How Many Hot Takes Does it Take?

My journey into content creation started during the pandemic. Like a lot of folks, I was bored—bored in the house, and in the house bored—but also, I was working as a teaching artist. I was trying to reach my students, and I knew a lot of young people were using TikTok. I didn’t buy into the whole “TikTok is just dancing” narrative (and even if it was at the time—why are we devaluing dancing?!). So I started an account, started having fun making silly skits, and pretty quickly realized: there’s actually some really complex content being shared.

Like, imagine you’re studying gender theory at Berkeley and you decide to open up your syllabus in the library, share an important theory, ultimately breaking down information that’s not readily accessible in a two-minute video, which now has one hundred thousand views. Or imagine someone sharing obscure facts about Black American history like maroon societies in the United States. There was radical, leftist political discourse happening on the clock app, in bite-sized, digestible chunks. It blew my mind. You see, there’s something magical about repetition (people in marketing would argue it’s the closest thing we have to a spell). Don’t understand what’s being said in the first take? Watch it twenty more times. Let it sink in. And artists were thriving on TikTok too—musicians were using the platform not just to showcase their songs but to show who they are. It’s not just “make the art and let it speak for itself.” Now, people want to connect with you, the artist. Some people find that annoying: “Ugh, I have to be on camera?” But honestly? You kind of need to have a personality. And luckily, I do.

Now, I never made a ton of money from content creation. But creating content for two years opened the door to a whole new career path for me—in communications and narrative strategy. I cracked the code of virality as well. I learned how to take complex ideas and distill them into something relatable and easy to understand. That’s made me part educator, part artist, part strategist. And it worked. I now have a salaried position, something I haven’t had for about a decade.

But here’s the thing: the content creation world remains precarious, especially for Black creators, queer folks, disabled people, femmes—basically anyone already marginalized within Racial Capitalism. You see brilliant content every day, and a lot of those folks aren’t making a living wage. Some are basically working full-time hours online, for free or close to it.

And why? Because people don’t trust traditional media like they used to. That’s not always a bad thing—it’s just a shift. But it means more and more people are turning to creators, like me, for commentary and education. I never call myself a journalist—I’m not trying to be impartial. I’m a narrative strategist, with a particular opinion and purpose when I post. People come to me for my take, because they trust it. And I take that trust seriously. Still, it can be a really lonely endeavor. Not many of my IRL friends are content creators, so a lot of what happens online just doesn’t translate to my day-to-day social life. Which, on one hand, I’m grateful for—I’m glad my friends aren’t chronically online like I am lol. But it can still feel isolating.

And like many jobs I’ve had, making content feels like care work. And care work is always undervalued. People think it’s easy to turn on a camera and say something impactful. But it’s not. I’ve made thousands of videos at this point. That’s how I got good. People don’t always recognize the skill it takes to do media work well—to be a one-person media outlet. I don’t have a team. No editor, no fact-checker, no teleprompter, even. It’s just me, myself and I. And the pressure to stay informed, to keep creating each day, to stay relevant—it’s exhausting.

I’ve made a commitment: my mental health comes first. Always.

A couple of years ago, I went super viral. Like, billions of clicks and shares level engagement viral. My video ended up in a documentary, on a game show, and my likeness was used by major companies. But guess what? I didn’t make a single cent. Because it was a “stitch,” and apparently you can’t monetize those. And I had no idea. I didn’t have a manager, and I didn’t know the rules of the game. And that’s the reality for so many of us—we’re figuring it out as we go, with no roadmap and no support.

But you know what I did when that video went viral? I logged off. I was planning on going to South America and I decided to visit Machu Picchu. I was like, “Y’all can go crazy in the comments—I’m touching sacred grass at one of the wonders of the world.”

So here’s my takeaway: If you’re a content creator or even just someone who goes online a lot, prioritize your mental health. This kind of new media work is valuable. It’s also draining. And the system doesn’t always reward the people doing the most meaningful labor. But we still do it—because we care, because we have something to say, and because people are listening. But who knows what the future holds. We have to be ready to shift. Like, maybe Gen Alpha will abandon their phones and social media entirely, opting to go back to the pre-internet age. The era of old. What will you do then? Just be sure you’re ready to log off without going tf off.

Now, I was laying on the couch, no pants, with my laptop camera off—mind you. But these words spoke to me because I feel like I’m fumbling through the forest these days. I’m seasonally depressed. Who isn’t? I’m having trouble enjoying things—which I have no problem over-intellectualizing. It’s called anhedonia, everyone. Your welcome. And listening to music is supposed to help.

Regardless, experiencing high-functioning depression is a doozy. It means breezing past to-do lists in a state of numbness. It’s scary—scary when things are changing, scary when there’s so much uncertainty in this country. But that’s the life of Reagan-Era baby, and I’m glad I don’t have to go at it alone. One of the breakthroughs I had was realizing how much pressure I put on myself. No, really. I need to work on that. I need to go lay down somewhere, so I can mid life crisis in peace.

Instead, I do the most. I performed in a comedy show recently, and the morning after, I flew to across the country to Boston for the weekend for a retreat. Around the same time, a horrible tropical storm called Hurricane Melissa hit Jamaica. I was concerned for my family for a few days—thankfully, they turned out to be okay. Still, I had a panic attack on the plane. I hid it by weeping in the cramped bathroom. I’ll probably use this material in my next self-deprecating comedy set. I swear I’m not trauma dumping right now. I have a point, I promise.

The point is, however it may look on the outside, I’m actually all up in the forest right now. Deep in it.

It’s frightening, difficult, but also full of necessary truths I’ve been avoiding. I’m facing things I’ve suppressed for a long time—like how much PTSD I have from being an artist for so many years, especially as a musician. There’s been more than a handful of betrayals (self betrayals mostly), years I struggled under debilitating debt (still do), times when being my weirdo-self felt like an uphill battle. I’ve felt the need to suppress my creative and visionary side. Contorting into boxes is no bueno. I’ve felt misunderstood for much of my life. That’s pretty heartbreaking stuff. It’s okay for me to say that my heart is broken—it hurts—and it’s okay to grieve. All of this is Ronald Reagan’s fault though. He’s directly responsible.

Silver linings? Always. Zohran Mamdani won in NYC and I recently went to Día de los Muertos in the Fruitvale and the Mission. It was beautiful to be there—it’s my favorite holiday—and I was again reminded that grief is hella complex. I’ve even written about this truth over and over. I fail to take my own advice though. Again, grief isn’t mere sadness. Grief is rage, it’s a punch line, a celebration, it can be transcendence and years of longing. I guess that’s why Zora Neale Hurston said “there are years that ask questions and there years that answer.”

When Hurricane Melissa was barreling towards Jamaica, I transcended my physical state while thousands of feet in the sky. Suddenly I could see my auntie, the tiny wrinkles on her face, her church hats, her cement house and pitch black hurricane laden clouds overhead. The uncertainty about how I’d live without her, how to prepare for that possibility, filled me with grief—but love too. Isn’t it wonderful to love people so deeply? It requires such vulnerability.

As I write this millions of Americans are at risk of losing SNAP benefits, ICE raids are still ripping families apart, everywhere you look there’s suffering. How are we supposed to respond? If you’re in one of the stages of grief then that’s fine. Grief is powerful; it lives in the marrow of our bones, it can even become part of our DNA. It doesn’t have to mean, “shit, now I’m traumatized forever.” Grief is part of being fully alive. Even in a utopian world, people would still die, accidents would still happen. So the questions become: how to respond and how to shift?

And nowadays, one of the shifts I’m working toward is trusting my visions. I’m learning to ask the universe for what I want, to take steps that fill my own cup, to act with intention rather than out of obligation. I’m trying to reconnect with desire, with meaning. I’ve realized I carry deep wounds around unworthiness—wounds I thought I could pressure myself out of feeling. But that’s not how life works, honey. Go figure.

I don’t have all the answers yet, but I feel good about where I’m at. I’m content with feeling hard things. I’m finding my mid-life crisis forest. I imagine it to be dense, the leaves have changed to fall colors and the canopy is blood-red, tangerine and even fuchsia. Plants are decomposing, but all the roots of the trees are buzzing with information. They’re communicating, telling ancient secrets. Meanwhile, I’m using my wild imagination to walk through this wilderness. Sometimes I become a sloth on a branch. Other times the weeping willows embrace me with their limbs.

“You found us,” they say.

Thank goodness.

By the way, these are incomplete thoughts, but they’re the beginning of something deeper that I’d like to explore…

First and foremost, I want to share that I believe deeply in the power of love, compassion, and repair. I am an abolitionist. That means I’m committed to building a world where compassion is not the exception, but the norm. I’m equally committed to pushing back against the growing ideology that normalizes apathy and even cruelty. It is wise to center the voices of those who are most impacted by the rhetoric that Charlie Kirk spread at this time.

Short Video: Monique, BlackbeltBabe

The Politics of “Anti-Empathy”

As the Trump administration positions Kirk as a martyr of sorts, many find it hard to have sorrow. The cruel irony is Kirk himself ridiculed empathy. He dismissed it as a “new age concept” that weakens logic, framing it as a “dangerous” liberal trap. His words weren’t random. His rhetoric was designed to appeal to young men, particularly Gen Z and Gen Alpha, who are increasingly leaning conservative compared to their female peers. By redefining empathy as weakness and elevating cruelty as strength, Kirk built a cultural code. It wasn’t just vapid; it was strategic. It numbed his audience to suffering while fostering an identity rooted in outdated and hyper-masculine ideals. His playbook also served as a money making machine, capitalizing off of the despair of impressionable, lonely adolescents.

But to relegate these ideas and ideological strategies to the far right is naïve. Even in cities considered liberal, such as San Francisco, Seattle, Los Angeles, I’ve noticed the erosion of empathy. For decades, these places nurtured a culture that recognized poverty, addiction, and homelessness as systemic issues, not personal failings. We knew the rent was too damn high. We knew addiction was a kind of quicksand. We knew many unhoused people came out of foster care, or were escaping domestic abuse, or worse. Whereas sympathy is often thought of as paternalistic—a looking down on someone else in pity—empathy acknowledges our inextricable connection as humans.

And yet, in the past three years, I’ve noticed a coordinated push to harden public opinion—to prepare people for more cruelty. Political consultants like Sam Singer, and elusive social media accounts like Bay Area State of Mind, saturated feeds with images of theft and sideshows. These posts disproportionately showcased Black and brown youth and equated property damage with physical violence.

The result? Even lifelong Oaklanders started to feel their city was more dangerous than ever, despite the reality: violent crime has dropped significantly in cities like Oakland, Chicago, and Baltimore. The perception of danger, constantly stoked, became more powerful than the truth. People stopped walking in their neighborhood. Everyone spoke poorly of Oakland. We lost trust in our community, even coming out to vote against then mayor Sheng Thao. Folks began to cling to the idea of more police, prisons and tougher sentences as a solution (even though the United States incarcerates more people per capita than any other wealthy nation on earth, and yet we’re one of the most violent nations).

Which brings me back to Kirk.

His final words were about gang violence, framed in contrast to mass shootings in the U.S. overall. This wasn’t accidental. Instead, it was another rhetorical attempt to redirect legitimate alarm about our gun violence crisis toward people of color in inner cities, while minimizing the very real threat of white supremacist mass shootings.

These logics (conflating property damage in expensive cities with bodily harm or conflating marginalized communities with danger) are warped. They destroy empathy, making cruelty seem more rational. Maybe it’s time to stop platforming them all together. Maybe we should sunset debate bro culture, especially if we’re “debating” hate speech.

Short Video: Imani Barbarin, crutches_and_spice

Why This Matters to Me

I’ve been experimenting for months with ways to write about these connections between creativity/art and leftist organizing.

The right has been wildly successful in building a base with their stories, their codes for how to be “a real man,” and we on the left need to get better at educating the public, especially young people.

This isn’t abstract for me. I spent nearly a decade working with incarcerated youth, mostly Black, brown, and poor white boys, who had both experienced and caused harm. When their struggles were ignored, it set the stage for the broader cultural crisis we’re in now.

And now, we have figures like Kirk, amplified by debate culture, spreading ideologies that should never have a megaphone. And those ideologies don’t disappear just because of Kirk’s killing.

The Task Ahead

If cruelty can be normalized through language, then compassion can too. If rhetoric can numb us, then art and organizing can reawaken us. Words matter—but only if they’re tied to the deeper work of repairing, educating, and organizing for a world rooted in justice and care.

It isn’t linear. It isn’t polished.

This post springs from a desire to share insights poets—and being a poet—have revealed about abandoning perfectionism in pursuit of artistic and political liberation.

First off, perfectionism is different from precision or expertise.

Of course we should strive for excellence, but we shouldn’t let perfect take the place of good enough—for now.

How do you know you’re being plagued by perfectionism?

Perfectionism—or the angsty, suffocating feeling of not-enough-ness—is tangled up in oppressive systems of ableism, hetero-patriarchy, and white supremacy.

We know this because ultra wealthy white men are considered standard (and allowed) to just show up as they are. Meanwhile, the rest of us are expected to over-perform and aim for impossible standards.

Perfectionism is essentially a form of self-policing.

Feeling not smart, professional, poised, experienced, capable—enough? Constantly nitpicking your ideas, insights, expertise and abilities? Are you searching for flaws before you seek strengths?

That inner cop—you’ve got to abolish him, too.

But how do we do that? Sometimes it requires what can initially feel like a delusional level of confidence. I’ll reference more on that later though.

In the meantime, here’s the truth: you’re probably going to make crappy art before you make incredible art. And that’s okay. The same goes for organizing. You’re probably going to mess up. Conflicts will undoubtably arise and you’ll learn. That’s not failure. That’s part of the process. But you need to start the process somewhere.

You need room for improvisation and the confidence to experiment. That openness is what keeps creativity—and movements—alive.

In organizing, perfectionism can water down your message. It can cause you to stall, to overcomplicate things that need to be made clear. And simplifying complex issues? That’s not easy. It takes emotional labor, and it takes trust, in yourself and in your comrades. Trust that if we fall, we can pick each other back up and keep moving.

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Back to my thoughts on harnessing confidence to combat the pitfalls of perfectionism.

I’m a poet but I also have a background as a rapper, MC or hip-hop lyricist. I’ll use these terms interchangeably.

Hip-hop lyricism has roots in Black American and Caribbean braggadocio. Now, bragging isn’t particularly unique if you already have power. But if you’re oppressed, harnessing confidence can be a matter of life and death.

Nikki Giovanni’s below poem, Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why) was penned in the late 60’s, but you could argue it is the genesis of the hip-hop lyricist. Read and or listen to the poem. What lines stick out to you? What do you notice?

Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why)
Nikki Giovanni, 1968

I was born in the congo
I walked to the fertile crescent and built
    the sphinx
I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
    that only glows every one hundred years falls
    into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad

I sat on the throne
    drinking nectar with allah
I got hot and sent an ice age to europe
    to cool my thirst
My oldest daughter is nefertiti
    the tears from my birth pains
    created the nile
I am a beautiful woman

I gazed on the forest and burned
    out the sahara desert
    with a packet of goat’s meat
    and a change of clothes
I crossed it in two hours
I am a gazelle so swift
    so swift you can’t catch me

    For a birthday present when he was three
I gave my son hannibal an elephant
    He gave me rome for mother’s day
My strength flows ever on

My son noah built new/ark and
I stood proudly at the helm
    as we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into myself and was
    jesus
    men intone my loving name
    All praises All praises
I am the one who would save

I sowed diamonds in my back yard
My bowels deliver uranium
    the filings from my fingernails are
    semi-precious jewels
    On a trip north
I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the arab world
I am so hip even my errors are correct
I sailed west to reach east and had to round off
    the earth as I went
    The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid
    across three continents

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended
    except by my permission

I mean . . . I . . . can fly
    like a bird in the sky . . .

Hip hop lyricism taught me to channel the confidence I needed—not just to write razor-sharp rap bars or rock a crowd—but to move through the world like a warrior.

I have those skills forever. They’ll always be a part of me.

Now let’s explore one line in particular: “EVEN MY ERRORS ARE CORRECT.”

This is a mantra that I repeat to myself from time to time.

I was diagnosed with dyslexia in fourth grade. I’m no stranger to grammatical mistakes, to being a slow reader and struggling to grasp concepts that neurotypical folks breeze past.

The above Nikki Giovanni line, “even my errors are correct” resonates with me for two main reasons:

1.) It eludes to the ways in which errors can actually birth entire genres and sub genres of music (hip-hop was created when DJ Kool Herc looped the break on a record. Was it a mistake that actually worked? Perhaps.) What may, at first, seem like grave errors can beckon new ways of being, new words and ideas too.

2.) Now, consider this: what if your entire existence is perceived as a “mistake.”

What if no matter how perfect you try to be—the perfect mom, the perfect partner, the perfect organizer, the perfect worker—you can never measure up? That’s exactly what it feels like to exist in a world where systems of oppression dictate our futures.

Giovanni flips the script and embraces being infinitely “correct.” Is it delusional? Yes. Is it a helpful exercise in a world where some of us are set up to fail? Also, yes.

What’s the complete opposite of self policing perfectionism?

I’d say an exaggerated sense of self. So, big up yuhself with hyperbole.

Writing Prompt: If You Choose to Accept it:

A hyperbole is an extreme exaggeration used to make a point. It’s the opposite of an understatement. The word hyperbole actually comes from a Greek word meaning “excess.”

So, whereas a metaphor might be dramatic, a hyperbole takes the cake.

Simile: The lake is like glass.

Metaphor: The lake is pure peace.

Hyperbole: The lake was so still and clear that you could see through it down to the center of the earth.

More Hyperbole Examples:

• I’m dying of shame!

• His coat was so big he was swimming in it.

• That man is as tall as a house.

• I read this book at least a hundred times.

• You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Now, apply a hyperbole to yourself. Brainstorm some of your skills. Next, be over the top! Boast like you’ve never boasted before.

Try these sentence starters—

• I am so hip, even my errors are correct…

• I am so ethereal…

• I am so stunning…

• I am so beautiful…

• I am so capable…

• I am so loving, so righteous, so compassionate…

• I am as brilliant as…as wise as…as brave as…

As the student debt crisis continues to burn with the heat of a thousand dumpster fires, I thought it might be time to reach out to my fellow Debt Collective artist, comrade and co-student-debtor extraordinaire. For inspo, of course.

So, I compiled some inquires, scheduled a zoom & sat down to talk with Shamell Bell.

Was this episode supposed to be a video interview? Yes. Did Mercury Retrograde ruin the recording? Of course it did. Did we still make it happen? Absolutely. Because that’s what artists and organizers do—we improvise, adapt, and co-create in real time.

This convo with Dr. Shamell Bell is one of the most layered, heartfelt, and visionary ones I’ve had!

More About Dr. Shamell Bell

A mother, choreographer, street dance activist, community organizer, filmmaker, educator, and proud native of South Central Los Angeles, Shamell holds titles like Visionary Escalator at the Debt Collective and Radical Joy Advisor—titles she imagined for herself because no existing role quite captured the multidimensional magic she brings.

We talked art, debt and liberation. Enjoy!

Maddy: Hi Shamell! Can you start by telling us a bit about yourself?

Shamell Bell: I’m a dancer, a community organizer, and a mother. Street dance is my medium. I call myself the Visionary Instigator of Street Dance Activism, because I’m using movement as a vehicle for liberation. I also work in documentary film and focus on how street dance in South Central L.A. functions as a tool for mobilization.

Maddy Clifford: Tell us about your creative, revolutionary muses?

Shamell Bell: Well, I’m newly late-diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder—Level One. And that helped me understand something about myself: that what I thought were just strong interests or quirks—like my obsession with Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis—are actually special interests. My brain is my muse. It can pick out producers in music almost instantly. I’m polyphonic. I hear layers in songs that most folks don’t catch. I can trace sonic lineage. “Can You Stand the Rain” unlocked something in me. I can hear a sample of that song in seconds! It’s how I realized my brain processes the world through rhythm.

Maddy Clifford: That’s incredible! And I feel that love for sound and story in everything you do.

Shamell Bell: Another one of my muses is Robin D.G. Kelley. I met him as my undergraduate professor at USC. While someone was giving a presentation on krump, they happened to show a scene from the dance documentary, “Rize,” where I appeared in the “stripper dance” section. I was so embarrassed, hiding under the table, and Robin looked at me and said, “Wait… is that you?” (laughs)

The next day, he told me, “You’re going to research your own people.” That changed my life. He began my PhD journey. His book “Freedom Dreams: The Black Radical Imagination” cracked my mind open—and now, 20 years later, there’s a section in the new edition where he names me as someone who helped collective freedom-dream. That’s full circle.

As a choreographer, I put imagination into action. Dreaming isn’t abstract for me. When you choreograph, you count it out—“5, 6, 7, 8”—and then you move together. That’s how I see collective dreaming. It’s embodied. It’s real.

Maddy Clifford: That’s so powerful and I’m glad you brought up Freedom Dreams. That book changed how I understand the Black radical tradition, too. We often forget how important creativity and spirituality are in movement spaces. People love to talk strategy, but who’s talking about vision? About why we keep going?

We talked offline about Nat Turner receiving vision through the eclipse. Harriet Tubman being led by dreams. These weren’t metaphors—these were impetuses towards serious political acts.

Shamell Bell: Let me just say that Harriet Tubman is one of my revolutionary ancestors. She understood that freedom already existed. She tapped into it and pulled it forward. That’s why I also identify as a quantum activist.

I bring that into organizing spaces through somatic practice, breathwork, movement and healing. Because we can’t build long-term movements if we’re not moving that rage through our bodies. If we don’t alchemize grief, trauma, and burnout, we stay stuck.

That’s why I love what we’re doing with the Debt Collective. Our monthly somatic workshops are about naming shame—calling out the emotional weight we’ve been forced to carry—and then transforming it through breath and ritual. We’ve had sound bowl healers, breathwork leaders like Athena Blue, and collective visioning circles. We’re creating sacred, actionable space in a movement that’s often seen as just economic.

Maddy Clifford: Thank you for bringing us back to how we know one another—through our organizing around debt abolition. One of the most revolutionary things we do at the Debt Collective is talk openly about owning banks, creditors and the federal government. The cathartic process of talking seems very simple, but it truly changes you.

I owe over $100,000 in student loans. Saying that out loud used to feel terrifying. Now? It feels freeing.

Because once I name it, other people do too. It kind of gives them permission. Sometimes it feels like relief to share how much we owe. Sometimes people feel a sense of collective rage. And it all makes sense because debt is older than money. Debt isn’t just financial—it’s spiritual. The ruling class wants us to feel ashamed for trying to survive and thrive. But the truth is: this whole system is guilty as hell, not us.

Shamell Bell: Exactly. People assume I racked up $250,000 in debt simply for school. But I had scholarships. I was a Teaching Assistant. I hustled. The debt didn’t come from tuition. It came from housing, food, healthcare. It came from survival.

Even with a PhD—from UCLA’s World Arts and Cultures program—I’ve faced job insecurity. Academia can be a system of hazing, especially for Black women. I was lecturing at Dartmouth, at Harvard, but now? I’m not teaching at all. I’m fighting to access Medicaid. And still, people question whether I “needed” that degree.

Let me say this loud: I absolutely needed that degree. It was never about status. It was about access, about purpose. About breaking through the barriers that were never designed for us to pass.

Maddy Clifford: I resonate with what you’re saying and want to remind folks to sign up for your workshops to experience somatic healing. All of Debt Collective’s workshops can be found here.

You’ve dropped a lot of wisdom Shamell, and I want to close by asking you this:

What advice do you have for young artists?

Those just finding their voice.

Those navigating their dreams and their fears.

What do you want them to know?

Shamell Bell: I always think of that iconic Allen Iverson clip: “Practice? Not the game. Practice?” (laughs) It became a meme, but it’s real.

Because practice is everything. It sharpens your craft. It builds your confidence. It keeps you connected to your why.

And in this social media world where everything is immediate and polished and filtered, I want young artists to remember: mastery takes time. Don’t skip the messy middle. Don’t lose your joy chasing someone else’s algorithm.

And don’t lose your integrity. Your creativity is sacred.

There’s never been a social movement without art. Never.
Art is how we dream together. It’s how we survive. So when people tell you that your art degree doesn’t matter, or your creative gifts aren’t practical—just know: they’re powerful. And they’re essential.

We need artists who can see the world we haven’t built yet. We need you. You might be holding the answer we’ve been waiting for.

And finally—collaborate. Find your crew. Build collectives. Make life with your people. My work—from street dance activism to film to education—has always been collective.

We do this together.

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Let’s start with a quick refresher.

To sum it up, extinction bursts occur when a maladaptive behavior suddenly increases in frequency or intensity just before it begins to fade or change. Think of it as the behavior’s final flare-up before something new takes hold.

I used toddlers as an example. If you’ve ever been around a toddler, you know the drill. They often cry, they scream, they throw themselves on the floor. It’s all very dramatic.

During that important stage, they’re learning how to express themselves. Crying was once their default way to communicate a need, when they were infants. If you’re a parent or caregiver trying to help them learn better ways to get their needs met, you might stop responding to the crying in the same ways, with immediate solutions.

When you change your response, things tend to get worse before they get better. The crying increases. The tantrums become more intense. You find yourself in the middle of an earth shattering meltdown at the grocery store.

But that escalation is part of the process. It’s the extinction burst. And if you can stay consistent and patient, the behavior starts to shift. The child learns they can get their needs met in new ways. They grow.

The Collective Extinction Burst: Fascism

Right now in the U.S., we’re experiencing a dangerous increase in authoritarian laws, behavior, and violence. None of this is random. It’s the result of deeply rooted systems of oppression that have been failing us for a long time — white supremacy, misogyny, ableism and capitalism. If the United States were a toddler (which it very well might be since it isn’t an ancient country by any means) it would be grappling with wanting to change, but being clawed back into maladaptive behavior patterns.

And let’s be real. The consequences are severe. People are losing their lives. Communities are being terrorized, locked in cages. The fear is real, and the harm is undeniable.

But here’s what I believe. This level of intensity might be a sign that good things are on the way too. We are pushing against systems that have existed for centuries, and just like a kid throwing a last, loud tantrum, those systems are fighting to stay intrenched. We can’t give in now, or ever.

(Again, I’m not comparing toddlers to fascists. That would be disrespectful to toddlers.)

Remember when organizers said things like:

• No human being is illegal — and the reaction was that the phrase was “woke”?

• Abolish the police — and people recoiled, thinking it was too radical?

• Defund the police — how did even this phrase cause outrage?

Now we’re seeing the consequences of playing it safe. The Big Disaster Bill that just got passed, the one that funnels even more money into policing and immigration enforcement, shows that the government always had the ability to work for and by the people—it just doesn’t want to.

Those in power chose violence. They chose control. But that also means the people were even more readily choose something different. We could fund care. We could invest in housing, healthcare, education, mental health support, and programs that actually keep people safe. The new world struggles to be born, and yet, change is inevitable.

Is There Hope?

Yes. More people are waking up. More people are questioning the system. They are realizing that business as usual is not good enough anymore. It never was.

Angela Davis once said that radicals grasp things at the root. That is what we have to do. We need to dig up the roots of all the structures causing harm. Only then can something better grow in their place.

So if everything feels like it is getting worse right now, think of it as an extinction burst. That intensity might be the sign that the old system is cracking.

Change is possible, but only if we don’t give up.

Writing Prompt: If you choose to accept it.

“Radical simply means grasping at the root.” - Angela Davis

Write about the metaphorical roots you must grasp onto and pull up, so they don’t poison the soil of life?

Examples: limiting beliefs, anti-Blackness, internalized misogyny, etc.

What will you do now that you’ve gotten ahold of the truth? How will it change you?

Ultimately, I believe we’re in a political moment that requires us to seriously consider the power of creativity in organizing.

(Zohran Mamdani aka Young Cardamon poses w/ Madhur Jaffrey for his song, Nani)

I recently wrote a piece for Hammer & Hope that fleshes out a framework around this idea. In the piece, I explore the overlap between the process of art-making and the process of political organizing.

For those who don’t know, Young Cardamon was Zohran Mamdani’s rapper-name. Side note: I can relate to creating an artistic alias. I went by the moniker madlines (and still do on some of my social media profiles), which I’ve discussed in previous podcast episodes. The first thing to think about is how misunderstood and devalued the arts are in the United States. I have on-the-ground experience with this as an arts-educator for over ten years.

When I worked in schools or afterschool programs, administrators often focused solely on the final performance or publication. It was frustrating because, to me, it screamed talent show as opposed to educating to liberate. Standard educational modalities, like, for example, the banking model of education, treat students like products and art as an afterthought to beautify the “hard sciences.”

But the real transformation I saw? That happened through facilitation—during conversations, creative risks, mutual support, and the development of young people's ability to imagine beyond material constraints. In essence, it didn’t matter to me whether or not a student decided they’d become a poet, a writer or a performer. I’d help prepare them to create their best work of course, but who cares if they forgot their lines or wrote their first poem, which was full of clichés. This was a process to me. What mattered was if they stretched their emotional intelligence, gained valuable literacy and public speaking skills, built genuine community with classmates and gained confidence. That same spirit is crucial in movement work.

This is a movement, not a moment. We’re undoubtably in a disparaging, difficult political landscape right now. Many believed wins were impossible. Yet, Zohran’s campaign showed that there are cracks and openings for mass education and organizing. I highlight this in my essay: the process of politicizing people is crucial, necessary work, whether or not we gain a tangible political win or not.

Rapper’s Delight, Rigorous Creativity

Let’s talk about Zohran’s artistic background. I’m not sure if he explicitly identifies as a producer/rapper anymore, but his upbringing certainly immersed him in multidisciplinary arts. His mother, Mira Nair, is a groundbreaking South Asian filmmaker known for telling powerful stories through films like Monsoon Wedding and Mississippi Masala. Zohran himself has collaborated on her creative projects, including music videos—one of which featured Lupita Nyong’o. While some poked fun at this, I see it as a meaningful cross-cultural moment. Who cares if his raps were a little cheesy. That was kind of the point. In addition, Zohran’s father, Mahmood Mamdani, is an academic who specializes in colonial, post colonial, African and international politics at Columbia University. His parents’ progressive politics most likely contributed to his own righteous values, and yet, Zohran doesn’t speak at people or in exclusively academic jargon (a massive problem within leftist spaces).

There are elements of Zohran’s rhetorical abilities that clearly draw from hip hop culture. In hip hop, to be effective you need to hone a deep sense of confidence, public speaking prowess, improvisational skills, and a flexible knowledge of poetic device and rhythm. Remember when Zohran punked Andrew Cuomo during a debate? Those same abilities are powerful tools in organizing, especially when speaking to a crowd, knowing your audience or navigating high-pressure debates.

Hip hop culture, rooted in Black culture, has always been a rigorous, creative practice, despite how often it’s discredited, oversimplified or appropriated. Zohran’s campaign, intentionally or not, tapped into the lyricist spirit. It reminded me of the recent epic battle between Kendrick Lamar and Drake—after Kendrick released his mic dropping “Not Like Us,” a teacher shared a short video about how her students were suddenly doing deep research, digging into literature and history. Her observations didn’t surprise me in the least bit. I’ve used hip-hop to teach literature for almost ten years.

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So no, Zohran isn’t pursuing a rap career, but his artistic sensibility such as his ability to communicate/debate with rivals, to connect with regular people, to imagine, was foundational to his campaign. And if the left is serious about winning in the future, we need to take art, culture, and imagination just as seriously as strategy and policy. The strenuous work of building something new—just like making great art—isn’t about a perfect product. It’s about the process, the people, and the courage to dream up something better. Zohran’s ability to speak plainly yet powerfully, and to make big ideas accessible to everyday people wasn’t accidental. It likely came from years of learning how to talk to people through art and hip hop culture.

Let’s talk about how this ties directly into organizing.

Let This Radicalize You

Whether or not a campaign leads to a win, what matters is the approach. In Zohran case, yes, he won the NYC Democratic primary—and that win was rooted in socialist principles and powered by the organizational muscle of the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA). Make no mistake, the DSA’s structure made it possible to mobilize thousands and thousands of people to knock on doors, spread the word, and make the campaign visible. That kind of support can’t be overstated. But another big piece of the puzzle was Zohran’s openness to the politicization process. Instead of writing off voters who might have voted for Trump or held opposing views, he and his team made the decision to go into those communities and talk to people. Listen. Connect. Meeting people where they are, without assumptions is rare and powerful. And it made a difference.

What’s Possible?

Throughout the campaign, critics dismissed Zoran by saying he "lacks experience." But not only is that untrue, it also totally misses the political landscape we're in. We’re living in a time in which a messy, actively ignorant, former reality TV star is president. Trump utilizes his background in media to stir up free press. He’s versed in shock and awe tactics, simple slogans and fear mongering. He follows in the footsteps of tyrannical leaders like Hitler who believed, "men are won over less by the written than by the spoken word, that every great movement on this earth owes its growth to great orators and not to great writers.” We should know our enemy. Political legitimacy has been thrown into question by the very system that once tried to protect it. That creates an opening. This doesn’t mean we abandon our righteous values, it means we’re at a turning point. In that space, people are more curious as to hearing what socialism actually is, instead of the caricature they’ve been sold. They can be radicalized towards liberatory ideas. Yes, organizing through the Democratic Party has its constraints. But we can still use that platform to shift public understanding and that’s exactly what Zohran is doing.

In the coming weeks and months, we can’t ignore how Mamdani is responding to the disgusting Islamophobia and racism being hurled his way as well.

His grace, clarity, and defiance in the face of it are setting a new standard for how we show up, how we lead, and how we support each other. It reminds us how vital it is to stand in solidarity and to build movements that don’t just tolerate difference but actively fight for each other’s liberation.

Mamdani’s campaign isn’t just a political win. It’s a potential roadmap for how organizing, creativity, and communication can come together to crack the political landscape open and let something better begin.

A Prompt (If You Choose to Accept It)

Personify Your Grief

One of my favorite writing exercises are around personification. It’s the act of giving human qualities to something non-human. Basically, it is a way of breathing life into abstract feelings, complex feelings, feelings that may take a lifetime to unlock. Personification is a magical poetic device.

So here’s a creative prompt for you:

If your grief (the emotion) were personified, who would he/she/they be?
What’s their story? How do they speak?
What do they wear? What’s their favorite food?
What do they want from you? How do they move through the world?
What do you want from them?

Still feeling stuck? Make a list of action-words that make us human and attribute them to grief:

Examples: Hide, Haunt, Cry, Fly, Ask, Tremble, Spin, Crouch, Grow, Laugh…

It’s Complicated

Grief taps the church stain glass

“Look up” she exclaims, smiling-sacred

Except her teeth are rotting, gums show

Her world spins slow; confusion haunts her face

Truth is: we’ll look away

Grief sobs, whispers goodbye

As unarmed vehicles swerve

Through the arteries of neighborhoods

She’s singing to a migrant mother

As she’s cuffed, roughed up, disappeared

Grief wails guttural

You can fill a cold cell with her yearning

We ritualistically look away or

cover our ears

Except, not today

Today, we watch grief turn a trick

Her bruised and blemished legs shimmering sunlight

She sashays like a death wish, some call her “fast”

Nobody asks who violated

So she makes snow angels

From the ashes of charred forests

Paints her lips with loneliness
Calls it war paint

Grief misbehaves

Never crosses her legs

Spits, curses, twirls

She’s unruly

She’s a murder of crows perched on a power line

She’ll follow you home

You’ll lose sleep

Grief floats through our collective dream

A bloom of jellyfish crowding ocean surface

She’s the bright pink and the stinging

She’s

Stinging

Stinging

Stinging.

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Did you enjoy this episode? I need your support! My vision is to expand this podcast to invite guests, create more art and provide helpful content to the masses. Consider subscribing, sharing, commenting and donating. Everything helps. And remember, our love for one another is more powerful than all the systems conspiring against us.

Not the neat, black-dressed, funeral-version of grief. I’m talking about the messy, complex, slow-burning, all-consuming grief that lives just under the surface.

The kind that feels more like opening Pandora’s box than anything else. The box they tell you not to open, ever. Because once you do, everything unravels. Pain. Chaos. Vulnerability. Fear…Possibility?

And yet, here we are. The box is open. The grief is pouring out.

In a world where politicians wage war on the working class, where people are dying under the weight of systemic violence (in Palestine, in the U.S., in countless unseen places) how do we live while carrying that knowledge?

Grief becomes tangible when you realize that the systems around us are not just flawed, but actively harming the most vulnerable. Migrants are being kidnapped before our very eyes. Yet somehow, we're expected to go to work, pay bills, post something online, and move on as if that’s normal.

But here’s the thing: Grief isn’t a weakness. It's not something to suppress, hide away or silence. It’s one of the most powerful emotional forces we have, especially as artists.

Because inside of grief, like inside of that mythical Pandora’s box,

there’s also POWER.

Getting Personal: Sacred Realizations in Jamaica

Grief and I go way back.

I didn’t always have a name for the gnawing feeling of grief. At first, I had experiences. One experience was losing a parent to violence. My father’s life was taken when I was a teenager. It happened in Seattle. It was a brutal. And back then, I didn’t know how to process it, let alone how to face the pain. His entire existence was reduced to a news article. How could someone do something so violent to someone else? Very few folks around me could relate either. Who could I talk to? I usually stayed silent. I made myself busy going through the motions, completing finals and filling out college applications. I wanted to escape. But to where? I was detached and depressed. Just don’t let this ruin your future, I told myself as I floated through life like a piece of debris from a fire.

(A snapshot of father, Raymond “Ras Bongo Flyah” Lindsay before migrating to the U.S. in his thirties.)

But then, my mom surprised me one day with a ticket to Jamaica for the entire summer — to reconnect with a part of my cultural identity I knew very little about.

When most people think of Jamaica, they think of white-sand beaches and all inclusive resorts. But there’s so much more to my father’s island. Jamaica is its people. Unfortunately, very few tourists engage with the culture of Jamaica; most bask in the paradise created by corporate giants like Sandals resort. How many people travel to Jamaica without ever learning about the complex history? How many know that 90% of Jamaicans can’t access the beach at all due to the privatization of land? How many tourists tap in to how and why folks are grief-stricken? Who sees the unruliness blossoming like speckles of coral flowers dotting the historic Blue Mountains?

I ended up living in Spanish Town during my stay, just outside Kingston for three months. I was a teenager, just discovering feminism, journaling on the rooftop while my oldest auntie — the family matriarch — kept me almost exclusively indoors “for my safety” as the sounds of the most beautiful music I’d ever heard wafted from stereo speakers and the sweltering heat felt heavy (its own kind of lockdown).

That year, Sizzla’s “Solid As A Rock” dropped. I sucked on bag juice that stained my lips orange or ate delicious curry chicken and dumplings. I learned the latest dances (there was a new dance every week and the whole island learned it) and got to know my family members better.

My cousins, tall men with fashion sense, high cheekbones and dark skin, told me stories about my dad. Their eyes would well with tears, their faces would sometimes grimace in anger and despair too. One thing was for certain: I was not alone in my grief. In fact, in 2005, the year I graduated from high school, the tiny island of Jamaica experienced the highest per capita murder rate in the world. Grief was everywhere.

It lurked in dark corners and made us sweat. It slept beside us in bed, flashed on the TV screens and ricocheted through our dreams. We’d dance about it, sing about it, joke about it even. If, like Rumi wrote, “the wound is the place where the light enters you” then we were full of light. Grief was a reminder that no matter how fast Jamaica tried to escape the cruel history and after-affects of chattel slavery, it couldn’t get away without a fight. And we were constantly fighting.

(Visiting my father’s grave in St. Thomas, Jamaica years later.)

Poverty is violent in and of itself, but much like resistance to enslavement, there is a long and beautiful legacy of pushing back against the suffocating nature of colonization.

One day, I got sidetracked as I was walking in town with family. I ended up on a lonely street, which left me in direct eyesight of prison windows just above a massive concrete gate. I suddenly heard the sound of men screaming from the cement structure, their arms outstretched like branches in the sunlight, reaching out to me. It was nerve wracking. It was strange. Was this where the man who’d killed my father ended up? Somewhere like this? Rotting. Reeling. What good would that do to me? Where would my grief go now?

It went into my pen and never left.

My experience in Jamaica opened up a pandora’s box that has never closed.

I’ve since traveled to JA eight times and I’ve even attained dual citizenship. I’ve learned more about Caribbean history including the the urgent, multigenerational and vibrant grieving-cultural practices that make the region hum with power.

This discovery-process has brought me a deep sense of purpose. I became an abolitionist. In fact, my grief story came full circle when the man who took my father’s life died by suicide in a barbaric ICE detention facility.

I have chosen to turn the endless agony of the Prison Industrial Complex into a promise to interrupt violent systems that only increase harm. I know what keeps us safe: education, housing, healthcare and community. And that’s why our enemies want us isolated, why they defund access to care and spread “tough on crime” propaganda as a soulless answer to cycles of violence.

Instead of wallowing in despair, I faced grief and let it educate me. I took action, teaching creative writing, performance and conflict resolution in the townships of South Africa, in Uganda and Argentina and to incarcerated people in the United States. I’ve used art to support folks in alchemizing their own grief, especially children. And I’m just getting started.

Jamaica taught me something I’ll never forget: Grief doesn’t have to isolate us.

It can connect us.

Grief as Creative Fuel

Grief is its own kind of fuel. It doesn’t always explode. It often lingers. It weaves itself into our hands, our voices, our brushstrokes, our poems. One of the greatest myths we’ve been taught is that grief is something to “get over.” That healing is linear. That if we’re strong enough, we’ll bounce back. But that’s not how it works.

I’ll never be “over” the loss of my parent to violence. And I won’t pretend that grief made me stronger. Sometimes, grief pulls you under water, holds you back, distorts your reality and it takes years to recover. Grief can also disconnect you from the rhythms of a world and tether you to social norms that value productivity over facing pain or celebrating survival.

But here's the truth I hold onto: we heal in community.

And we can transform through creation.

In moments when grief feels too heavy to carry, cracks do also appear: a conversation with a family member or friend, making piece of art that makes us feel seen, a shared moment of stillness, a protest chant that feels like prayer or a revelation in organizing work. Those are the openings. And from them, something new can grow.

A Prompt (If You Choose to Accept It)

Personify Your Grief

One of my favorite writing exercises are around personification. It’s the act of giving human qualities to something non-human. Basically, it is a way of breathing life into abstract feelings, complex feelings, feelings that may take a lifetime to unlock. Personification is a magical poetic device.

So here’s a creative prompt for you:

If your grief (the emotion) were personified, who would he/she/they be?
What’s their story? How do they speak?
What do they wear? What’s their favorite food?
What do they want from you? How do they move through the world?
What do you want from them?

Still feeling stuck? Make a list of action-words that make us human and attribute them to grief:

Examples: Hide, Haunt, Cry, Fly, Ask, Tremble, Spin, Crouch, Grow, Laugh, Crouch.

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In this moment of so much collective pain, let’s not close the box. Let’s open it fully. Let it breathe. Let it rage. Let it grieve. And let’s alchemize it — not into something neat or perfect, but into something true.

Because that’s where the art lives. In the cracks. In the openings. In the waves.

And from that, something new can bloom.

To all the artists grieving out there — keep creating.

The world needs your voice.

What do I love about being artistic? Meaning-making. I’m not sure if I believe everything happens for a reason, but I guarantee you I’m built for carving heaven out of havoc. It feels second nature to me.

This post is personal. It is about toxicity in our personal relationships, and how confronting harmful behaviors and healing, can help us confront the tyrants and systemic monsters of the world.

First, I speak from personal experience.

There was a time when everyone seemed to be talking about narcissistic abuse (they probably still are). And as someone who’s been through two highly toxic relationships with men, I found some of the info helpful when I was trying to make sense of my turmoil after escaping highly manipulative partners.

But here’s the thing: most of that info was focused on individual healing from monogamous, personal relationships. Sometimes it extended to dynamics between parents and children, or even toxic work environments.

Online communities formed to share stories, offer support, and navigate the fog of recovery after the relationship, but consuming the endless blogposts, youtube videos and reading self help books can also morph into a dead-end of sorts.

I had a full grasp of love bombing, triangulation, gaslighting and ghosting. I had knowledge. I spent months, years alone in my apartment, shocked and in despair. But no human is an island. I did what artists do: I read, I wrote poems, I collaged and I processed through creativity.

I no longer spend every waking hour mulling over the ostracism from people I once considered community, or feeling the kind of resentment that made me sick to my stomach. You see, what I ended up learning through both my lived experience and my own research wasn’t just about escaping bad relationships, it was about fighting fascism.

And that form of meaning-making seems vital.

That’s what I want to share today.

Quick Disclaimer

Before I dive deeper, let me say this clearly: I’m not a licensed therapist or psychologist. That means I’m not here to diagnose anyone—former partners or public figures included. It’s important to acknowledge that, especially since there’s a lot of pseudoscience floating around the internet.

Just because you’ve experienced manipulation or abuse doesn’t mean the other person is a narcissist in the clinical sense. But people can definitely exhibit narcissistic behaviors. And once you start seeing those patterns for what they are, without needing a diagnosis, you gain stronger discernment, a balanced nervous system and healthy boundaries.

My Experience With Narcissistic Relationships

I’ve been in two major toxic relationships—one when I was 18 (my first relationship ever), and one that ended in 2018. Both of these were deeply emotionally abusive, and I now believe those partners were either actual narcissists, or at the very least, exhibited deeply entrenched narcissistic behaviors.

Leaving those relationships felt like dying. Luckily, also like being reborn. And I don’t say that lightly.

Yes, heartbreak is profoundly painful. But these relationships were different. It wasn’t just sadness or betrayal—it was total emotional disintegration. I dealt with suicidal ideation and a complete breakdown of my sense of self.

I wrote about one of those experiences in a 2019 article, which you can check out for a deeper dive into the personal side of things.

But today’s post isn’t just about what I went through. It’s about what those experiences helped me fight back against larger systems of control, manipulation, and even fascism.

Relationships as Sites of Liberation

Whether they’re romantic, platonic, professional, or political—relationships should be sites of liberation. Liberation isn’t a walk in the park. Conflict may arise, but conflict can also result in deeper intimacy. We’re out here trying to build a world where we’re free, where we feel safe and supported in community. But that can be really hard when we’re constantly navigating heteropatriarchal conditioning, manipulative behaviors and misinformation from the outside world.

One of the hardest aspects is recognizing that emotionally abusive people often act totally different towards others. Explaining how they’ve hurt you can be shocking to their family, friends and acquaintances. You might find yourself secluded and repeating your story like a broken record, if merely to stay sane.

You see, abusive individuals can have strong support systems, they can be charming in public, and seem completely harmless. But behind closed doors, it’s a different story.

This is common in all kinds of abuse cases. Think of child abuse scenarios where one child is being severely mistreated while the others appear to live a normal life. Abusers often compartmentalize how they show up, depending on who they’re interacting with.

(Onyi Ljeh breaks it down in the above short form video)

The Political Parallel: Narcissism and Fascism

Here’s where it all clicked for me.

I was still in the thick of my last emotionally abusive relationship when Trump came into power in 2016. And at the time, the media was scrambling to define this new media/political force. But to me, it was familiar. I couldn’t put a finger on it yet though. It took years to put the puzzle pieces together.

Trump’s behavior—his self-centeredness, his manipulation of media narratives, his lack of empathy—wasn’t just political; it mirrored the toxic dynamics I had experienced in my intimate life. Think trying to work through a conflict but hitting brick wall after brick wall, sleeping with the enemy who secretly wants you to remain self conscious, or crying for days on end, unable to understand why you feel so many ups and downs. These emotional realizations helped me understand something important about the macro power structures that try to rule our world: fascism doesn’t just show up with jackboots and slogans. It shows up in behavior on a massive scale.

Key Traits That Overlap

So how does understanding narcissistic behavior help us resist fascism? Let’s break it down (I know there’s much more to this list, so please share your thoughts in the comments):

1. Lack of Empathy

We’re told to pursue success at all costs. Pick the career that makes money, not the one that helps others. That conditioning breeds a society where empathy is undervalued, and where self-interest is rewarded. That’s a breeding ground for both narcissism and fascism. If we keep in mind that fascism is more a mode of thinking than just a political belief then we fight back by increasing our empathy, compassion and combating apathy at all costs.

2. Exploitative Systems

Capitalism thrives on exploitation. We’re constantly being pushed to monetize everything we love. It creates a system where taking advantage of others isn’t just normalized—it’s expected. Being generous with our money, our time and our love is paramount. Who are you donating to? When is the next protest? How are you building a life, not based just on a paycheck but on making the world better for people and the planet?

3. Hypersensitivity to Truth

This isn’t the same as emotional vulnerability. It’s more like weaponized fragility. For example, when people critique systems of oppression—like white supremacy—those in power twist the narrative to paint themselves as victims. Think the rise of anti-woke and backlash against CTR. Do we even know what these words mean anymore? More recently, we see this in how critiques of Israeli’s genocide in Palestine are distorted into accusations of antisemitism, even when the protests are clearly pro-Palestinian and anti-war. Plus, anti-zionist jews exist and actively resist these narratives by chanting, “not in our name.”

4. Lack of Accountability

Fascism thrives in a culture in which oppressors avoid responsibility. Whether it's government, institutions, or individuals, accountability becomes the enemy. The narrative is always shifted to protect those in power.

5. Delusional Fantasies of the Past

"Make America Great Again," right? That phrase is built on the illusion of a perfect past—a past rooted in oppression, pseudoscience, and rigid, outdated ideas of identity. Wanting to return to that isn’t nostalgia, it’s denial and delusion and it is dangerous.

So, What Now?

Understanding narcissistic behavior helped me reclaim my own personal power. But even more than that, it gave me the tools to see manipulation and control happening on a societal level.

We need empathy. We need accountability. We need relationships—both personal and political—that are rooted in liberation, not domination.

And most importantly, we need each other. Healing from abuse isn’t about isolation, it’s about community, solidarity, and clarity. Once you see the pattern, you can’t unsee it. And that’s when the real work of resistance begins.

Thanks for reading. Whether you’re healing from personal trauma, organizing for justice, making movement art, or trying to make sense of the chaos around us, just know: you’re not alone. And you’re not crazy. Keep learning, keep resisting, and keep connecting. Our love for one another is more powerful than all the systems conspiring against us.

Take for example, the Republican-led Reconciliation Bill, which threatens to gut our social safety net while padding the pockets of the ultra wealthy through tax cuts, increasing policing and criminalizing dissent.

Or Israel and the United States in solidarity towards a deadly war with Iran. And it doesn’t help that the news media keeps spinning a lazy “right to defend” narrative while actively being in offensive-mode.

As they say, I’m a millennial tired of living through unprecedented events. It’s a lot.

But I’ve gone deeper instead of detaching. I’ve found glimmers of light. I’ve felt free. Not in a naive sense, but a fierce, embodied one. One that comes from dancing with intention, anger and bravery at the same time.

Would I consider myself a dancer? Not particularly. And yet, I’ve written and spoken about the power of dipping one’s toes into different, new art forms (particularly ones outside of our creative comfort zones) as a way to embrace the kind of child-like playfulness necessary to fight back against human and legislative monsters.

There’s something magical about being a beginner again.

Maybe it expands our capacity for empathy.

I have a gift for you.

I used my latest Interview with a Muse writing prompt to craft the below poem (because words also dance on pages).

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THIS IS THE YEAR (everything dances)

This is the year BlackRock goes bankrupt

bunker busters become the stuff of legend and children

beat sweltering heat by flying kites instead of dodging drones

when we fund healthcare, housing and education instead of bombs

and men no longer squeeze into suits to gamble with our existence

This is the year teachers make six-figure salaries

while CEOs revisit their career choices

wiping crush from eyes plagued by the insomnia

of another existential crisis

This is the year femmes strut down main street, scantily-clad

unabashedly maneuvering once mean streets

as men silently toss pink rose petals into the city air like confetti

honoring the cosmos instead of cat calling

This is the year I.C.E. agents surrender their badges to take up hobbies

signing up for baking classes and softball

this is the year kidnappers retire to cheer on their migrant neighbors

till their throats go hoarse and they develop laugh lines from smiling

arriving at school graduations bearing gifts of plates brimming

with chocolate chip cookies made from scratch

This is the year librarians surpass celebrity status, and

Americans binge watch reality shows about nerds who make out amidst bookshelves

and our newest blockbusters follow expert historians

who haunt their hunches through spacetime

This is the year the chronically online trade dimly lit bedrooms

for day trips to Yosemite, hike through forests, feel sore the next day

this is the year resentful, lonely men, women, theys and thems march–no dance

to the beat of their own drums, spinning, arms outstretched in empathy

because they aren’t alone since everything in the universe has a rhythm

everything dances.

So yeah, the revolution really will require furious dancing. It’s not a cute slogan. It’s a real strategy for surviving. We can organize, resist, and also build new worlds, beautiful worlds, in the process.

Here’s to more radical creativity in everything we do.

What’s Inspiring Me Lately. All short-form videos shot by your’s truly:

1.) Anti-ICE Protests Like This One In My Neighborhood.

What’s your favorite protest sign?

2.) Learning, Dancing and Collective Release.

Shout out to KQED’s Queer Cumbia night and the below band, Ritmos Tropicosmos.

3.) The Queer Women of Color Film Festival

QWOCFF is one of the only all-queer, BIPOC film festivals in the world. Support their Producers Circle Campaign and help train emerging filmmakers and keep the festivals free. qwocff.org/donate

This is the year…

• First, underline images, words and concepts that resonated with you.

• Next, think deeply about what needs to change - in your inner life and in society?

• Now, pick one personal issue and one societal issue. For example, “I want to release my limiting beliefs and I want people in this country to have more access to literacy.”

• Lastly, what would it look like, feel like, smell like, taste like, etc if things truly changed for the better. Use the refrain “this is the year.”

  Imagine the Angels of Bread

by Martín Espada

This is the year that squatters evict landlords,
gazing like admirals from the rail
of the roofdeck
or levitating hands in praise
of steam in the shower;
this is the year
that shawled refugees deport judges,
who stare at the floor
and their swollen feet
as files are stamped
with their destination;
this is the year that police revolvers,
stove-hot, blister the fingers
of raging cops,
and nightsticks splinter
in their palms;
this is the year
that darkskinned men
lynched a century ago
return to sip coffee quietly
with the apologizing descendants
of their executioners.

This is the year that those
who swim the border’s undertow
and shiver in boxcars
are greeted with trumpets and drums
at the first railroad crossing
on the other side;
this is the year that the hands
pulling tomatoes from the vine
uproot the deed to the earth that sprouts the vine,
the hands canning tomatoes
are named in the will that owns
the bedlam of the cannery;

this is the year that the eyes
stinging from the poison that purifies toilets
awaken at last to the sight
of a rooster-loud hillside,
pilgrimage of immigrant birth;
this is the year that cockroaches
become extinct, that no doctor
finds a roach embedded
in the ear of an infant;
this is the year that the food stamps
of adolescent mothers
are auctioned like gold doubloons,
and no coin is given to buy machetes
for the next bouquet of severed heads
in coffee plantation country.

If the abolition of slave-manacles
began as a vision of hands without manacles,
then this is the year;
if the shutdown of extermination camps
began as imagination of a land
without barbed wire or the crematorium,
then this is the year;
if every rebellion begins with the idea
that conquerors on horseback
are not many-legged gods, that they too drown
if plunged in the river,
then this is the year.

So may every humiliated mouth,
teeth like desecrated headstones,
fill with the angels of bread.

“Imagine the Angels of Bread” from Imagine the Angels of Bread.

Copyright 1996 by Martín Espada

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Did you enjoy this episode? I need your support! My vision is to expand this podcast to invite guests, create more art and provide helpful content to the masses. Consider subscribing, sharing, commenting and donating. Everything helps. And remember, our love for one another is more powerful than all the systems conspiring against us.

People assume that if you’re good at something creative, it must come effortlessly to you. I’ve experienced this throughout my career, and while I know I have creative instincts, the reality is far more complex.

The truth is, creativity isn’t exclusive to a “gifted elite class.” Yes, certain personality traits might make someone more drawn to artistic pursuits, but I genuinely believe everyone is an artist. I know that can sound a little “woo-woo,” and I’m not saying everything in the world qualifies as art. But when we box creativity into rigid categories or reserve it for certain “genius” types, we’re doing the world a disservice.

As an artist and communications professional, I’ve seen how people perceive my skills as innate, something I “just do well.” What they don’t see is the work. And when others try to replicate something I’ve done, whether it’s writing a script or shooting a short video, they’re often shocked by how challenging it actually is. That disconnect, between perception and reality, can be frustrating.

Preparing for the Stage: The Labor Behind the Performance

Not long ago, I was booked for a live performance. Although I’ve always included music in my creative toolkit, it had been a while since I’d performed live, and this time it was a Hip-Hop and Spoken Word show—definitely a high-energy, high-prep kind of gig.

To pull this off, I put in 20 to 30 hours of labor. That included building my musical set, administrative tasks like finding a DJ, choosing and editing performance tracks, and most critically—memorizing 10 to 15 short songs and poems. Memorization wasn’t just about recall—it was about internalizing the words, finding the emotion behind each line, and building the mental calm to deliver them without freezing up.

During this month of prep, I was also working full-time and waking up at the crack of dawn to attend an hour of boxing boot camp. I’d ride my bike to the gym while listening to my lyrics, gradually layering in rhythm, emotion, and vocal inflection. Many musicians use exercise to help them prepare for live performance because it aligns breathing to sound, story and movement.

Still, somewhere along the way, I got this gut feeling that something might go wrong. It was bothering me. I’m no stranger to anxiety, but this wasn’t a catastrophic spiral—it was quieter, more intuitive. What was happening?

I recently listened to a Magical Overthinkers podcast describe the difference between anxiety and intuition like this: anxiety is loud and panicky, while intuition is subtle, a quiet nudge.

This felt like the latter.

Chaos on the Stage

The day of the performance arrived—and that subtle feeling? It wasn’t wrong.

Although I had done a sound check, the band that performed before me began dismantling their equipment during my set. My sound changed drastically. I couldn’t hear myself. There was no monitor. My intricate lyrics, which I had worked so hard to memorize, were suddenly harder to deliver.

To top it off, my set got cut short from the agreed 30 minutes. Songs dropped off. The DJ struggled to play my tracks because of sudden tech changes. It was chaos. And yet, I kept going.

I could’ve thrown up my hands, walked off stage, or refused to continue. Many performers would have, especially with this many issues. But I didn’t. Because I also knew something else: most of the audience wouldn’t know what went wrong behind the scenes. They would judge the set based on what they saw, not the obstacles I faced.

Side note: This explains why, at major concerts, musical acts sometimes delay their sets. They’re waiting until the sound meets a certain standard. They have teams to back them up, to handle all the chaos around them, so they can just focus on rocking a stage. Me? I’m still building that infrastructure.

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Lessons in Labor and Boundaries

So why am I telling you all this? Well, I learned something.

My experience reminded me that people might never fully understand the labor behind your art. And that’s okay. You need to understand it. You need to respect it. And most importantly, you need to protect it.

As artists, we have to set boundaries, acknowledge our expertise, and refuse to let our work be minimized just because it looks easy. That’s something I’m taking with me into every performance, every project, every creative endeavor.

Let’s keep creating. Let’s keep sharing the process. And let’s remind ourselves, and others, that art is labor. Art is hours of edits, of tossed out ideas, of practice. Art is research, it is pondering, it requires memorizing lyrics, stretching physical muscles and creative ones too. Art is beautiful, vulnerable, emotional labor and it needs to be acknowledged.

(Video: A powerful movement from my chaotic set.)

Recently, I had one of those rare, grounding experiences that reminded me just how powerful a vocal performance can be. I went to an event at Ciel Studios, a beautiful performance and office space in Berkeley, and saw an artist, Gayathri Krishnan, who absolutely blew me away.

Her exquisite voice has roots in ancient South Asian technique, but her voice moves effortlessly through R&B as well. She’s also an amazing dancer—an all-around powerhouse of talent. As I watched her, I could see the work behind every note and movement. It wasn’t just skill, it was something deeper. It felt like ancestral expertise, like something flowing through generations. I later learned her father is also a singer, and you could feel that lineage alive in her performance.

Art That Anchors You

After the show, I had the chance to meet Gayathri, take a few photos, and share something I felt strongly in the moment. Now, my friends always joke about this, but I take pride in my ability to give exceptional affirmations. And this time was no different.

I told her, “I’ve been feeling so untethered lately. So much havoc, so much uncertainty, especially with all the painful happening in the world. But your performance brought me back down to earth. Your voice had this mezmorizing, anchoring impact on me. It reminded me what it feels like to be fully present. To feel like I’m part of something.”

There’s something powerful about telling artists what their work does for you. Not just that it was some pretty product that brightened an empty room. We should be precise in our acknowledgments. It’s easy to forget that they often don’t hear that enough, or they only hear it in passing.

(Video: Gayathri performing live at Ciel Studios)

Keep Showing Up

So that’s it. A beautiful night of music, movement, connection and a reminder that art doesn’t just entertain us. It can center us. It can call us back to ourselves. And when we tell artists the truth about how their work affects us (especially with money), we become part of that creative exchange.

To the artist who brought me back to presence:

keep doing what you’re doing. Never stop.

There are times when I’m in a state of flow (creatively, professionally) and everything just clicks. And then there are those other times: pushing through burnout, grinding through fatigue, trying to keep up with expectations that don’t even feel like mine. I get frustrated, depressed and dissatisfied. I wonder where the angst originates.

As someone who’s neurodivergent, I’ve had to create systems to support the way I learn, work and move through the world. To be clear: I don’t adhere to rigid systems—those never work for me. Instead, I’ve built flexible frameworks that allow me to focus and flourish. We all have strengths and areas of growth. Our strengths are magic. I think of it this way: magic works best when it’s held in a container.

Now that I’m older, I’ve realized something else: this relentless focus on speed—on being the fastest, most productive—isn’t just exhausting, it actually upholds white supremacist capitalist ideologies. And I don’t mean that in some abstract way. I mean it literally. What we’ve being doing for decades hasn’t worked. We’re still at square one. Maybe it is time to pause and reevaluate. Right now, fascism is gaining tremendous ground. Wouldn’t it be a misstep if all we do is react to it?

Sure, we need to respond, but we also need to build entirely new frameworks. Because when we’re constantly responding, we’re purely playing defense. And if you’re only ever playing defense, how do you score? At some point, we freedom fighters have to make the play. We have to ask: Are we even moving like we’re on the same team?

(Sorry for the sports metaphor—I went to a Valkyries game last weekend and I guess it stuck with me!)

Why am I writing this? I want to share a few things that have worked for me, ways I’ve found real flow and a genuine sense of accomplishment. Not just checking boxes or meeting external expectations, but feeling like I’m moving forward toward something meaningful, wholistic, earth-shattering even.

1. Ask Questions (Even if It Annoys People)

I ask a lot of questions. And yes, sometimes it irritates people. They might interpret it as undermining their expertise. But I’ve found it’s way more respectful to ask thoughtful, compassionate questions than to avoid what needs to be discussed. Inquiring about the goals of a project or what someone truly wants to accomplish creates clarity—and that clarity leads to better work outcomes.

I was recently on a call (our second one, actually) with someone interested in contracting me for a social media project. As we talked, I realized that before we could move forward, I needed a clear container for the collaboration. I don’t have unlimited time to help people sort through loosely formed ideas during meetings—I’m juggling multiple projects every week. So I ended the call early and asked if they could send me a detailed work plan before we had another meeting.

When they sent it over, I noticed it didn’t include dates, so that’s something I’ll give feedback on. It’s a simple example, but these boundaries help me show up with more purpose.

2. Emotions Matter—Even at Work

I’ve said this before, but I think it is worth repeating: we are emotional beings. That’s just the truth. It’s easier to acknowledge this in creative or artistic work, but even in professional settings, so much of what we do is about navigating emotions, especially now.

People are overwhelmed, triggered, emotionally raw. Often, they just want to be heard. I’ve spent most of my life working in the nonprofit world, and I’ve seen how martyrdom culture—“We have to do it all, and we have to do it fast!”—can be incredibly toxic. The nonprofit industrial complex hasn’t necessarily served us well. In some cases, I’ve found nonprofit spaces more toxic than corporate ones, because of the unspoken belief that martyring ourselves is noble if it’s “for a good cause.” That kind of work ethic isn't sustainable, and it doesn’t even lead to better results.

3. Stay Grounded in the Now

I’ve been thinking a lot about when I feel grounded, and when I feel untethered. My maternal grandmother, who I love deeply, has been on my mind. She’s a Leo, a fire sign, the matriarch of our family. Growing up, she worked tirelessly raising five kids in the home, but also went back to school to become a nurse. She negotiated this shift with my grandfather, who was traditional and skeptical at first (they were both raised Catholic). But she laid out her case rationally, and he agreed. That decision changed their lives.

Today, my grandmother is facing memory loss. She sometimes repeats herself, and it’s harder for her to hold some of the more complex conversations we used to share when I lived with her as a teen. But she still asks about me. She still wants to know when I’ll visit. The memory of her beloved presence reminds me to be present—to slow down and stay in the moment.

This weekend, I made a conscious decision to do things that tether me to now: going to local events with friends, spending time with loved ones and cuddling my cat when he clearly just wanted attention. These little pauses keep me connected and grounded.

(Video: Oaklash Drag Festival in Oakland this weekend)

We have to remember: this whole idea of “working extra hard” is especially harmful to working-class people. Our communities have always worked hard. On my father’s side, we’re descendants of enslaved people, people whose labor built the wealth of the British Empire. And yet, that backbreaking work didn’t necessarily lead to economic freedom or justice or changed material conditions. Instead it often resulted in families facing severe mental health challenges, early death and fractured familial ties. There’s a joke that Jamaicans always have five jobs. But what if we’re addicted to working because if we stopped to look around, we’d realize our life is passing us by?

So we need to stop glorifying the hustle, specifically when it is devoid of strategy.

We need to stop being addicted to work for work’s sake.

Instead, let’s ask better questions:
How can we work in ways that sustain our mind, body, and spirit?
How can we strategize to be effective, not just now, but for the long haul?

We need clarity.
We need boundaries.
We need presence.
We need each other.

And most of all—we need a new playbook. Are you ready to write one with me?

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Centuries ago, mothering was a communal practice. People who gave birth could count on a network of support as they risked their lives to bring new lives into being. Nowadays, caregivers are increasingly isolated, tasked with going at it alone and pressured to provide in more ways than one. And still, the labor must be done.

We also can’t forget those who may be triggered by this day because, either they’ve lost their mother or they never felt a deep connection to a mother-figure?

When I was younger, people routinely asked me if and when I wanted kids. It was as if society taught adults to view kids as objects, property, something to keep us company. Now that I’m older and child-free by choice, I’ve come to see that the instincts we often associate with motherhood (nurturing, protecting, guiding) are just as vital in other areas of life (and not every woman has mothering instincts, which is ok).

I’d add that I see artist-parents in my community as allies in the struggle to support future generations of visionaries—a job that we all should take on because our creative practice depends on it. Being an artist-parent is a radical act, especially living under an oppressive government that promises to punish people who are already in poverty while defunding life-changing arts programming.

Think of it this way, to embark on mothering as a practice is potentially remarkable.

In fact, you should mother your art. Here are three reasons why:

1. Your Art Is Born From You—Treat It Like It Matters

Your artistic ideas begin inside of your psyche. For a long time, there's little separation between you and your creation, it’s an extension of your thoughts, your emotions, your identity. You must carry it, feed it, build it quietly before anyone even knows it exists.

And just like you wouldn’t hand a precious infant to just anyone, you shouldn’t share your art carelessly. Your new work deserves to be held by people who will respect it, honor it, and truly see it. Mothering your art means protecting it in its most vulnerable stages and being thoughtful about how and when you release it into the world.

2. Letting Go Is Part of the Process

One of the hardest parts of mothering is allowing space for a child to grow. That moment when a young person—or your most cherished idea—needs to leave the nest. You’ve shaped it, poured yourself into it, but now it needs air.

This doesn’t mean you stop loving what you’ve created. It means you respect its growth. You understand that, to become what it’s meant to be, your art has to breathe, evolve, and be seen outside of your personal lens. Mothering your art means knowing when to step back and let it stand on its own.

3. Your Creation Has Its Own Life—Honor That

Eventually, what you’ve made will have a life beyond you. Just as a grown child walks into the world with their own ideas and choices, your art will be interpreted, critiqued, celebrated—or maybe misunderstood—by others. That’s part of the deal.

Mothering your art means accepting that it’s no longer just yours. And that’s a beautiful thing. It means it’s alive. It means it’s doing what it was meant to do: move people, make them think, challenge them, or simply offer a moment of truth.

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Not everyone who creates is a mother in the traditional sense, but mothering is a verb, a way of being in relationship with what we care about. When we approach our creativity with intention, patience, and deep respect, we’re practicing a kind of mothering that the world deeply needs.

So this Mother’s Day, take a moment to honor the ways you mother your art. It’s not just about what you make, but how you care for it along the way.

Meet Robert Liu-Trujillo. He’s a life long Bay Area resident, the child of student activists who watched lots of science fiction and took him to many demonstrations.

Always drawing, Rob grew up to be an artist falling in love with graffiti, fine art, illustration, murals, and children's books. Rob is the author of Furqan's First Flat Top and he's illustrated numerous other children's books. He's a husband and father of two and a contributor to The Trust Your Struggle Collective, Tone Magazine, and The Social Justice Children’s Bk Holiday Fair.

We sat down to talk about his background as an artist AND an educator. He dropped gems about his teaching philosophy, artistic craft and why Oakland and the Bay Area are such important locations for artist-activism. Tap in, follow Rob’s work and share his visual art and books far and wide.

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Did you enjoy this episode? I need your support! My vision is to expand this podcast to invite guests, create more art and provide helpful content to the masses. Consider subscribing, sharing, commenting and donating. Everything helps. And remember, our love for one another is more powerful than all the systems conspiring against us.

Set in the 1930s during the era of sharecropping (a system that essentially reinvented slavery through debt), Sinners follows Sammie (played by Miles Caton), a young Mississippi musician chasing success. He dreams of seeing the world like his Chicago cousins, Smoke and Stack (played by Michael B. Jordan). He hopes music will be his ticket out. Instead, it is a way in.

Fast forward to the final shot, which is stunning: a birds-eye view of the cotton fields. Smoke, wearing a blue hat, symbolizes family and love. Stack, in a red hat, represents money and survival at any cost. Sammie sits in the backseat, caught between the two. It's a classic good vs. evil setup, but it goes deeper, capturing the tension Black artists often feel: how to stay true to their roots while surviving in a world that demands they sell parts of themselves to succeed. Now, let’s discuss the vampires…

Sinners’ vampires aren't just villains; they are metaphors for how the music industry feeds off Black culture, draining its life and repackaging it for profit. The Vampire King, Remmick (a thousand-year-old Irish folk singer) isn’t random. He reflects real aspects of American music history that have shape-shifted over time. (If you know the roots of "The Rocky Road to Dublin," you’ll catch the deeper meaning.) As always, Coogler’s villains are never exactly what they seem. They feed on our fears.

In a recent Democracy Now interview, Ryan Coogler described Sinners as a "cinematic gumbo.” He’s blending elements that might seem unrelated into something powerful. The film was also inspired by his late uncle, who passed away while Coogler was making Creed. As a tribute, Coogler built the film’s world around the Blues. Through his research into the genre, he also uncovered deeper truths about the music industry.

I was surprised when Coogler made an important point: the very concept of "genre" is rooted in racism — designed to exclude Black musicians from profiting equally with white counterparts. This realization explains why Sinners constantly plays with genre.

Something else that’s fascinating to me: the Southern lore of Robert Johnson, who was rumored to have "sold his soul to the devil" to gain Blues talent. In reality, Johnson’s success was the result of intense practice, but because art feels so spiritual, people often fail to see the hard work behind it. Making art is labor. Taking this old tale and turning it on its head is brilliant. It shows that Coogler knows how to follow a vision.

Others believed in his vision too. Coogler speaks openly about how essential his wife, Zinzi Evans (Co-producer), has been to his creative success. Their partnership, built on mutual support and respect, was crucial to making this project happen. In my opinion, this raises bigger insights about the invisible labor women artists often take on to support artistic output, whether in homes, relationships, or behind the scenes of your favorite sets, and what men can do to better recognize and amplify that labor.

Finally, Coogler mentions the deal he made with the big production companies to get Sinners to the box office. While there’s been a lot of hype, he’s a little surprised by the hubbub. He hints that, for once, he was able to negotiate fair compensation, something that hasn’t always happened for him, even though his films have made billions—for other people. This matters because Coogler is the kind of artist who gives back, and owning more of his work will only increase his positive impact.

I have more to say, but for now, if you’re in Oakland, join me for an in-person discussion at Red Bay Coffee Headquarters! I’ll be hosting alongside other creative community members. Here’s the RSVP link.

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I’ll be real: I struggled this past week. Anxiety, overwhelm, and a quiet grief kept bubbling up. I was hard on myself for not juggling work and posting regularly. I love sharing thoughts and advice here on Substack, but I’m not a superhuman multitasker, none of us are. Still, I kept trying to push through, ignoring my feelings, which only made them grow louder.

So how do we cope when our inner and outer skies are speckled with storm clouds?

Years ago, I taught poetry to incarcerated youth. One student wrote, “Electricity running through my body. Slipping-mind soaring through the sky. Endless thunder through the night. The storm is me.” Although I have be blessed to never be locked in a cage, I felt his words. I felt empathy. And remember poetry isn’t just about the finished piece—it’s the process. That process has guided me through tough times, and I want to share three tools that help me navigate the chaos:

1. Compassion

I talk about compassion a lot because it’s the antidote to shame. Shame is a sneaky stalker. It lingers, whispering reminders of past mistakes, making us feel like we’re never enough. But shame isn’t evil—it’s just a signal. It exists to help guide our moral compass. Sadly, too often, shame is used to control us or make us blame ourselves instead of harmful systems of oppression.

When I notice shame creeping into my psyche, like receiving a dozen missed calls from an unknown number, I interrupt the feeling. I consciously choose compassion instead. Compassion tells me I’m human, and that’s enough. It reminds me I’m made of water and meant to flow, not be rigid. Compassion is like that kind teacher who saw you when you felt invisible in middle school—the teacher who handed you a life changing book or taught you a theory that gave you purpose. That type of love is still available, even now. Especially now. But you have to offer it to yourself.

2. Curiosity

Revolutionaries say “question everything,” and they’re onto something. When you feel dread, turn it into a question: Where is this coming from? What do I need right now?

Recently, my curiosity led me to explore my own neurodivergence. I’ve been diagnosed with dyslexia since 4th grade, and while I’ve often appeared “high-functioning,” I’ve struggled behind the scenes—with time management, details, and emotional overwhelm. Reading about how people with dyslexia often experience high levels of anxiety and depression helped me connect the dots and have more empathy for myself.

Curiosity helped me rewrite the story I was telling myself—that I was failing. I wasn’t. I just needed understanding, not judgment.

3. Creativity

You’re an artist. Are you using that creative lens as you approach your inner world?

When things felt too heavy, I got creative with how I approached my days. I signed up for early-morning boxing to help with time management and productivity. I created affirmations and meditation rituals to prep for an upcoming performance. I even plan to videotape myself practicing and use Reiki to ground before going on stage.

No, I’m not perfectly prepared. But I’m more prepared. And that’s enough.

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We live in a world full of challenging terrain—external and internal. But when we meet those storms with compassion, curiosity, and creativity, we turn despair into something powerfully healing. We find connection. We find ease. We make masterpieces.

The systems may be broken, but our love for each other—and for ourselves—is stronger than any of them. That love is where real transformation begins.

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Feel free to check it out.

I need your support! My vision is to expand this podcast to invite guests, create more art and provide helpful content to the masses.

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Maya Angelou eloquently said, “there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” And she said it for a reason. Stories are potent.

Maybe you’re ready to tell your story. Maybe you’re an artist who has an innovative approach as to how to share. Whatever the case, you’re moving in the right direction.

Still, you probably have questions. How do you begin? How do you structure your story? How do stories drive political change? Luckily, I have insights.

I recently taught a virtual workshop on the power of politicizing your personal story. This post draws from some of the core elements of my presentation. Please let me know if it resonates by liking, commenting or sharing this post.

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What Makes a Personal Narrative So Powerful?

We like to think of our experiences as happening in isolation. In actuality, we have more in common with people than we’re even fully aware of. Telling the story buried deep inside you can transform yourself AND others. It can transform the world.

Think about conversations you’ve had with friends, with strangers on public transportation, with parents at the playground, with coworkers and with family members during holidays. Making a political statement or sharing an opinion is one thing. People tend to lose interest if you’re rattling off jargon. Structuring our ideas in story-form is world-making.

Humans don’t think in terms of raw information—they think in stories. As people focus on the narrative, the info naturally comes along for the ride. Your personal story is meaningful because we aren’t just statistics and numbers; we’re living, feeling beings, and that emotional resonance is what truly connects us.

How Are Stories, Codes?

Stories can function like cultural codes that shape norms. For example, the concept of the “knight in shining armor.” These ideas, often taught through childhood bedtime stories, become ingrained conditioning. Without questioning them, people may continue living by oppressive codes. I mean, even Trump likes to think of himself as a knight in shining armor. His followers think he’s come to save the day, to slay the dragon, to conquer their fears.

Other cultural codes can cause people to wallow in isolation. Folks feel ashamed for being in medical debt because they haven’t “pulled themselves up by their bootstraps”—which can lead to isolation, powerlessness, and even suicidal thoughts.

On the other hand, “codes of liberation” turn shame into solidarity, fostering righteous anger and a collective will to fight unjust systems while treating each other with empathy.

Elaborate on a “Code of Oppression” vs. a “Code of Liberation”

There are many oppressive “codes” used to uphold toxic masculinity, white supremacy or to prevent the working class from recognizing our power.

One example is the narrative that people go into debt because they “live beyond their means.” An organization I work with, the Debt Collective, counters this code by reminding people that they aren’t actually living beyond their means, they’ve been denied the means to live. This flips oppressive code on its head. It reveals a deeper truth: we deserve access to universal, public, and reparative goods. And forcing people into debt for housing, healthcare, and education is a profound social failure.

Ok, I’m Ready to Tell My Story. Where Do I Start?

Just start. You might want to free-write in a journal without judging yourself, or tell your story to friends and family you trust. If you’ve participated in a debtors’ assembly, that’s also a great space to openly and cathartically share debt experiences—simply voicing these stories is a crucial first step. An open mic is another option. After the initial stage, organize your thoughts. You can try recording a voice note and transcribing it so you can see the words written in front of you.

What Are the Elements of a Succinct Story?

Once you’re ready to share your story with the wider public, once you have a goal for why you’re doing it, you’ll want to make it concise.

Setting, Characters, Conflict, Plot, Rising Action, Resolution, etc

These are elements of a story. An effective story needs a strong hook at the beginning and a clear call to action at the end—people often forget the middle. Remember, every story typically has characters, conflict (what drives the story?), and a setting.

What If I’m Nervous About Sharing My Story?

It’s natural to feel nervous since society often shames the most marginalized. We’re shamed for being artists, working class people, femmes, queer folks, people in debt, and more. That’s why it’s helpful to tell your story among those you trust before you share publicly (for instance, in an op-ed or online), make sure you’re ready, as it will remain accessible indefinitely.

Even if you never publish, writing down your story can still be transformative for your own wellbeing.

What If People Ridicule Me?

Although it would be ideal to live in a completely respectful world, we don’t yet.

Be prepared for the possibility of negative reactions when telling your story. Remember people are creatures of habit. If they’re living by an oppressive code, hearing a liberating code may feel threatening or unsettling. Sometimes folks will critique your story. But respectful feedback can be an opportunity to help people unlearn and bring folks onto your side through dialogue.

If you post your story online, you might encounter trolls, bots, or those determined to misunderstand you. Feel free to block anyone engaging in bigotry or inappropriate behavior—there’s no need to waste energy on them.

Prompt (If You Choose to Accept It)

Write about a significant life obstacle—maybe a health crisis, divorce, breakup, or move. Tell a short story.

1.) Describe the central conflict and the moment you knew it was serious.

2.) Use sensory details to show its impact. Who was involved, and where did it unfold? Compare its urgency to something in nature, like a tsunami of emotions. Did you find a resolution, and what did you learn?

3.) Finally, connect your experience to a broader social or political issue—perhaps include a statistic—to show how your story fits into a larger societal narrative.

Here’s an example: “My divorce rocked my world, but it also opened up my world. 50% of marriages end in divorce. How does this impact women? I know myself enough to choose healthy, reciprocal relationships.”

Don’t be surprised if you encounter challenging emotions such as grief, anger or fear. Remember that these emotions should be temporary. This is all part of the excavation process.

Let me know how it goes.

Please like, share, or comment below.