule of the world.

In order to help her survive, you must teach her to hate everything about herself.

Her natural state is never good enough.

You must tell her her skin is too dark, her hair is too nappy, unruly, her demeanor is never meek enough to warrant defense or protection, and her body is a loaded weapon, destructive to all that comes in contact with it.

If she is light, constantly tell her she isn’t black enough.

If she is skinny, make her hate her litheness.

A black woman will never know peace, so she shouldn’t get used to peace in any area of life.

Teach a black girl not to ask for shit.

Not for help, not for sustenance, not even for a crust bread.

The world has been trained to respond to a white woman’s tears, not yours.

You might as well get used to doing everything for yourself and everybody else.

Remember you are the mule of the world.

A black girl must understand that she is never innocent.

It is always your fault. It is always your problem.

A black girl must know that nothing matters more than her man, not her children’s safety or innocence.

Nothing matters more than making him happy and propping him up to make him feel special, valued, and appreciated, no matter what he does or how much he takes.

In order to make a black girl that would survive in this world, in this community, you must kill off all of the fleshy places where hope, joy, peace, desire, and self-belief reside within her.

The most important thing you must do is teach your daughter to pass this recipe for surviving down to her daughter.

The recipe is more important than any pound cake or buttermilk chess pie will ever be.

I’m her mother.

I know exactly what my child needs to survive.

On our last SOTY field trip, we explored Black Ink: The Black Arts Movement in Print, part of a special collection in the UH Libraries archives. Our SOTY special events steward, Sha'Na "Shay" Smith, led us through the movement’s history, key moments, and critical texts. We listened, we learned, and, more importantly, we wrote about rhythm, sight, and the cost of a revolution.

Nadia shared this timely poem that blends endurance and resistance, capturing the costs of revolution on the Black woman’s body. She penned “Cost of Revolution” that day, featured below. Please enjoy, like, comment, and share.

Cost of Revolution

The weight fell, collapsed onto her bones

like a boulder crushing a pebble.

Everyday was the same,

and certain hours added on even more weight,

to the endless cycles of days that bled

into weeks that bled into months.

Bled like her monthly that provided no rest either.

Pain accumulated into a fibroid, mass of stagnancy.

The progress has plateaued, but the world still spun.

It still spun, so she tried to spin with it.

Then she tried to stop it.

Alas, she sat down.

The world still spun, but her wounds began to mend;

the weary parts with every breath, the weight started to lift.

There was no way out, progress plateaued,

but still she sat till there was nothing surrounding her.

She closed her eyes until the world was no more

She was no more.

She just. was.

250 year old America sat until she was no more.

by Nadia

SOTY Field Trip April 11, 2026

We implore you to read through these texts, as you are able. I am unsure whether we will ever experience this type of honesty printed in such a multitude again.

Black Ink: The Black Arts Movement in Print Exhibit Items

Anyone can visit the UH Library archive, and any text can be digitized by request. Visitation is by appointment only, with a required 24-hour notice.

https://libraries.uh.edu/special-collections/visit

In addition, many of the texts and more are available for check out at the NEWBAM studio installation at Project Row House by artist Tay Butler (@stayclosetay). Please check it out, sit a spell, and engage with the work produced during this revolutionary time.

During the session, this story had us all giggling with a sense of familiar nostalgia. Give it a read, like, comment, and share! This is just the beginning of highlighting the brilliant voices of the sisters of the yam Writing Society.

Ms. Sally Walker

by Cherish Triplett

There I was, Ms. Sally walking down the street. My 13 year old legs sashaying in the breeze feeling fine in those little black shorts I had been saving for moments like this. My thick hair in a pony tail, my stomach sucked into nothing, I made sure that those little black shorts revealed enough confidence. I felt good. I moved like I was on a mission and I was just taking a stroll to the corner store to grab a cute little snack. I heard the trees whisper around me, and the birds make conversation about my body. I felt desirable, so much so, nature wanted to have a conversation with me. We cackled together like crows on top of a powerline. We were two sisters, highfiving and gyrating all the shapes and colors God made for us. Nature saw me, Ms. Sally Walker, feeling fine in those little black shorts, and with the wind she created a runway. Her breezes became a row of fluffy fans clapping. There was no need to hide my face in all that commotion and carrying on. These legs, decorated in fine puberty hairs, partnered with mosquito bite scars cemented on my skin, deserved to breathe.This world I cultivated belonged to me, why should I fear? My pony tail became a black ballerina, it twirled and danced with each movement from my hips. My body language was loud and clear. I looked damn good.

I turned the corner on a small dirt path, still high from the parade nature threw in my honor. My hips were still sashaying and wiggling to a beat of my own tune, when suddenly, my throat became dry and my eyes grew big. There they were, huddled together like buzzards over road kill. Suddenly, those little black shorts began to shrink on my body as soon as I stepped out into the sun. I began feeling like I was showing more than healed mosquito bites with these legs. My family history was on display. There was sunlight touching the stretch marks on my thighs, putting a spotlight on a road map to deepest fears. I started to show— insecurity. In front of me, was my worse fear— niggas, but not just any niggas… Niggas from school! I started to suffocate within my own thought bubble. “Is that Chris? Yea… that’s him, looking all fine and shit. I wonder who is all over there?”

As I mentally scanned the middle school year book in my head, I walked steadily and tried to stop walking in cursive. They don’t know beauty, just the fat girl that rides the bus with them. I take a glimpse and think to myself, “Dang it is all the cute boys from school, oh no!” I attempt to make my body walk straight like I was auditioning for Top Model. My head is still high and I’m still Ms. Sally Walker on the way to get me a cute little snack. I must not forget that. “Nature chose me.” I think to myself. “Nature is my runway.” I make my eyes, split the view in front of me into a 2 lane highway, and I kept my focus on the path but also— on them niggas. Their whispers felt like judgment day, not gentle like the trees, but like conversations with my aunt Katie about my pants size, embarrassing. I walked, counted my steps, monitored my breath, and stayed in my lane.

Soon that fine feeling I felt, tapped me on the shoulder again, and told me to work it honey! You are the bees. You are important. You make this world spin like a spider weaving a web, trap them niggas. Let them look. Make them see you, how you see you— flawless. My legs became ribbons twirling in the wind. I was cute. I wasn’t whatever them niggas thought of me. I am Ms.Sally Walker walking down the street on the way to the corner store to get a cute snack, until I tripped and fell— in front of all them niggas.

Cherish can be reached at cheriblossomsart@gmail.com Instagram/Threads @Ch3ri_b

I come from . . .

I carry . . .

We are owed . . .

I dream . . .

SOTY used these beautiful excerpts to weave together the following poem. We do hope you enjoy!

2026 Cowboy Sunday X Folk Fest

Community Poem

I come from the stars.
I come from the ocean, the wind, the mountains, plains of grass and earth and soil.
I come from abundance and bliss. Black magic portals of memory. Ancient beings made manifest. Star shine and clay.

My people are not regulated to a land or place.

I come from the first people who birthed the world, warriors, queens, kings, talented folks, strength, power, wisdom, strength, love, challenges, and awesome resilient people.
I come from those who knew survival, but sowed seeds of a life full to thrive in.
I come from red clay dirt, brown roux, rice fields, miles of cotton, praying hands, sacred oil, and the backwoods where we worship.

I come from a beautiful lineage of colorful people from southern Louisiana, stretching across New Iberia and New Orleans.
I come from Perry, Florida, Tallahassee, North Carolina, Brooklyn, New York, and New Jersey by way of Africa.

I come from a lot of family from everywhere, my grandpa is from St. Louis, my grandma is from Alabama, my dad is from Detroit, and my mom is from Houston, but she grew up in Katy. And I’m from Houston, but I grew up in Katy, like my mom.

I come from the daughter of Winky (Collette), the daughter of Enola (Nol), the daughter of Lulo (Black), the daughter of Eulaie (Mom La Lic), the daughter of John from Louisiana - Breaux Bridge, Broussard, Cecilia, Cypress Island, and Fifth Ward, Texas.

I come from a line of educators, landowners, and slaves that believed in overcoming and faith.
I come from two different generations, both rich in history, gifts, abundance, and love.
I come from a family of the cloth.

I come from country women with wide hips, big thighs who prayed on their knees for rain. Who take communion, who dance and dance and dance some more. Who worked and sang and played Pity Pat. Who made the best boudin and who protected their children.

I come from love . . . love that sounds like music.
I come from passion & heart & pains.
I come from me . . . me seven generations back.

I carry the essence of the land inside my bones . . it is heavy, and fuel-some. The song of land inside my breath. It stirs me and leads me to where I need to go.

I carry my ancestors’ dreams in my blood.

I carry love, my ancestors’ memories, trust, dreams, aspirations, their mitochondria and DNA, joy, wishes, knowings, liberation, my memories, desires, wisdom, info, pain, frustrations, overcoming despite it all, and the truth. Always.

I carry power to do, persisting to be, persevering to have, unyielding power in spite of.

I carry the keys and the secrets of those before, as they carry me like the wind beneath my wings.

I carry desires, seeds, trails of tears.
I carry the need for success.

I carry a ton of dead weight on my shoulders. Weight I should not be carrying. Guilt, stress, old friendships, the need to please. I realized I can just drop the weight.

I carry a lot of painful memories of the past and they often mimic my present. I want to release all the painful memories today. I want my present to be now! God wakes me up every day for new beginnings, today I release painful memories.

I carry the generational pain of my ancestors. I feel their guilt and hurt in the gush of wind that passes my skin. Through me, their anger continues to rage with the words I speak loudly while still facing this unjust and cruel world. The day we all rise with a cry out loud is when we will truly be free.

I carry an earth dream, passed down, up and along to me and through me. Shared and felt and invisible. Earth. Wind. Fire. Water. The love eternal, and the journey to it, through it and from it. Love. God. Surrender.

We are owed a thank you. In word and deed, land and freedom.
We are owed the fruits of the earth and of the spirit, the richness of the world.
We are owed a free world, our name, and our language.

We are owed peace. Our ancestors paid the cost with our Blood, the cost of the work of our ancestors’ hands.
We are owed justice. ALL they took, our name. Everything.

We are owed everything that was taken without permission.
We are owed all the land back that was stolen from our aboriginal ancestors.
We are owed what we claim as our birthright, our inheritance of land . . . culture . . . our mother tongue.
We are owed free passage across all invisible line barriers that keep our people bounded by zoning laws.

We are owed peace of mind, body, and spirit.
We are owed the right to live life abundantly.
We are owed access to the fullest and most liberated parts of ourselves. An agape love.
We are owed the space to be our independent, unapologetic, open, African selves!

We are owed an apology, the truth, trust, honesty, recognition, repair, everything under the sun, respect, time, rest, joy, Kujichagulia, information, peace, sleep, equity, $$$$$, and so much more.

We are owed to be paid and left TF alone.

We are owed nothing . . . it is ours. The meek shall inherit the earth.
We are owed nothing! We control our own destiny.
We are owed nothing at all “But” we have so much to give! Thanks, but NO thanks!

I dream of a world in which everyone is free to be . . . to exist . . . to live as they choose without judgement, without struggle. A world based on love and respect. I dream of a colorful world, flourishing and abundant.

I dream of flying high above all and any low vibrations, a loving, trustful, peaceful, generous, sharing, respectful, truthful, thoughtful, caring about each and every sentient being, and an equitable knowing that we are all worthy

I dream of getting rich and having a beautiful family.
I dream of a completely fulfilled life, one rooted by love and purpose. A life where everything that could be meant for me is.
I dream of a sacred space where intellectual property is protected, and our ideas can be fully realized into fruition.

I dream that our past will not repeat, that we learn, live, and leave an example for the future to grow, live, and move forward toward our closeness to God.
I dream of the day where black, afro, etc... isn’t treated as such an outside option.

I dream for my tears to be heard, for them to be the sands . . . or oceans. . . of someone else’s tomorrows . . . and help me to share my talents with the world.

I dream for someone to press play.

I dream that one day we will realize how beautiful we truly are. We are the chosen.

Compiled on Sunday, March 29^th, with tenderness and joy; assisted by the sun, wind, dirt, and grass; co-produced by a very old and wise tree and a subtle but persistent ant patch.

by the
SISTERS OF THE YAM WRITING SOCIETY

For a moment, we imagined we would be more traditional, focusing mainly on craft development and the business of writing. And while those elements will come as we progress, it has become clear that this is not where we begin.

What is emerging is something else: connectivity, relationships, and interdependence.

Therefore, we are naming this foundational year: To See and Be Seen.

Before we can become anything, we must first learn to see ourselves. And before we can be in a true relationship with one another, we must be willing to both be seen and to consciously practice seeing others.

Our good brother, Kiese Laymon, gave us a testimony to this:

“You’re a writer now. Please learn how to read as a writer. That means not only that you gotta get your regimen down; it means that reading is a fundamental part of your regimen. . . . When you practice, you’re looking forward to inviting folks to your practice, you’re looking forward to inviting folks to your practice sessions with the hopes that they want to practice with you. Love your people and the words you’re trying to share with them. Don’t be afraid of love. Write and read into your fears. You come from a lineage of wonderful practitioners whose practice eventually saved lives. Even Baldwin, Morrison, Hurston practiced. We’re not good enough to not practice.”

As bell hooks reminds us, community is something we create through our actions. Creating space for each other and honoring lived experiences, the trust builds itself over time, shaped by how we show up with one another in the present.

Our spring retreat series, Dreaming Ourselves Dark and Deep, will launch next week, building alongside our beloved Sweet Communions write-ins and our funky fresh Tongues of Fires workshops. These offerings are designed to create intentional spaces where writing becomes a mirror, inviting us to reflect, remember, and see ourselves more clearly.

The Spring retreat series, What We Carry, unfolds across three parts, exploring embodiment, communion, and interrogation. Together, they offer layered avenues to explore your inner world through writing.

We are also honored to partner with The Black Women Project to bring a holistic approach to the retreats – allowing for both critical thought and wellbeing to take place. Ensuring that, in addition to exploring critical text, we take care of our mental well-being through meditative and somatic activities embedded in the retreats.

This is the work of our beginning.

More details to come.

XOXO

Dr. Bernard

Founder & Executive Director

Someone asked me recently why I began writing. Not an unusual question, as I was previously a math teacher.

I began writing in response to the same silent pull that kept after me to begin this writing society. I had no real reason other than this: I knew I had to.

I am not a wordsmith, and my thoughts often come out more straightforward rather than eloquent. Grammar has never been my thing, and my brain works a lot quicker than my mouth - meaning words often escape partial and incomplete.

But I always knew that I had something to say, and that it must be written.

I began signing up for writing classes, here, there, and everywhere. Letting myself play the part. Stretching myself to write for the sake of free expression. Giving myself permission to be a writer through the simplicity of showing up.

With a bit more credence, I began to write intentionally about what haunted me. I visited the grief that I held in my belly, the prayers that needed excavating, and tended to the mending and untangling that required a steady hand. Seeing myself through experiences that had lain dormant for so long, I questioned whether this person had truly been me.

I named the devil that I had looked in the eye, held tight to the little girl that was me, and recounted moments in my life as I had seen them, as I had experienced them, without hesitation, without doubt.

It was then that I discovered the power in these cathartic rituals, in this writing. In owning my story and stating my truth. This opened doors within myself, which then opened doors to my dreams, which then opened doors to my ancestors and long ago spoken prayers.

This act of writing freed me, opening doors to a new way of being, a new trust in self, and a new clarity. All of which would have remained dormant had I ignored what I already knew.

XOXO

April

Founder, sisters of the yam Writing Society

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