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3am conversation endings about what inspires me to write – several of the new pieces of late were written very differently over the course of the summer, but I needed to pause to protect. Our tongues are wands, and what we speak manifests; people underestimate this, and I am learning to offer it the respect and reverence it deserves. If you’ve ever experienced the switchblade in my mouth, you know how rarely I give into this most destructive part of me.

I write when my heart is full.

But. I also write about the things which haunt me. I write about the stories stuck in my gut demanding release. Writing is renaming, and defanging. It is Kafka’s metamorphosis. It is staring at the things that nearly shattered me, or which resulted in a deep and terrifying rage I didn’t know I could hold in my body. It is sitting to rewind and replay the moments which pushed me into grief and taking my power back.

Over the years, it has become telling the story more gently and with greater understanding so that I remain hope-full, even when bloodied.

Autumn is my favourite season. Everything about it is sensual – it’s need for warmth, and fires, the season for candles, and overcast mornings gateways to longer rests and more languid movements. Jazz plays in my home all autumn; it’s love language quality time.

How can I respect and love myself after everything I’ve done?, they asked. It broke my heart to hear them ask it because they are so beautiful.

Arms wide, I reminded them to take the time to become the person they most admired. There is time.

To take the time to shift towards the version of themselves that their inner child would look up to and trust. There is time. It’s never too late.

If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I said. Through your heart, they answered.

If you are in spaces where those around you are not allowing this, are not encouraging this, are not actively pursuing it themselves daily, then exit these spaces with grace and under the protection of the Universe. Make your intentions clear and every single thing will collude with you to help manifest your new spaces, to help your coming home to yourself.

I understand that change is one of the most difficult and terrifying realities to face. I also understand that my ability and constant need for change is unusual – Naomi has, since Uni, attributed it to my Scorpio moon and ascending. She says it’s the nature of a Scorpio to change with every moon. I never believed it until this year. I do not shy away from discomfort, and I am wholly unafraid of the process of change. I welcome it more than most, because I never wish to wonder what if when on the precipice of leaving dunya.

Regret for me roots in stagnation, not in motion.

The fight I see people put up to stay in place astonishes me. I am so curious to understand why they hold on so hard, forgetting that nothing is static. Literally not one thing in this world is static – this truth is as concrete as death (and menopause if a female lives long enough).

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We are energy; we don’t even ever touch one another or anything else. We are quantum beings, where nothing in us is static. Is this why so many of you will push your knuckles through skin holding on so tightly to even the things which do not bring you peace? Because we are movement, and you desire stillness?

Look up antonyms to movement, and let me know if that’s actually what you want. Why you believe that the nature of us – the need for movement, the health of change, the power of energetic motion – isn’t already perfect. Why do you believe that stagnation is…better?

Movement and motion, they too are my muse. Energy shifting, a way to return to my self, changed. I have never once returned from a story the same. I don’t wish to; it would only tell me that I have not learned its lesson. What a terrible life that would be – stuck. Unmoved. Unchanged. Dead. Why would any of us seek the confines of a grave while still living?

What is your core wound that you cannot find the love inside of yourself to throw your arms wide to movement (in service of a better you)?

Lastly, and as you all already know, it is love. That is my greatest muse. Neither romantic nor platonic – rather love, as a state of being. As a state of motion, and one of rest for both myself and others. Obsessively, incessantly, and with a maddening hunger – love is my greatest muse.

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