Everything I imagine, everything I create, isn’t just mine.
It comes from the women who came before me. Those who looked like me, felt like me, and dreamed even when the world didn’t make space for their dreams.
Their hopes live in me.
Creativity runs through my blood.
Both of my parents were artists in their own way.
A seamstress, a carpenter, a master in the kitchen, a designer of spaces, a mind fluent in numbers.
They shaped the world with their hands and their brilliance.
But life didn’t always make room for that brilliance to grow.
I often wonder who they could have been, if only someone had nurtured what was already inside them.
And I wonder the same for myself.
Who could I be, if the world saw me for more than just what I survive?
Somewhere in my lineage, I know someone longed to write.
To put language to what they felt.
To learn, to question, to understand more than they were ever allowed to.
And now, I feel that same longing.
That same deep hunger to create, to learn, to express myself fully without shrinking, without shame.
So when I write, when I create, when I dream, I do it for all of us.
For the ones who couldn’t.
For the ones who never got the chance.
And for the version of me that still hopes to be seen.
I just hope I can do right by them.
One day at a time.
