CREATIVE WORK

i create art from the places where healing, grief, love, and transformation meet.

My work explores the stories we inherit, the wounds we carry, and the possibility of choosing a different path. Through poetry, music, reflection, and storytelling, I seek to give voice to the unseen parts of ourselves—the inner child, the forgotten self, ancestral echoes, and the enduring hope that lives beneath them all.

I am drawn to what happens when we stop running from our pain and begin witnessing it with compassion. My creative work is an act of remembrance—a return to self—and a commitment to breaking cycles that no longer serve us. I create to honor where I come from while imagining what becomes possible when love, awareness, and creation lead the way forward.

While my work as a therapist has shaped the way I understand the human experience, these pieces are not clinical guidance or a substitute for therapy. They are creative expressions—an invitation to pause, reflect, and perhaps recognize a part of yourself within the words.

At the heart of my work is the belief that healing is both personal and collective. When one person chooses to transform their story, the impact extends beyond themselves—to their family, their community, and future generations.

My creative practice is devoted to changing my bloodline through love, truth, and creation. It is an offering to myself, to those closest to me, and to anyone seeking the courage to reclaim their own voice. Through my work, I hope to create spaces where people feel seen, understood, and inspired to return to themselves with greater compassion.

I create not because I have all the answers, but because I believe transformation begins when we are willing to witness what is real, embrace what is true, and imagine what is possible.

Some experiences ask to be understood through conversation. Others ask to be understood through art.

poetry/ spoken word

  • Unworthiness

  • Behind the Curtain

  • Return to Love

01 — Poem

Unworthiness

‘Unworthy,’ she cries from the death of her slumber. 

She sleeps in the day to avoid the ache in her chest, and the numbing that takes her.  

She wakes to the moon who meets her loneliness with silence.  

Her dreams never reach her because unworthiness lulls her into a trance that becomes years of dreadful resistance. 

‘Where does it hurt, you ask?’ In the teardrops that fall like seasons that multiply her years.

When grief leaves, loneliness enters. A short loop, then return to the impending doom of remembrance.  

They have made a home too deep in her to be removed. 

They move in stillness; they move in absence. Taking up more space than you can ever imagine. 

Aching, longing, yearning for more. 

She cries, ‘how do I give up this burden for sure?’

She is passed by Father Time, who brings gifts to her like invitations to initiations. 

Terrified by all that she will lose if unworthiness leaves her. 

Terrified by all that she will lose because unworthiness loves her. 

She is frozen in time, too confused by the lies. 

Frozen in time, too afraid to confide.

Her unworthiness is the only friend who never leaves her side. 

It tells her, “no one will love you like I do when you have nothing to offer. Others will take away the moon that meets your loneliness with silence, and bring warmth to your aches, making you erase who you once were.” 

Hearing the rumble of its voice leaves her frozen again, because the silence and aching she feels have been her only friends. 

What will she be when she’s ready to be something else?

The girl caught in-between the moon and the silence. 

She yearns for the sun to bring movement to her steps,

Understanding that she will have to leave this journey for the next. 

Silence and aching are replaced by hope and compassion. 

Is this where my invitation to the initiation commences? 

In the space where loneliness meets compassion, 

And acceptance unravels these defenses? 

Because unworthiness is no longer the only voice in the silence. 

On the bridge where loneliness meets compassion is where the softening happens. 

Sunlight meeting tears, reflecting rainbows in its mirror. 

Soothing the ache in her chest with the warmth of its glow,

Helping her see each step to return to love, her true home. 

The silence no longer louder than her own heart’s cry, 

It screams, “I am worthy no matter how little I give because I am Divine.” 

02 — Poem

Behind the Curtain

Freed from the invisible chains that tethered spirits to generations past

Battle-scarred and broken-hearted, but now moving, at last

Their presence was crushing, exhausting, humbling

Leaving me with bruises, open wounds, and stumbling

It was survival or nothing—no freedom to choose

These spirits hovered like fog, so thick, I mistook them for truth

Stuck in loops of incessant worry and shame

In the quiet and in the noise, the self-deprecating voices remained

Weary, lost, and without purpose

bringing only fear and illusions

using self-doubt to dilute us

Keeping her behind the curtain 

She could not see beyond the fear to walk through it

The curtain presented temporary relief but kept her truth hidden

Believing she was too unworthy to be seen

never enough, she believed

The curtain felt safe, protective, and alluring

So she preferred hiding and performing 

‘This was safer,’ the spirits whispered— 

Offerings of delusion

unsure about what was true, real, or what it felt like to be fully known

The spirits promised familiarity, much better than the unknown

Behind the curtain she glowed—

a shine masquerading as gold

It was fear with a mask, pleading for the eyes of another to behold her

Behold

Be Hold

I try to HOLD her better now

I try to BE more these days

but growing through the fire is deadly

I want to be ready

Ready to behold her
More than ready

Ready to be her 

Because she is me and I am her 

She once was trapped behind the curtain, I could not see her

So scared and abandoned, 

I thought I had lost her

Not for ever, never for good 

my baby was waiting for her mother to observe her

Also, lost was she

behind her own curtain

tortured by the same spirits

Weighed down by a darkness too big for her to withhold

Passing through generations like clouds hovering over a landscape

It covered her

It covered me, too

The wounds that have shaped us, carry the weight of remembrance

Too painful, they confused us

Pressed into our being, the spirits suffocated goodness

Chaining us to smallness, 

They made us think we were useless

I cannot lie, my defenses proved truth-less

They birthed in me a version so ruthless-

ly I tried to fight my way back

Back to behold her

Back to being, holding, her

Ever so gently

Wiping tears from her cheeks

and crying for the ones who couldn’t make it from behind their own curtain

Forever uncertain. Forever unlearning

03 — Poem

Return to Love

I want to go back—
back to her safe and warm embrace;
back to accepting every truth of mine
with compassion and with grace.

She softens all my edges
until I am one with myself again;
welcoming home my banished parts
to be witnessed and held with tenderness, instead.

She reminds me of my worth
and the endless space I have to unravel,
lovingly whispering
that I am enough, here and now,
and need no longer travel.

Her touch transforms me—
body, mind, and soul,
changing how I stay,
how I move,
how I navigate and hold.

She never needs to change me,
convince me,
or persuade me.
She only asks that I exist in my authenticity and receive.

She moves with certainty and ease,
guiding me to release

the very things I once believed were needs.

Her power never wavers,
instead, it awakens my own.
She reminds me
I am strong,
powerful,
and fierce—
and tells me she knew it all along.

She reveals where I resist,
where I cling,
and when it's finally time
to let go.
She knows that in surrender
there is freedom,
because within myself I am already whole.

She finds every knot
and patiently unwinds it,
helping me spread my wings
and remember
I only need to trust that I will make it.

She brings me back—
back to the place
where my soul rests in peace.

She is love.

She is a return to me.

Every poem is a return — to the self that was always worthy of being held.

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