I’m sitting on the floor of my room in pajamas on a Friday night- candles lit, an essential oil diffuser dousing me with scents of lavender and peppermint in the background, and a cup of hot mint tea to the left of me. And to be honest with you, I couldn’t feel more content.
And it’s a content that I am proud of- it took a long while to reach this sense of peace within myself in acknowledging and loving the person that I am. I don’t quite fit the stereotypical mold of a 23 year old, I suppose- if one procures that there are a set of traits that describe as such.
I’m not quite Nigerian according to those back home who claim I’ve become “too Americanized.” Yet to some African Americans, my features are too distinct, my upbringing too different to be able to claim the term “Black.”
And so for quite some time, I laid in a void, unsure of who I was and searching for an identity that I could neatly tuck myself into. Before I realized that fitting into a predesigned box was not my purpose nor my calling. That to be who God truly called me to be, I needed to take and learn and love all the different parts that composed me.
I love museums and spending hours in botanical gardens and crouching in the soil to notice the subtle differences between peppermint and spearmint. I read-all the time. I write. I knit, crochet, sew. I dance- wildly and passionately-anywhere and everywhere. I carry my crystals in one hand my bible in another. I’m a yogi. A meditator. An avid advocate for love, joy, and abundance. I am Nigerian. I am Black. I loved. I am loved. I am all these things. And all these things are me.
originally published february 27, 2019