i danced the morning long. it felt like home until it didn’t. until the marrow in my bones ached the way it always does when we are apart. there is only so much success and satisfaction this humble heart can savor before its very craving self destructs. there is minimal desire outside of them. and i struggle with feeling like this might be the least empowering thing to say to the women who came before me, the women got me here, and the ones who hold my hand as I attempt the exhausting facade of the progressive woman’s dream. the one of having it all.  but, i have an inkling that dishonestly would be a far greater disservice for the case of empowerment. and so I share with transparency that becoming a mother wrecked me. in all the best ways, but in a way that makes almost everything else feel second best, while simultaneously igniting every existing passion beneath my skin. i wait for nothing. i listen and respond to every lead. i swan dive into the deepest comforts of a good paradox. but when i come up for air, they are not there, and suddenly i cannot breathe. my art only makes sense within and around them. it is not an either or, then and now. when their flesh is far my potential feels limited. like the greatest thing i could ever do is a never been done before hybrid of something i could never understand. i can’t explain in simple terms. if only i could. for now there is this. my tangled up feelings finding solace in letters and words that don’t suffice, but if nothing else begin (something). because i’m starting to think that conclusions and endings are not for me. my inspiration is born from all the what if’s, maybe’s and i don’t knows. and them. always and forever them. bones to skin. the magic marrow of our mystery. we came from the stars. and we all happened to showed up at the same time and place. if that is not home, i don’t know what is.