Why have I been silent all of these years? A quiet, sterile surface, afraid of not having answers, afraid of my own ignorance and privilege, afraid of ruffling feathers. I have been silent. Silent like tears falling at night, silent like a flower wilting to powder, silent like storm clouds brewing. Silent. But now, the

“Have I made enough progress? ” she asked, electric anxiety coursing through her words, and a certain familiar tremble in her voice. What is the true question, I wondered. Is she enough now? Is she worthy now, of love, of attention, of respect? Could she finally rest? Echoes of questions that I have posed to

I wish all of you could see me as I try to write this post.  Let me do my best to paint a picture for you. It is Wednesday evening, around 9:21 pm.  I am sitting on my bed in a mess of bedsheets and blankets, typing on my laptop by the light of one