The most beautiful thing about love is that it opens you up to magic.
Good love makes you feel consequential – like you matter.
Good love centers the intimate.
Good love is curious about your ever expanding self, it is fascinated by your interiority.
It CANNOT get enough of you and because of it, you cannot get enough of yourself.
When the love is good and is allowed room to be/to breathe, it expands into its own entity.
And by doing so, it expands you into someone far more layered and nuanced.
As soon as the light of the sun streamed into my bedroom this morning I was up. It did not matter that I had only fallen asleep 4 hours earlier and didn’t have any responsibilities for another 4 hours. I tried lying back down and hoping sleep would come to me, wishing for just one more REM cycle, but my body felt energized by its 4 hour sleep cycle. After 15 minutes with my eye mask on trying to shut off any sign of external light and still feeling ready to begin my day I chose not to waste an energetic morning. I am not a morning person, energetic mornings do not come easily to me. My baseline looks more like dragging myself out of bed at the very last minute, using the threat of running late for my first appointment of the day as the extrinsic motivated I need to get my day started. ADHD for the win. So days like today feel like little miracles.
Which is why after a bit of deliberation I gave in and energetically jumped out of bed. Trimmed the darkened wick from the candles I’m loving these days and lit them. Opened my windows to bring in some of that early morning breeze into my bedroom. Put on the torquoise robe I had laying out beside my bed and went to start my morning with a cup of tea. A morning ritual I almost always treat myself to. When I got to the kitchen I turned on the electric kettle by default. And then I hesitated. I immediately felt the need to make my own tea blend. This is usually a task reserved for the highest of energy days. Someone shared in a neurodivergent support group I’m a part of that they broke their chores into low energy day chores and high energy chores. I loved this idea so much and adopted it. One of the best lessons I’ve adopted in my journey to understand myself as a neurodivergent person has included accepting that my capacity ebbs and flows every day and not holding my most productive day as a standard of what a good day is. Making herbal tea from scratch is one of those activities that signals a heightened measure of productive energy at my disposal. Since my energy is something that needs to be monitored and managed to ensure I’m not left depleted right before an important task I keep away from activities that are unnecessarily cumbersome on days that will require quite a bit of professional exertion. Activities like making tea from scratch. I took up a more serious study of herbalism in the years the world went dark and now after a couple of years of study I feel competent enough to mix different kinds of potent and calming plants into a herbal infusion for a homemade tea blend. I quite enjoy it. However for those who are not familiar with herbalism, it requires creativity, the mental work of remembering, and an alert spiritual radar to know what plants you feel most drawn to. I was surprised by my willingness to do all of that on a week day morning before I had to go into work for meetings and have a brain heavy day. And yet I had already learnt from earlier in the morning that my body was up for all the adventures today and it was pointless to try to reason with the things pulling me. I gave in. Turned off the electric kettle. And put a pot on a stove to boil and infuse my herbs. Witchy portion style.
I walked over to my plant corner, paused for a bit and let my body signal what herbs it wanted to work with today. I waited until I intuitively felt drawn to try out some lavender, linden, lemon balm, and a dash of marshmallow root. I proceeded to carefully measure them into the strainer in proportions that would make the perfect blend I was now craving. I brought the water to a rolling boil. I put in the strainer with my herb infusion into the boiling water and covered it up. Proceeded to make some breakfast while the water and the infusion worked together to create a new thing?
20 minutes later I sat down for tea time.
As I took the first sip of tea it tasted richer and more flavorful than any of the store bought tea infusions I typically enjoy on the week day morning. I thought about how this was ideal. The richness of the tea coupled with the extra fulfillment that came from the knowledge that I was involved in more of its creative process than any of the prepackaged tea bags I usually enjoy on week day mornings. My smug sense of appreciation was suddenly called into question. What made the more complicated process more ideal than enjoying the more simple process of an already made tea blend in a bag I just needed to add some hot water to and enjoy?
Why does the complex feel more rewarding than the easy?
I contemplated that question all through my tea time. A part of me felt that sometimes it can be ableist to chose challenge over simple. To feel like the things worth having must come through sweat and tears and negate the ways sweetness finds us easeful. And yet another part of me felt like there was the extra sweetness derived from getting to be part of a creative process for much longer than the step closest to consumption. A layer of sweetness we have lost from being socialized in a world with microwaveable dinners and instant access to everything and everyone. And the only resolution to this conundrum at this time feels like a both/and. There are times when all I have capacity for is to turn on the electric kettle and pour the boiling water into a mug with a pre-made tea bag of Numi mint tea to keep my early morning nausea under control. That will be ideal. There will be other days when I wake up with the capacity and the desire for homemade everything. That too will be ideal.
Last month I turned 27 years old.
In the weeks leading up to my 27th birthday I have to be honest, I felt a little bit of fear. Fear that it would be unremarkable like so many days in 2021 were for me. I had become accustomed to days that felt gloomy with nothing that brought me joy and I just did not feel like my birthday would be any different.
And yet I was pleasantly surprised.
When it was time to open presents my family members presented me with a giant box full of 27 presents. Turns out my mom had taken seriously the random statement I made about a month before my birthday that I would like to receive 27 presents for my birthday that year but then immediately laughed it off because it felt silly. My mom took that to heart and contacted a few of my family members and close friends both local and all over the US and told them of her plan to surprise me with a box full of 27 presents. They all contributed gifts to be part of the surprise.
As I stood in my living room opening up box after box of meaningful gifts from my favorite people I increasingly got emotional. My people had gone out of their way to show me how much I meant to them through gifts that reminded them of me. It felt so nice to unwrap their presents. To read the notes that accompanied presents. To be transported back to memories we had shared together that were reflected back in the gifts.
I must confess that until this year I’ve never quite understood the idea of gifts as a love language. It always came in last on every love language quiz I took. I guess I’ve often been more attracted to the independence and financial stability of being able to get anything I wanted for myself. And in this year when I finally made some big purchases for myself (like the Mercedes Benz, my dream car).. I started to realize how nice it felt to enjoy something that someone you love invested their resources to purchase for you. No matter the price point. As I opened my presents, I unwrapped a candle from one of my besties. I was taken back to the conversation I had with her as we window shopped in my favorite high end luxury stores. I had shown her my favorite candle brand and mentioned how because of the insanely high price point I only bought it once a year. She remembered. And she contributed to my happiness. And because candles are the gift that keep on giving, every time I light them I’ll be reminded of her and her generosity.
Gift after gift felt like a reflection of love from people who know me and love me and are invested in my happiness. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. To have a little part of my loved ones there with me even if they physically could not be present? it felt amazing!
All of 2021 one of my biggest challenges to myself has been to only lean into relationships with reciprocity. To pause and give the people who love me the space to show up for me, and increase my own capacity to not just be a giver in my relationships but to also be a receiver…
The months leading up to 27 have felt like a cocoon. I feel like I’m emerging. Into this new version of self . I feel way more aligned. Like a woman walking boldly into a new chapter of my life with competence and competence. In this next era of my life I see myself building out the kind of work culture that exites me and simultaneously makes an impact in the world. I see myself starting a family. I see myself as an author. I see myself being a woman who mentors and invests in community building. I see myself happily in love with myself, my people, and the way my life feels.
And so it is.
Gather round
Let me tell how my soft layers
taught me warmth.
How I learnt gentleness from:
Fat rolls protecting delicate bones.
Rounded bellies drooping down
like cascading vines
leading to the warmest place.
Fleshy thighs a headrest.
Come let me tell you
How I softened
because I witnessed my
body softening.
This started out as a celebration of my belly fat. Specifically. Look up belly fat on google and the first few pages all talk about “how to get rid of it.” I’ve never been without a rounded belly. I’ve never lived in a world without women with rounded bellies so it occurred to me a few years ago that rather than keep obsessing over flattening mine, I could just learn how to peacefully co-exist with it. It’s a wonderful thing how mindset can be half the battle because once I made up my mind to be okay with the fat on my belly, I was able to take a honest look at how much I did enjoy the roundness of that part of my body.
However I did not see much about this sentiment mirrored back to me online.
So I chose to write a poem. One that took apart the things I saw and loved about the way my belly and thighs curve.
Enjoy!
If you like this, listen to a podcast episode where i also spoke about round bellies and soft thighs.
I was the student who never took summers off.. actually let’s back it up to being the child who was always given the next years curriculum to start working through during the summer months from the moment I started school. And because I’m a person who loves being good at stuff, I naturally enjoyed the head start I had on my peers by the time the school year came around.
This was actually one of the reasons I was able to go from Primary 2 (2nd grade) to Jss 1 (7th grade) when I was only 7 years old.
The more I pushed myself to my own limits during times that were allocated as rest times, the more quantifiable successful I was which internalized for me a narrative that I had found the cheat code for life: hustle while others are resting. My cycle of go hard during the school year, rest a little but go even harder during the summer was born. And with that I finished uni at 17. Took unpaid internships every summer during law school. Finished law school at 20. And the ultimate test of my mental fortitude? Even after I knew I was experiencing burnout studied for the Bar Exam the summer I graduated from law school for 6 hours every day from May till July. Thankfully I passed that exam on the first try which again was a success but also created a narrative of superhuman invincibility for me.
But then my absolute burnout set in. I’ve written about that a few times. The year where I absolutely could do nothing. I taught me new habits and new ways of being in a body that centered rest, rejuvenation, and the importance of empty time. But I still never quite had the opportunity to take summers off again.
Until last year.
Last summer after I quit a job that was bringing me to the edge of burnout, I lost my grandfather somewhat unexpectedly, and my best friend had Covid. All around the same time. The compounded stress and exhaustion of it all forced me into a summer of absolute stillness. I remember sharing on my podcast that it was going to be a “sad girl summer.” And I truly leaned into sadness and nothing-ness for months. Until I was no longer sad.
We are not yet in a post Covid world but this year as I have attempted to figure out how I want to re-organize my life moving forward I knew this commitment to non production as a radical way of being had to be a part of how I spent my summer.
My father loves to farm as a hobby and he’s taught me about this idea of a fallow: leaving land uncultivated and empty for a certain cycle so it can recover and restore its depleted nutrients. This practice, any good farmer will tell you, is necessary for long term success with land that is being cultivated. It has always intrigued me how much nature can teach us ways of being that are sustainable. For me this summer I intentionally penciled in some fallow time into my calendar. A month to slow down (June). A month of non-productivity (July). My intention is to disconnect myself from a desire to produce anything beyond what is absolutely necessary to my daily well-being in real time. I am not working. All my clients and team mates are aware of this time I’m taking off. And this isn’t necessarily vacation because we all know how vacation expectations can lead to adventures that are tiring and taxing on the nervous system.
The goal is to be with myself.
Totally present.
No preset expectations or deliverables.
I’ll report back from the other side but I bet this time of rest will be exactly what I need.
I no longer identify with the story I once told myself that the cheat code for life was to hustle while others are resting. I have a new cheat code for life but I’ll hold that close to my chest for now.
Thank you for reading. I hope you take as much time to fallow as is accessible to you. Let me know on Instagram if you do and what your results have been.
Love,
Salem
Last month I went on an intimate writing retreat with one of my best friends. We are both writers working on our debut books and wanted to create a space where we could focus on our writing for an entire weekend. It was lovely and hard and absolutely wonderful.
Here are a few lessons I learnt about writing from that retreat:
2. Writing is messsyyyy – you basically get on paper and let your heart bleed there so why do you expect it to be neat and clean? Because its so unorganized and its not a cute process. I like clean lines and sentences that don’t run on, and paragraphs that are easily digestible…but baby that’s the editing part. Right now, the writing process will not give you that. Thanks.
3. Writing is a deeply uncertain journey – you have to trust that the things will come together because there are so many times in the moment that I’m writing and just feeling like “QUE???? That makes no sense and I don’t even know why these words are coming on the page right now” and an hour later it dawns on me that I needed those earlier words to access the words that make sense now.
Anyways I love writing and I love even more that i’m on this writers retreat with one of my best friends because to have your person as your writing partner is a sweet blessing.
I walk a fine line between trying to combat the hyper sexualization of Black girls and accepting the fact that for me personally presenting in a sensual and sexual-adjacent way comes really easily and naturally. And it sparks joy.
The way I present is definitely not an invitation. And yet I am a brazen woman. Who wants what she wants. And often goes after it in all aspects of life.
I know that because society doesn’t really teach us how to pay attention to the nuances of Black women’s interior worlds some people, including other women, will miss it. Won’t be patient enough to sit with my multitudes. Instead will make sweeping comments and generalizations and judgements. Will want to put me in a box. Consistently trying to figure out “is she a hoe or is she holy.” Men constantly trying to figure out “can I take her home to my mom or is she someone to just have fun with.”
My womanhood is making peace with the fact that this happens.
My womanhood is firmly rooted in the truth that the only gaze that matters is my own.
My womanhood is a tapestry of many different things that appear to be contradicting but only the patient ones, the curious ones, the attentive ones will see that somehow they all have found harmony in me.
Ultimately it doesn’t really matter to me anymore how people perceive the ways I present when I’m out in public. Or in the digital streets. I am myself and living as a sensually embodied being is a huge part of what matters to me right now. In this present iteration of myself.
Sometimes I let the world see the softest parts of me. In return I receive flowers and poems that water me.
Other times I let the world in and receive a harsh coldness that makes me immediately retreat into the softness with a promise to never make us go out there again.
In those times I remind myself that there is nothing wrong with being a sensitive and sometimes fragile Being. With boundaries that sometimes feel so porous.
I pour warmth back into myself and stay in my cocoon until it feels safe to venture out again.
What is living if not a constant tug between staying protected and going on adventures?
My presence is a gift
I have so much to learn but also lots to offer.
I have learnt the art of walking away from people and spaces that don’t see my majesty, and I did not die.
The world has felt like it was collapsing in on me many times and yet i came out victorious.
I don’t know what the future holds fully but I know I can always find my way back to being ok.
I enjoy my solitude and my community.
There are people who think of me as an answer to prayer, a good thing, a necessary ingredient to their human experience.
There are people who enjoy me simply because i exist.
My world is expansive!
I am comfortable inside my own skin.
This self drag brought to you courtesy of my therapist + my musings on memoir writing.
If no one bears witness,
Did it happen?
For context, I was sharing about my changing relationship with visibility when she posed this question. A question which had me re-evaluate the ways I need certain moments witnessed before they feel like a complete moment to me.
Which made me ponder the writing of my memoir, a project I’ve been working on for years.
Lately I find myself wanting to relinquish writing and seeking publication of that work. I feel myself wanting to withdraw from sharing more of my “in real time feelings” on social media…but I also feel a pressure to validate my stories and experiences through documentation.
I am not ashamed to be a kid who grew up finding community on the internet, an immigrant kid who through the corners of blogger was able to connect to other immigrant kids trying to find words for our shared experiences, who built community through naijapals and Facebook and many many aol emails exchanged back and forth. It feels like a huge part of my experiences around coming of age, both the glamorous and the awkward, were witnessed by people who were for the most part strangers and yet embraced me more than a lot of the people in my local community.
Sometimes the people in closest physical proximity to you just don’t know how to hold the complexity that is you.
Which brings me to my changing relationship with visibility.
When you’ve been witnessed in ways that feel validating by strangers, how do you impose boundaries around your experiences without feeling like you are depriving your own self of a sense of belonging?
I don’t really know the answer you guys. Which brings me to my original question: “if no one bears witness to it, did it happen?”
Obviously duh. It did happen. And own our witness is important in validating our experiences even if no one else can hold space for it. This is what I’m affirming myself with when I feel that angst. Also I’m reminding myself that unlike my teenage years and even my early twenties when I was still fighting to find community, at this big age of mine, one of my biggest blessings is that I have my people. The ones who I am sure enjoy me and want to journey with me. They are not out of reach.
So to the part of me that feels like if I don’t write and publish my coming of age memoir then its almost as it I never came of age, well girl, that’s ridiculous. Because obviously you did. Maybe one day you’ll be feeling more inspired to reflect on and turn your reflections of the journey from girlhood to womanhood into a book and on that day, it won’t be from the fear of being erased, but from a deeper place.
Being Salem 