Her•Story

I’ve noticed something. Women are celebrating eachother more and more these days. I like it. Coming from an adolescent youth where I had plenty of poorly managed friendships and not a whole lot of trust in general, I’m very happy to be a part of a community that is driven by supporting one another.


Being around creatives is magical. The conversations are full of healing and powerful language. I can’t really recall a time in my life where I have felt so inspired to share and embrace others which such vulnerability. For a larger part of my life I hid how much I loved all things art.


That only lead me to a place where I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was trapped inside this body looking to others for validation, for permission to move. I thank those individuals. Without them, I wouldn’t have found my way back to the person I was always meant to be. Me.

I am not my trauma. I am not my pain.
I am all that I choose to be.

I lift that woman up and wish her the absolute best life. Because after all it takes a hell of a person to bask in creativity and make something beautiful to share with the world. Here’s to the makers, artist, writers, painters, musicians and more – I dedicate this poem to you.

What does my love look like?

Is it safe? Is it warm?

The reflection of it sometimes feels cold like the surface it beams from.

Realizing the story of my mystery all of a sudden, is not mine.

Strangers have played a role in giving me a tale. Desperately, I held it. Not even knowing what of it.

Where do I find my story? The one written just for me?

Chasing it down like the shadows chase the sunset. Stretched and dark, fading into the night.

Who do I confide in, about the way that  I love?

My love story is abandoned and hiding from the light.

Until the steady beat of my yearning heart; is my favorite song.

Until I no longer feel shushed by the thoughts of being wronged.

Until I sing my praises with notes of joy.

This indescribable emotion is an old abandoned cabin, blanketed by the tallest towering trees.

Hope lurks in desperate need, to find it’s way in.

It seeps through the branches and begins to break through, rejoicing in celebration.

Light finally emerges.

Take extra care.

Build with grace and restore in faith.

My story is not mine until I address my HERstory.

– Akilah Oni

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