Sacred & Seen

If I didn’t need sleep, I think the first thing I’d do is simply exhale.

Because so much of my life is spent holding things together—for my children, for my clients, for my family, and for every person who looks to me for guidance or grounding.

As a mother of two, the days start early, and the nights end too late. There’s always something to tend to: a backpack to zip, an appointment to remember, a question to answer, a little heart to reassure. And even though it’s a lot, it’s also love. The kind that pulls you forward when you’re tired and reminds you who you’re becoming.

If I had extra hours—hours untouched by exhaustion—I’d use some of them to simply be with my children. Not rushing. Not multitasking. Just noticing: their laughter, their curiosity, their growing independence, the ways they reflect the ancestors and the future all at once.

I’d spend more time with my mother, my siblings, and my closest friends. Not because they need me, but because I need the grounding that comes with being loved in your truest form.

And then there’s the work—the purpose-driven work that shapes so much of my life.

As a Benefits Coordinator, I’d use those extra hours to support even more families—helping them protect what matters most, guiding them through decisions that often go unspoken until crisis reveals the gaps. Every conversation is a reminder that people carry whole worlds in their stories.

With J&J Learning Services, I’d answer one more call from a parent feeling lost in the special education process. I’d review one more IEP, show up for one more meeting, empower one more mother who has been overlooked in systems that don’t always honor the children they claim to serve. Advocacy isn’t a job—it’s heart work. And if I had more time, I’d expand the light I get to bring into the lives of families who deserve to be seen.

And then, in the quietest hours—the ones nobody else would know about—I’d turn to the dream I haven’t forgotten.

The dream of becoming a published author.

Not for recognition, but for legacy.
For the stories that need to be heard but so rarely are.
For the narratives of the unseen, the overlooked, the survivors.
For the human truths that cross identity, culture, and circumstance and land in a place we all share—the place where struggle meets hope, where pain meets possibility, where the sacred becomes visible.

Writing has always been a way for me to translate my life into something that breathes—something that connects us. If I didn’t need sleep, I’d finally give that dream the time it deserves. I’d write the stories of women like me: Black, resilient, spiritual, queer, mothering, healing, striving, shifting, uprooting, evolving. I’d write about the people I meet through my work. I’d write about the journeys we take and the ones we survive.

I would write the truths that aren’t pretty but are necessary.
The stories that hold the human element so deeply that anyone reading them can feel themselves inside it—whether they lived it or not.

Because some stories don’t just want to be told.
They want to be understood.

And yet… even without extra hours, even with the fullness of my life, I am learning this:

Time isn’t just something we have. It’s something we choose.

Maybe the question isn’t what I’d do if I didn’t need sleep—
but what I’m willing to claim in the time I already have.

The exhale.
The motherhood.
The advocacy.
The service.
The community.
The dreams.
The stories waiting for their pages.
The woman I am becoming.

Maybe I don’t need 24 more hours.
Maybe I just need more moments where I remember that I deserve to take up space in my own life.

And maybe…
that is where the real awakening begins.