They came in barefoot,
with hips that remembered thunder,
with mouths full of molasses and machetes,
and said—child, we been waiting on you.
One by one, they circled.
My ancestors.
Haitian queens with gold teeth and grief in their gums,
Balinese midwives with turmeric wrists and coconut prayers,
women who birthed whole revolutions with no epidural,
just breath and salt and belief.
They laughed—loud,
like drums that never apologized.
One lit a cigar.
One snapped her fingers at the sky like it owed her something.
One poured rum on the floor and said,
“She don’t need saving.
She is the salvation.”
Then they touched me.
Anointed my third eye with honey and pepper.
Marked me with oils that smell like the inside of the Earth.
Pointed at my face like it was scripture.
“You.
You’re the healer of this whole damn line.
You are the one who turns curses into curriculums.
You are the balm and the blood.
The medicine and the mouthpiece.
You, baby—
are the embodiment of the entire church,
the whole hospital,
and your soul—
anointed in full.”
And I blinked.
I cried a little.
I checked for a refund policy.
But Spirit don’t do returns.
Only resurrection.
They gave me herbs.
Told me to boil grief with rosemary.
Told me ginger ain’t just for tea—it’s for testimony.
Told me love is a poultice.
Told me my laughter is a lineage.
“Go,” they said.
“Wrap your hands around the roots.
Feed the ghosts mangoes.
Kiss the silence.
Tell every broken woman in your blood that softness survived.”
I tried to say I wasn’t ready.
They said too late.
Said your womb already humming psalms.
Said your eyes already see in seven directions.
Said you got access to holy, baby—
not the Sunday kind.
The kind that rips through shame
and plants God in your collarbone.
I said, “What if I mess it up?”
They threw their heads back,
laughed like thunder splitting the sea—
“You will.
But you’ll still heal it.
That’s how we made you.
Raw.
Radiant.
Reckless with love.”
So here I am,
bathing this bloodline in rosewater and riot,
passing out forgiveness like okra soup,
loving myself until it gets contagious.
You think healing is quiet?
Nah, baby.
Healing is loud.
Healing is holy.
Healing is me,
mid-rebirth,
half-feral,
full-mooned,
laughing in the kitchen,
an ancestor in training
with a turmeric-stained apron
and a third eye that won’t shut up.
Come closer.
I’ll make you a tea
that tastes like truth
and tell you:
you are the miracle they prayed for, too.
Now go be the temple.
You hold the whole altar.
You are the sanctuary—
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Healing Majestically 