My body has its own calendar. Some weeks I feel full—radiant, magnetic, ready to pour out. Other weeks, I am called inward, craving stillness and simplicity. Some days want movement and expression, and others require softness, solitude, and slowness. The more I listen, the more I realize my body already knows what my mind is trying to schedule.

I used to think that home was a place I could find in someone else’s arms: my immediate family, in a relationship that promised safety, but never delivered it. I thought I could decorate my way into belonging, filling empty rooms with candles and gentle music, hoping something outside of me would soften the ache within. But over time, I’ve discovered the truth: I am my home.

A name is never just a name. It is lineage, it is legacy, it is prayer. For me, taking someone else’s last name has never felt like the path to belonging, because I already belong to myself. My name is not up for negotiation.

For years, I didn’t allow myself the chance to explore different texts, traditions, or ways of thinking. Not because I was forbidden, but because critical thinking felt like betrayal, like I was abandoning the only belief system that had once offered me comfort and “salvation.” As I read The Great Cosmic Mother by Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor, I approached the literature with a tender heart and an open mind.