I'm testing this thing, since you asked me to

-anonyfamous

because the mess is where my roots stretch,

where my strength shows,

where my growth begins.

I remind myself...

time will keep moving, with or without me.

So I choose to move with it....

not stressed, not pressed,

but present.

Fully here.

Fully now.

I release the need to rush the process.

I claim the beauty of this moment.

I trust that the lesson in front of me

is shaping the blessing ahead of me.

I will not quit before the miracle happens.

I will not shrink before my breakthrough comes.

I will not doubt the greatness rising in me.

This week,

I stand in my power.

I stand in my purpose.

I stand with my people,

and I say...

We are ready!

We are growing!

We are unstoppable!

Fear stands tall,
it whispers of failure,
it builds shadows larger than truth.
But courage answers back—
with steady hands,
with steps that refuse to stop.

To be brave
is to walk into the storm,
eyes open,
knowing the wind may break you
but trusting the fire within
to keep you standing.

Fear will knock—
again and again—
but you are stronger than its voice.
Lift your chin,
clench your fists,
and rise.

For every time you face the darkness,
you prove what fear forgets—
that your spirit
was born to fight,
and born to shine.

They called me lazy, too much, too loud, a mind unquiet, a boy lost in the crowd.

Then came the pills: tiny promises in plastic shells. Some days I floated. Most days I fell.

The silence they gave me was not peace. It was absence. It was grief.

I stared at my homework like it might stare back. But it didn’t. And I didn’t.

Then came dance. Not as cure, but as invitation. No stillness required.

It moved like I moved; chaotic, electric, a rhythm that didn’t punish but welcomed.

I breathed. I belonged. I became.

And still, we treat this as extra. As luxury. As if healing must wear a white coat to be believed.

But science whispers what my body screamed: movement is medicine. Art is architecture for the soul’s repair.

Yet we cut it. Strip it. Dismiss it. As if survival should be standardized.

Not everyone fits the mold. I didn’t. And I’m not alone.

So let’s redraw the blueprint. Let schools be sanctuaries. Let studios be clinics. Let paintbrushes be prescriptions.

Let us stop asking if creativity is enough. Start asking why we ever thought it wasn’t.

Mental health care cannot wait. Creativity is not a luxury. It is survival.

Give yourself grace, for every stumble, for every time you thought of quitting yet kept moving forward, even when your sprint felt heavy.

Yes, there were failures, a marriage that collapsed, friendship that dissolved, relationships that left you bruised. But you did not fold. Even when you wanted to, you chose breath, you chose life, you chose to keep becoming.

Be proud for the mother you are, nurturing through storms. For the sister, who holds the family together in silence. For the daughter, who carries roots with honor. For the friend who still shows up with love despite knowing loss.

Everything you’ve endured every heartbreak, every triumph, every scar has carved the woman who now stands tall, unyielding, unapologetically whole. So, take the roses. Take the grace. And know you are more than enough.

Emotionally Intelligent, they’ve been afraid ever since, I discovered not to let my emotions override my intellect!

Demonized to being demoralized, hurts in ways that lead to self sabotage!

Being gaslighted with this Complex terminology, can be considered an immorality, but this has become a way of the world, in its totality!

They say grass is greener on the other side

But it never implies to reality vibes

Your so shy 

Stutters quiver from the lips 

And your word flips

With a smile each day I pray 

That these failures one day 

Will be my success without stress

So I can say YES!

failures

but look at today and tomorrow 

or the future 

never stay the same from yesterday

Tomorrow is never promised so these things you think is failure 

Is a part of life 

Trust me when I say it you be alright   

I send those who continue to live with failures 

A hug so tight  

And if nobody hasn’t told you in a while

Your doing great let them hate 

Learn to appreciate

 failures 

love your failures 

And love yourself as if you're a prize on the shelf

Because with failure your doing yourself a favor 

To be a leader that battled

failures

But hear me:
You are stronger than you think.
Wiser than you believe.
Keep your mind sharp,
your soul at ease,
because peace inside is power outside.

The world may whisper, quit.
The weight may scream, stop.
But you:
You were not built to break.
You were built to climb,
to fight,
to shine through the dark nights
and remind yourself:

Every stumble was a lesson,
Every scar was a story,
every moment you thought you’d fall apart—
was proof you were still standing.

And when the sun sets,
when the noise fades,
and it’s just you
and the silence of your own truth,
You’ll know this:

At the end of the day,
through the pain,
through the doubt,
through the fire and the storm—

You. Never. Gave. Up.

“I grew up in a toxic household,” she said. “We lived in the projects. I saw drugs, alcohol, violence. I was bullied. I was alone.”

She was four when they moved in. Fourteen when they left. Ten years of trauma. Ten years of silence. No one asked her what she needed. No one asked her what she saw. No one asked her if she was okay.

She met my father at a Portuguese festival. That gave her friends. That gave her breath. But the damage didn’t disappear. It followed her to work, where anxiety and paranoia made her feel small. She sat beside women who talked about vacations she couldn’t afford. She felt invisible. She felt less than.

Then she spoke up. She told them she belonged. She told herself she mattered.

That moment changed her. It changed me.

My mother is Portuguese and Italian. My father is Black. Their stories don’t fit neatly into any textbook. But they shaped me. They shaped how I see systems, silence, and survival. They taught me that storytelling isn’t just personal. It is political.

We are losing stories like theirs every day. Not because they aren’t powerful. Because we stopped asking. We stopped listening. We stopped treating lived experience as knowledge.

Intergenerational storytelling is not a hobby. It is public infrastructure. It is how communities pass down survival strategies, emotional intelligence, and civic memory. It is how we learn what systems erased and what people rebuilt.

These stories are not just personal. They are policy-relevant. They are data.

Yet schools rarely teach oral history. Mental health assessments ignore cultural context. Community programs lack funding to record and preserve these truths. We treat storytelling like nostalgia. That is a mistake.

We need to act.

Educators must assign interviews with elders. Students must transcribe stories and reflect on their meaning. Community leaders must host forums where youth and elders build public memory together. Policymakers must fund oral history programs as mental health and civic engagement strategies. Families must ask questions. Record answers. Share them.

I recorded my mom’s story. Her voice cracked. Her truth didn’t. She taught me to speak up. She taught me to know my worth. She taught me that silence is not strength. She taught me that survival is not healing.

We don’t just inherit trauma. We inherit truth. Let’s make sure it’s heard.

It's scary the first step is a question mark that trembles into your bones. Do it anyway. You deserve the world, every loud, bright pieces. You've spent too long shrinking, apologizing for space.

Take the leap, fall into your own wide sky. Live for you now, fierce, raw, unruffled. Feel everything; joy, aches, terrible beauty, be unapologetic, make your heart the address.

I walk in with skin that speaks before my lips move. Wondering if the room has already written my story because my brown look has lived in a life that always had something to prove. A woman, mother, author, and activist that builds a legacy full of love commitment, and consistent pride, intersectionality is not just a theory that has given me this ride, it’s the mirror I face each morning that shows how power has bent differently because it depended on the powers that be and which side it actually landed on

Some see my voice as too loud, others, not loud enough. They call my passion “anger,” but they never took a look to see what was brewing inside. Their power is called “authority, while mine survives. My pain was already written while they scammed and scheme like “Number 45.” That’s the game in their invisible rulebook, while that’s the imbalance many of our families have already dealt from the innocence they took.

But I am not only what the system labels, it’s the many closed meetings where they kept me from the tables. I am the overlap, the crossroads, and the intersection where survival meets resistance, and where pain grows into power, but not the existence.

Power is not something they hand us—it’s something we claim. It’s in the way I mentor the youth, teaching them that their identities are not weights, but wings. I am carrying generations because histories that never made the textbooks ended up being just memories and daydreams

So when I speak, this voice—my voice is intersection, disruption, power, and healing, but the actions and power sometimes leave me on repeat, but the reason I wrote this poem is so that my body and use of my powers can release these feelings —I speak, I transform, I will not retreat.

I’ve always been known for my ability to manifest goals and follow through with intention. I knew I needed to place myself in an environment that would foster personal growth and surround myself with like-minded individuals.

In July, I committed to running and began treating it as more than just exercise; it became a serious and purposeful hobby. While DJ’n had always been my emotional release, I had distanced myself from it, so I supplemented my journey using physical activity as both a coping mechanism and a tool for transformation.

Running became symbolic, an act of moving away from the pain of the past and toward a stronger, more empowered future.

Then, on July 16th, on my way to work, a profound moment occurred that reaffirmed my path. I spotted David Goggins running through North Attleboro. Without hesitation, I pulled over, ran to the corner of the block, and waited. Out of the shadows, he emerged. As I was walking towards him, crying like a baby, he yelled, “HURRY UP!!” (He was well aware of the moment).

Overcome with emotion, I was unable even to record the moment. As I stood there in tears, I shared with him how much I had been struggling recently and how much this moment meant to me. It was unreal, like I was in a dream, an out-of-body experience I can’t explain unless you’ve been through something similar. He looked me in the eyes and said just two words, “KEEP GOING!!” Just as he came, like a unicorn, running, he quickly disappeared into the shadows. UNREAL.

That moment was more than chance; it was confirmation. Since then, I’ve been moving forward relentlessly, fully committed to growth, discipline, and purpose. Running has opened numerous doors for me, both creatively and socially. It has connected me with a community of intentional, welcoming individuals, and that sense of belonging has had a positive ripple effect across all areas of my life.

From the start of my journey, I was fortunate to meet some incredible people all at once. Each of them advocates for the importance of wellness and welcomed me with open arms and genuine kindness, giving me a sense of belonging at a time when I needed it the most, and I’ve been grateful ever since.

SWEATFEST, back in August, was one of the first events I attended intentionally after my running journey began in late June. After attending, the universe conspired and it led me to meet thousands of people, more notably Darius from Last Lap Boston, CHI Fit, Steve from The Gansett Run Club, Ashley (SWEATFEST), Alicia from Fundati Run Club.

Now, several months later, I've built relationships with those same people, about to run SIX 5Ks before the year is over, and I've partnered with Ashley to DJ the next SWEATFEST on October 5th!!

Life has tested, reshaped, pulled me apart,
Only to piece me back in ways I never thought of.
Growth is not gentle; it does not softly speak,
But crashes through doors with force; unyielding, fierce.

It demands to be reckoned with,
Challenging surrender, urging me to stand.
Lifelong learning isn’t neat, polished, or tidy,
It’s stumbling in darkness, losing direction, clawing back.

Through fire and loss, through silence deafening,
Reflection has been my lifeline, my guiding light.
Stepping outside the shattered moments,
Seeing change in every scar, every crack.

Once I believed growth was impossible,
That I was destined to drown, to stay confined.
But resilience proved stronger than despair,
And I found strength I never knew I had.

In ways I never imagined, I have grown,
From heartbreak, from doubt, from the depths of uncertainty.
Learning that pain isn’t just to endure,
But to embrace, to learn, to become.

College Unbound widened my horizon,
Encouraged me to step outside assumptions,
To see challenge as the foundation for change.
Conversations, mentorship, structured thought.

Lessons etched into my very core,
Not relics of a difficult past, but fuel for my fire.
Shaping how I walk through this world,
How I hold space for others, how i embrace the unknown.

Uncertainty is no longer to fear,
But a doorway to opportunity.
A chance to deepen relationships,
To feel fully, without fear of what may come.

Professionally, I’ll apply curiosity,
Adaptability and self-awareness; never stagnate.
Seeking growth in every challenge,
Knowing each difficulty holds a lesson if I choose to see it.

Academically, I’ll keep an open mind,
Refining perspectives, shaping understanding.
Growth does not pause, it does not slow,
It moves forward, and I will move with it.

No longer afraid of change, I welcome it,
Built stronger by every lesson learned.
Refusing to be defeated,
Knowing the hardest lessons carry the greatest rewards.

This is my path, my ongoing story;
How I continue, how I grow, how I learn;
Ever onward, ever reaching,
Into the future I am shaping with each step.

In this place are sweet little ears, choose carefully what you let them hear.

In this time are gentle little eyes, be careful what you let them spy.

In this space are helpful little hands, carefully choose where you let yours land.

In this life are busy little feet, choose with care the path yours beat.

In this world their futures will amaze, because you have chosen to nurture and engage

By Keyona Cotton 

King. Why do I call you King? What do you mean? Why would you ask such a thing? Should I pull you in my mind and remind you……King

Who. You. Are.

Black.

Proud.

Silent but loud!

Strong.

Fearless.

Resilient.

The step from your walk rolls in beautiful tides,

Confident, you can’t even hide

Your presence is power, and the world feels it

Some embrace, some chase, they try to replace it and the ones in blue try to erase it.

But you still stand through each storm that crosses your path.

Making math, actually math

Knowledgeable.

Creative creator.

Protector.

Leader.

Attractive.

Wise.

Warms his souls inside the comfort of familiar melanin thighs

Emotionally aware and respects the feminine force that enlightens steps, the original crib and rib, he would never forget 

They are the source for him, energy transferred but he reigns it all

King.

You stand tall even if you happen to fall.

You rest, then apply pressure to the test, the King’s work at its best.

Love.

You are love.

We need you.

We see you.

I see you.

We appreciate you.

We are here for you.

We have you.

We honor you.

We believe in you so please stay true.

King, we are proud of you.

Do you know? Now do you see? Who are you? Did you forget again? Well, let me remind you of who. you. are.

You. Are.

King. 

Holidays once were simple, pure, and true,
Not about gadgets or boxes new.
It was about us, in stories shared,
A feeling of belonging, love declared.

My parents worked with hearts so kind,
Gave all they had, love in mind.
Enough to fill the season’s glow,
A quiet grace that made us grow.

But as I’ve grown, I’ve come to see,
That meaning shifts for you and me.
The race for gifts, the endless plans,
Can drown the love we understand.

We chase perfection, lose our way,
Forget the joy in each new day.
Love turns to exhaustion’s ache,
And somehow, we forget to take.

The gift of love, so pure and bright,
Gets lost in stress and restless night.
We give so much, yet forget to see,
The greatest gift is kindness free.

To practice grace is not to hide,
But face the feelings we confide.
To honor grief, to feel the ache,
And still, with gentle hearts, partake.

Gratitude’s not just to count,
But to accept what’s paramount.
The loss, the pain, the quiet tears,
Are part of healing through the years.

This season, I choose kindness, true,
Patience for myself anew.
To love my flaws and let them be,
And trust that I am enough for me.

Sometimes the greatest gift we find,
Is slowing down and being kind.
To love ourselves as we are,
Is how we heal, how we star.

So let this be my holiday's art,
To cherish love within my heart.
To give myself the gift of grace,
And find the magic in this space.

-Marialis Ruiz

In the heart of the garage, where engines sigh and sparks fly,
I stand, a shadow among men, my hands both eager and shy.
The hum of power tools is a language I long to speak,
But doubt coils around my courage, making my knees weak.

Then I grasp my wrench, warm and true,
Its weight is a promise: it believes in me too.
Inscribed along its steel, in letters only I can see:
"You belong. You are capable. You are free."

Each bolt I turn sings of quiet rebellion,
Each engine hums with my own rhythm.
The men glance sideways, doubt flickering in their eyes,
But I am steady, focused, letting skill speak where judgment lies.

This wrench is not just metal it is shield,
It shapes my path, it teaches me
Fear may whisper, “You do not belong,”
But every turn I take proves it wrong.

And when the garage falls silent, engines at rest,
I feel it—the liberation pulsing in my chest.
The tool is mine, yet it is more than mine:
It is the courage to rise, to claim, to shine.

I am not asking permission, I am not seeking their nod,
I am crafting my place, guided by the rod
Of my own resolve, my own vision, my own fire.
This wrench in my hand is my liberation entirely.

On my way, walking through the hard grass, crunchy and brown, down to my place of peace.  Families together, happy as can be. I find myself enjoying a view of children bouncing beach balls, making sandcastles, and splashing in the ocean waves while dipping and diving. The heat from the bright summer sun glistening on my oily skin. The warm sand on my feet is love-hate. Beach blankets are pinned by golden, sun-bleached conch shells that I put to my ear to hear the ocean howl. My cooler is filled with lemonade and rainbow colored fruit salad. The seagulls fly over my sandwich to peck. I look into my bucket filled with seaglass- smooth, turquoise, frosty white, and lime. Cool blue ocean waves call my name, invite me in. I dive under fast for relief from the heat. I now feel refreshed as I wipe my eyes clear and push my hair back from over my face as I walk back to shore. The sand from the blankets and towels blows onto my skin. I am sun-dried and salty, peace at last.

  The final whistle blows as the tall white wooden chairs empty, the bright orange shorts gone, and most families too; their sandcastles vanished. A view of the tiny lights, red, green, and white, speeding by, and sails gliding slowly by, outward bound.  The tide approaches, waves crash, seagrass rustles, and the dark sky is speckled with stars. I gaze up one last time at the glowing summer moon. Summer for me by the Sea.

Day after day, I open the large yellow book titled “ADC Study Guide.” Reading out loud, page by page, hour after hour, over and over. It is filled with complex terms, treatment plans, and medication management to soothe illness and cravings. My head starts to pound slightly at the temples, straining eyes, it's almost too hard to see. My neck is stiff as a board with tension, but I keep reading. My hands are on a piece of paper while I scribble chicken scratch notes. I will most likely question what it reads. Page by page, hour after hour, over and over, I sit anxiously while thinking to myself, just one more page, just one more time. I must pass this exam, I whisper anxiously to myself. I woke so many mornings to the book on my chest, my glasses at the tip of my nose, my pillows stacked behind me. Dark bags beneath my eyes, yawns through each day, while I fight the anxiety on test day. I am back to it, one more page, one more time. The countdown begins, the last seven days, my chest becomes tighter as I read the bright pink stripes throughout each page. It’s almost time, the night before, and I toss and I turn until my rooster Chico Bean crows. 

One last yawn, and I head to the shower to feel the hot water beads relieve all the strain. I dress up business casual for the Proctor to see. 

The Proctor is kind, but by the book. Nerves clattering, brain fried, I just want the exam to start, I am done with this day. Deep breaths provide relief from the tension in my temples and aches in my neck. Now, here it is, multiple choice. I hear my friend's voice as I test along, saying, “ If you don’t know the answer, just select C.” I read aloud, a voice scares me silly, “Lower your voice, please. Talking is not permitted.” I whisper as I keep going along, here I am, Question 150. I select “D, addiction is a disease.” I rush to hit finish, I am done with this.

The screen that reads “ Congratulations! Your preliminary scores indicate you have passed the IC & RC Written Examination.” I  scream, “YES!” I jump up and down! A loud voice comes back on and yells “ Please sit down, you have to exit the exam, to leave the view, or we will have to suspend your exam”  I cry as I say “ I’m sorry I’m sorry” I sat on the seat, bouncing my leg, while I ask how to exit the exam. I push firmly down on the EXIT button. I am as proud as a peacock, and grateful as can be. I now have four letters following my name: Melissa A Barrett, LCDP (Licensed Chemical Dependency Professional).

What I blame
is my willingness to stay
after my spirit started shrinking.

I don’t fault you for being where you were—
confused, listening outward,
trying to keep peace with people
who never had to live with the consequences.

What unsettled me most
was not what you did,
but how easily truth was bent
to keep others comfortable,
how outside voices were allowed to narrate
what only two people ever lived.

I miss you—
but not in the way that abandons me.
I miss what I offered freely,
what I gave without keeping score,
what I poured into you
before I remembered
I was neglecting myself.

I won’t pretend I didn’t see the signs.
I did.
I just chose hope over discernment
and patience over boundaries
longer than I should have.

That part is on me.

I stayed gentle
thinking consistency would grow from it.
I stayed quiet
thinking understanding would follow.
I stayed open
while slowly closing myself.

And I won’t do that again.

If honesty had lived in the room,
this would’ve been different.
If accountability had been invited in,
I might still be standing beside you.

But peace that requires self-erasure
was never meant to be kept.

So I release this without anger.
Without blame.
Without asking you to be different
than who you showed me you were ready to be.

If our paths ever cross again,
it will not be from longing
or nostalgia
or unfinished desire.

It will only be through truth
spoken plainly,
owned fully,
and carried without fear.

Until then,
I choose myself—
not because you failed me,
but because I almost failed myself.

And I won’t do that again.

From Boddegas on every corner and the night never sleeps, Where the Hustle never stops.

I am from Brooklyn, where the boroughs are mixed with different ethnicities on every block. Why leave the city when there's a restaurant for every culture and you can explore the food there. I am from Brooklyn, Better Yet, let’s switch this up.  I am from the 90's where kids grew up on Bubble Jugs, Bubblelicous and used the cable wires to play Double Dutch. 

See, I am from the 90s where graffiti on the trains was considered art. Jumping the turn style taught you how to jump the fence if Five 0 was chasing you. 

See, I am from the 90’s where Chips and Sunflower seeds used to be 25 cents and the little Jug colored Juices were 25 cents where that's all you needed to survive on a hot summer day. I am from the 90’s where every little girl had the pink princess blanket set and bump beds were popular in every crib. I am from the 90's running through the building hallways where our playground. Where kids were able to play and interact with one another without a phone or game. The only game we had was Tag, freeze Tag, Booty Tag and if you were outside misbehaving it was getting that switch tag. I am from the 90’s where families came together on Thanksgiving and Christmas and were excited cuz grandma was cooking.  I am from the 90’s where if you were left in the house while your moms were at work, the house better be cleaned once she got back “and you better not have nobody in my house” was every mom's favorite line. Where pagers, beepers and landlines and pay phones was the way you could only communicate.  

See, I am from the 90’s where everyone was your aunt and uncle and you had tons of play cousins. Where Bengal's, Coogi, coach and 9 west was the era back in the day. I am from the 90's where Flat twist with butterfly clips at the top and the drop curls in the back was every girl's graduation pic. I am from the 90’s where yellow cabs were your transportation and you told the cab driver how much you were going to pay. I am from the 90’s where advertisements on TV were like it’s 10 O'clock. Do you know where your children are? Ads like that made sure that your ass was in the house at that time. I am from the 90’s where single moms struggled but sacrifice was not only for them but their kids too. I am from the 90’s where after homework was done TV shows like Fresh Prince, Martin, The Jamie Fox Show, In the House, Parent Hood and Family Matters was to show you that Family Mattered. 

I am from the 90s where every struggle taught you that IF YOU CAN MAKE IT IN NEW YORK, YOU CAN MAKE IT ANYWHERE… 

Needle spinning wild

Lost between the frost and the fire

Each step I take

Crumbles into shadow

Yet I still wander

Dreaming of a sky

That might recognize me

Tell me who I am

For even a broken compass

Points somewhere

Having way too much fun, I ignore the waves of the ocean.

I apologize for my thumb being green,

for letting what once was a weed grow into a tree,

Now it creates air,

letting fire breath.

Raging with heat as it creates self esteem,

Like arson, we're adding fuel to the flame,

we like to see it grow like a monster out of it's cage, I'm ashamed.

For I walk on the same path of the fire which burned it to ash and I didn't stop to notice all that it destroyed when it passed.

Scorched to the ground,

nothing around,

but the silence of one's self discussion in their mind thinking, "what even started a fire of this kind, and how'd it get so big"? The only answer is a matter of time,

for what brings us together can also divide,

precisely why,

one must learn to be humble and wise and cut the ropes of deception before the ropes tied and locked within lies of envy and pride,

a social economy creating hatred and cries,

wanting to be happy but dying inside,

I'm curious about life and the matter of death

My anxiety is high I'm running out of breath,

and that's at my best or is it my worst?

Never really knowing is a gift and a curse.

Not only by name

I am the love that reasons

I am the compass when direction ceases

I stand where shadows linger

Here the light flickers

When roads split quietly

And no one else is watching

I am

Mother

with shaking hands, finding their voice.

They shared pieces of their lives,

not just projects, but real parts.

Stories of work and long days,

stories of doubt they carried alone.

Stories that slowly found their voice

once they were spoken and known.

And as I sat there listening,

something quiet crossed my mind,

because I once sat in that circle too,

trying to figure out my own life.

College Unbound gave me space

when I didn’t know who I’d be.

A place where learning meant real life,

not just a grade or a degree.

So standing here now as lab faculty

still feels strange some days to me.

I wonder quietly to myself,

am I doing the job they need from me?

But last night my students reminded me

why this work stays in my heart.

It’s not about sounding impressive,

it’s about the courage to stand up and share your part.

This place makes room for people

to try, to question, to begin.

And sometimes the bravest moment

is simply letting others in.

I’m grateful for this community,

for the honesty I see each day.

And for the quiet way my students

teach me while they find their way.

I may stand here as their lab faculty,

but I’m still learning in this circle too.

No, not that one; look farther.  

Do you see it now? No?

Ok, adjust your lens. 

How about now?  

Still no???  

Try wiping the glass.  

Did that help?  

It didn’t help? 

Alright, let me see your scope.  

Hmmm. I don’t understand. 

 I see the star clear as day.  It’s shining so bright!  You’re shining so bright!  

What do I mean that you’re shining so bright?  You’re the star!  You’ve always been a star…you just couldn’t see it.  You can’t see that  you are a star.  

Your shine and your purpose have been hidden by the black holes in life….

The black holes that have held you captive for years with chains of oppression.  

You have finally begun to break free from those chains,

but now you're exhausted from the energy it has taken to do so.

So you need to rest…to recharge…to heal

Give yourself the permission and freedom to let go for a moment.

Let go of the weight that you’ve been carrying.

Let go of the self-doubt and the frustration.

It’s time…

Because it’s your time…

It’s time for you to share the change, be the change, make the change.

Don’t let your moment pass!

Don’t give up on yourself!

Just breathe

Your Mentor,

Deanna

Frankie Beverly’s groove,  

The rhythm ignites,  

My body starts to move.

Beyoncé's spin,  

With a country song blend,  

I feel the freedom,  

Like the world has no end.

Step to the left,  

Slide to the right,  

Pure joy in the air,  

I dance through the night.

No judgment, no rules,  

Just feeling the beat,  

In this moment of bliss,  

I’m dancing on repeat.

Never too much,  

Just too good to stop,  

With every step I take,  

I rise to the top.

Joy in my feet,  

Freedom in my soul,  

Through every movement,  

I’m finally whole.

Electric slide,  

I glide through the sound,  

With rhythm and freedom,  

I’m wobbling all around 

With gold broken pieces in between

Rhode Island said “serve”

So we showed up with nerve

Pretending we weren’t caffeine driven machines

☘️ 🌈 ☕️

But that belief has finally been broken. I am realizing that my story is not a burden but a foundation. My endurance is not a secret to keep but a reminder that something inside me kept moving even when the world tried to shut me down. This mental shift is what led me to create MDR. It did not start as a polished business plan. It started as a lived experience of pain and a desperate need for healing. Long before I had the words for it movement was my only way to find safety.

As a professional dancer I learned that the floor is a canvas and our bodies are the paint. Dance was the only place where I could regulate my nervous system and express the trauma that I could not say out loud. I have turned that instinct into a model for others because I know what it feels like to be at the bottom. I know what it is like to have nothing but your own breath and your own movement to keep you going through the dark. The biggest hurdle was learning to see myself with love. I used to call my survival luck.
I used to minimize the fact that I made it through the fire. But now I see that my strength was earned. I am an artist and I am a leader who deserves good things in this life. I stopped apologizing for my existence and I started honoring the parts of me that I used to be ashamed of. Pride has finally replaced that hollow feeling of not being enough. I bring value into every room I enter because of my truth rather than my titles. My commitment now is to community care.

I want to build spaces where people can breathe and move and finally feel seen. Healing should not be a privilege for a few people. It is a right for every single one of us, turning personal survival into community power.

If you have ever felt like you had to shrink to survive please know that your story has power. You deserve to be here and you deserve to be loved. This is the beginning of our movement together. We are finally standing in the light. It is time to heal. It is time to live. It is time to be whole.

I learned to build a life in the margins

stretching Section 8 walls into a home,

turning welfare lines into lessons,

and carrying my children on one hip

while carrying my future in the other.

People saw limitations.

I learned to see strategy.

Every class I walked into,

every form I filled out,

Every system I had to navigate

I was practicing resistance,

even when I didn’t have the language for it.

I wasn’t supposed to rise.

But I did.

And I’m still rising

not just for me,

But for every woman who’s told

That survival is all she should hope for.

As a young Black single mother on Section 8 and welfare, I lived inside systems that often treated me as a problem instead of a person. That experience shaped how I understand marginality not as a personal failure, but as a position created by policy, stigma, and unequal access to resources. Going to school while raising my children was an act of resistance. It meant refusing to stay in the place society expected me to remain.

Those years taught me that organizing doesn’t always start with a protest or a campaign. Sometimes it starts with one person learning how to navigate systems, advocate for themselves, and imagine something better. My lived experience showed me that power grows in small, everyday acts, such as filling out paperwork, asking questions, showing up to class, and refusing to disappear.

This is the foundation of how I understand social change: the people closest to the struggle often carry the clearest vision for what needs to be transformed.

I’m from Isabela, Puerto Rico,

Isabela ciudad de la cosas buena,

where coquito flows at every fiesta,

I am from where Víctor Manuelle is soundtrack of mi corazón.

De palmas que bailan con el viento de Borikén, from the strength of the Taíno and prayers of mis abuelas, from arroz con gandules and el canto del coquí at night.

I’m from Brooklyn streets, music and grind in my veins, I am from block parties and DJ’s speakers screaming,
“Spread love, it’s the Brooklyn way,” Biggie said. I am from where I rocked my NY fitted low, big hoops swinging,
name chain shining, and the cleanest pair of buttas Timbs laced tight. I’m from the era where once the street lights came on, we had to be home. I am from where we jump fences and ran from the sounds of gunshot. I am from the projects we call Da Manor. I am from Apartment 23.

I am from the boxing ring, where I was taught you’re in the fight by yourself.
I am from where struggle sharpens spirit,
and victory is carved out with your own two hands. I am the daughter of a single mother Sandra, la nieta de Nilsa Lerdo,
I am from strong women who wear their strength and love effortlessly,
raised by a Cape Verdean uncle who taught me to embrace la cultura,
where we greeted each other bon dia, asked Kuma ku bu sta? Sta bom?

I am from where we live by integrity.

I’m the mother of Lyric and Lullaby,
Puerto Rican, Taína, Cape Verdeana De Kora’Son, forever rooted, forever rising.

I am a reflection of every struggle and every celebration, the heartbeat of Borikén drums, Brooklyn beats, and Cape Verdean songs. I am proof that resilience runs in my blood, that love is my inheritance,
and strength is my birthright.

I am the bridge between past and future,
carrying the prayers of my abuelas
and passing them into the hands of my daughters. I am the lesson, the legacy, and the light. I am rooted in history,
rising in purpose,and living proof that I am my ancestors’ wildest dreams.

legs numb

room spinning

chest heavy

My soul is screaming

but all that leaves my mouth is

Lord…

please…

take this feeling from me

I look around

gasping for air

mind racing

a million miles an hour

throat tightening

and all I can think is

I just want to breathe

Say it again

I just want to breathe

I want to run

hide somewhere

this feeling can’t find me

Because lately

everything’s complicated

nothing makes sense

Days don’t feel like days anymore

they blur

into weeks

into moments I can’t even remember

What did I do yesterday

Come on Sabrina

what’s wrong with you

That voice

loud

constant

in my head

But outside

you’re doing great

keep pushing

look at everything you’ve accomplished

Accomplished what

I can’t even remember the moments

I’m just… here

existing

gliding through life

numb

And my kids…

my kids

they’re missing me

me

Not the version of me trying to hold it together

not the version smiling through it

they’re missing me

And I hate that

Because I’m not her

I’m not the mom I’m supposed to be

And just like that

here we go again

throat closing

legs going numb

say it with me

I just want to breathe

Phone rings

and for a second

just a second

the world goes quiet

I think

maybe I can escape

Hello

But no

voices

loud

demanding

I need this

I need that

you can’t do that

well I hate you

don’t talk to me

you’re so messed up

you’re really that much of a bum

what kind of family are you

you’re selfish

And I shrink

but I still say

okay

let me see what I can do

give me a minute

Because that’s what I do

I carry

I fix

I hold

I add it all

to a list

that never ends

Ten thousand

and one

things

And somewhere in between

all of that

I lose

me

And still

I just want to breathe

I want to run

and never look back

I crave silence

real silence

the kind that doesn’t judge

the kind that doesn’t ask for anything

Another day like this

and I might lose myself

I feel stuck

I’m tired

of me

And if I feel this way

I know how I sound

I’m sorry I forgot

I’m just tired

They hear excuses

They think

here she goes again

But they don’t feel

this

Ugh…

I’m tired of this hard life

I just want to breathe

Y’all

I can’t even breathe

Feels like life is slipping through my hands

and no matter how hard I reach

I can’t catch it Here we go again

throat closing

legs numb

room spinning

What do I do

How do I get away from this

How do I organize a life

that won’t even slow down

long enough

for me

to live it

Help……

But listen

really listen

Nobody hears the silence

between my words

Nobody feels

how loud it gets

in here

So I stand in it

shaking

overwhelmed

tired

and I realize

this feeling

it comes

it takes

it tries to drown me

but it does not

get to finish me

Say that again

it does not

get to finish me

Not today

Not while my kids still call my name

Not while there is breath

still fighting

through my chest

So even if it’s broken

even if it’s uneven

even if it sounds like I’m losing

I pull in air

like it belongs to me

Because it does

And I am still here

not perfect

not okay

not put together

but breathing

Pause

Feel that

Breathing

And right now

that breath

that one breath

is proof

I didn’t break

I bent

I shook

I almost lost it

but I’m still here

And as long as I’m still breathing

I’m still fighting

So say it with me

I just want to breathe

Now say it like you mean it

I am still breathing.

Some always look for the sun

While others drink and maybe even do drugs Just to see a brighter day

Forgetting that it’s a blessing to know pain

It makes you appreciate the storm and the rain

When you feel the bright light shine

Right through your soul like a window pane

No matter how low or desperate I get

I will never let the Devil completely steal my Faith

He might try to send his Demons

But I will always put up a fight

All I need is Faith the size of a Mustard Seed

To One Day Get It Right