Some people inherit fortunes.
I inherited vision—
which is far more interesting.
I love the work I do
with a devotion that feels almost mischievous.
Not the kind people dress up for applause,
but the real kind—
the kind that wakes before the body does,
already humming with possibility.
I have built things
from intuition, from ache, from wonder.
From candlelight and conviction.
From prayers whispered over notebooks,
from long nights that smelled faintly
of ambition and shea butter.
And what splendor it is
to love your work so deeply
that even your fatigue glimmers.
I create with glee.
Actual glee.
A word so underused
It practically arrives wearing vintage silk gloves.
There is delight in watching ideas bloom
into something tangible—
a workshop, a page, a fragrance, a gathering,
a sentence so precise
It makes someone sit upright in their loneliness
and feel seen.
That is no small thing.
People often speak of purpose
as though it must be heavy,
as though calling arrives burdened,
wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard.
Mine arrived barefoot, laughing.
And yes, there is elegance in this life—
though not always the polished kind.
Sometimes elegance looks like resilience
with excellent posture.
Sometimes it looks like rebuilding quietly
while the world mistakes your softness for ease.
I admit, I enjoy surprising people.
They see warmth and assume simplicity.
Darling, no.
There are libraries inside me.
Entire oceans with graduate degrees.
Still, I remain playful.
Because humor is intelligence refusing bitterness.
Because joy is its own authority.
I adore beautiful things—
well-written sentences, gold-rimmed teacups,
the smell of jasmine at dusk,
brilliant conversation that lingers longer than dessert.
But nothing compares
to the beauty of meaningful work.
To know your presence can shift a room.
To know your art can loosen grief from the body.
To know your words can escort someone
back to themselves.
What exquisite labor.
And perhaps that is the real luxury:
not idleness, not applause,
But the privilege of pouring your soul
into work that loves you back.
So I continue—
with poise,
with pleasure,
with a sharp pen and an open heart.
Creating.
Healing.
Writing.
Becoming.
And smiling, occasionally,
at those still trying to decide
whether I am too much
or simply unforgettable–
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Healing Majestically 