Tupac died at 25. If Malcolm X died at 25 he would have been a street hustler named Detroit Red. If Martin Luther King died at 25 he would’ve been known as a local baptist preacher. And if I had died at 25 I would’ve been known as a struggling musician. Only a sliver of my life’s potential.
Shout out to interracial, bisexual, pansexual, genderfluid, and otherwise “gray” or “mixed” people who get to deal with shit from pretty much every angle all while having your identity erased, ignored, or redefined for you whenever another group sees fit. I see you, love you, and want to make things better.
Healing is an art. It takes time, it takes practice. It takes love.
I go through phases. Somedays I feel like the person I’m supposed to be, and then somedays, I turn into no one at all. There is both me and my silhouette. I hope that on the days you find me and all I am are darkened lines, you still are willing to be near me.
It’s not that people can’t love you if you don’t love yourself. It’s that you won’t feel it because it’ll always seem like you don’t deserve it.
I have been described by you, for hundreds of years. And now, I can describe you. That’s part of the panic.
Stop comparing where you’re at with where everyone else is. It doesn’t move you farther ahead, improve your situation, or help you find peace. It just feeds your shame, fuels your feelings of inadequacy, and ultimately, it keeps you stuck. The reality is that there is no one correct path in life. Everyone has their own unique journey.