This poem grew out of a moment on one of my walks, when I felt deeply connected to this tree. It felt like it was speaking to me, reminding me to keep moving through the wilderness and to trust my passion, even when it makes me stand out. I don’t try to dominate my surroundings; I show up brightly because that’s how I am. The tree felt the same: rooted, part of the landscape, and passionately visible. It reminded me that I can belong to a larger world without shrinking myself inside it, and that being vivid, attentive, and present is not excess, it's simply who I am.

This is What it Feels Like to Me
12/14/25

This image that I took while on one of my walks feels like a metaphor for how I move through the world.

I am the bright tree at the water’s edge-
rooted, visible, and out of step with what surrounds me.

I carry color in spaces that often prefer shadow
or sameness.

I don’t dominate the landscape,
but I don’t disappear into it either.
I exist in contrast,
and that contrast is not accidental.

The water reflects everything back to me-
sometimes clearly,
sometimes distorted.

I am constantly aware of how I am seen,
how my presence is mirrored,
reshaped, and read through lenses I did not choose.

Still, the reflection is real.
It holds truth,
even when it is heavy.

The larger trees loom,
established and unmoving,
shaping the environment I inhabit.

They do not erase me,
but they make my visibility consequential-
as if my very existence carries weight
and surfaces response.

My brightness is not easy;
it is intentional.

It is the result of staying rooted
while refusing to dim.

I stand at the edge-
between land and water,
certainty and complexity,
action and pause.

I am not neutral,
but I am attentive.

I listen.
I negotiate.
I choose proximity
with care.

What this image reminds me
is that existing in this in-between space
is not weakness-
it is awareness.

This is what it feels like to be me.

This poem came from a moment when I intentionally slowed myself down, when I chose to bear witness instead of rushing, to feel time stretch instead of chasing it. Along the Pacific coast, I let myself live inside awe: watching the waves crash, locals surf with ease and courage, the sky shift through sunrise and sunset. I savored what was there--the salt air, the warmth of fresh fish from the sea, the quiet joy of other people moving naturally in a place they belong. Nature reminded me that I don’t need permission to rest, to take up space, or to exist without proving my usefulness. Even when the day is interrupted, even when something unexpected happens, presence and gratitude remain because we all belong to nature. This poem holds that embodied knowing, rooted in witnessing, coexistence, and a refusal to let the moment, or the day, be taken from me. 

Nature Doesn't Need Permission (Neither Do I)

10/25/2025

I step away from the daily demands
of a life that insists:
if you’re not hustling,
you’re not surviving.

So I go to the Pacific-
to Lovers Point,
where the sunset widens the horizon
until it feels infinite,
like it’s daring me
to dream bigger.

Waves crash unapologetically,
white froth against a crisp blue sky,
loosening something in my chest.
I’m high-
on salt air,
on this view,
on not being needed
for anything at all.

She reminds me
I need no permission
to swell,
to split open against granite cliffs,
to leave pieces of myself
in salt and stone,
and return to this body
I am hosting.

Surfers paddle out-
freakin brave-
sharing the deep with sharks,
moving like time misplaced them.

Here, the only demand
is to witness:
glory,
stillness,
bliss.

Later,
under a crescent moon,
I sit in a white lawn chair to drink
a cup of hot water in my hands
to wash down the fish
still warm in my belly.
Fog smudges the stars,
the night holding me
like it knows my name.

And then in front of me,
a guy steps out
of his cottage room,
walks to the fence
that borders the forest
and pisses.

Just lets it happen.
Steam rising.
His stance,
confidence unwavering.

He doesn’t see me.
I am maybe
four feet away.
Still.
Witnessing.

I try not to laugh :D

Just like I didn’t need permission
to coexist with crashing waves,
he didn’t need mine either-
to empty his body
into the dark.

My thoughts wobble
for a second.
My mood does not.
Neither does my gratitude.

Because some days
refuse to be taken from you,
even when a drunk stranger
is aggressively peeing nearby.

This poem was written after one of the most difficult writing experiences of my life, a required defense of my teaching practices before a personnel committee at an institution I won’t name. It followed being told there was no “curricular need” for me, after I had disrupted expectations in ways I do not regret. It was written during the sweet transition from spring to summer of 2023, while I walked on dried leaves and rested against a tree in my backyard after a long day of mothering, warmed by the sun and held by my children’s laughter. 

Blue moon in my left hand,
a drink to match my mood.
Leaves crunch beneath my feet
as I walk to the rhythm of my melancholy--
thinking:

I’ve never done drugs.
Never smoked.
Never slept around.
But something about
Machine Gun Kelly in my ears
speaks to me.

Maybe
he’s who I would’ve become
if I was a dude.
No excuses.
I could get away
with being a douche.

“I’m a 90s baby,
happiness is an illusion,”
he says.

I’m lost now.
I’m tired now.
Tomorrow will be better,
says my hope.

I look up at the evening sky,
eyes hunting answers.

Why am I here?
Where will I go when I die?
Will my children survive this life?

Life sucks today.

My dilemma is I hear the call to rise.
An angel on my right says:
this is your purpose.

A devil on my left whispers:
let someone else do it.

My heart barks back:

No one loves like me.
No one serves like me.
I am not afraid of the dark.

—

I am an exotic Yemenia
drifting through university hallways
that smell like white paper,
wasted trees
telling their stories.

My complexion,
so beautiful
they say,
until I open my mouth.

She was cute
until she spoke.

They prefer spectatorship
over participation
in critical discourse--
discourse that unsettles.

Comfortable
is what they prefer.

Okay.

Comfortable is what you get.
Stay stagnant,
stale and cement,
to a narrative
that never challenges you
beyond your comfort zone.

Pretend you know,
but never really know.

Let me be,
says my heart.