One concept I wish society didn’t push on Cancer, brain tumor, and chronic illness survivors of any kind, is the idea that once you’re out of treatment, you can go back to how things were before. I think when you are first diagnosed or enduring treatment, everyone rallies around you.You get offered all these resources, people bringing you and your family meals, get well soon cards and words of encouragement, and so on. You have this constant cheerleading squad by your side. You receive texts or cards with words of encouragement, prayer, and support.

Then once you finish treatment, and it all fades away, to quiet whispers, to background noise, then eventually nothing…

No one understands that just because treatment ends the hard part doesn’t mean the hard part ends. It’s only just beginning and it gets more difficult as time goes on.

After treatment, everyone just expects you to go back to how you were before, except you don’t. You now battle fatigue, anxiety, pain, and physical limitations, and so much more daily. According to a study done in 2020, 3 out of 5 survivors develop late effects. (Klonoff-Cohen & Polavarapu, 2020). While the study noted most of these effects were not life-threatening, they cause severe issues that affect health and quality of life. The authors of this article stated “survivors can struggle daily with: a) the complications of late effects (e.g., cardiomyopathy, central nervous system problems [thinking, learning, memory, fatigue], sexual health and fertility, and lymphedema) as well as risks of cancer recurrences, b) psychosocial difficulties of late effects such as anxiety, depression, relationship complications, body image disturbances, and poor self-esteem, and c) financial consequences of late effects including unemployment, medical insurance, and finances.” (2020)

Simply going back to your daily life after treatment is finished is an adjustment period in itself. When your pep squad leaves you on your own after treatment, you are left to navigate your new normal on your own, jumping over obstacles that are flying down your road to recovery left and right, all while grieving your past self. One of my friends, who is a brain cancer survivor, once said , “Everyone is worried, of course, when you’re in treatment with a bleak prognosis, but after the 5-year mark, or whatever, they’re like, ‘okay, move on.’ But we can’t, because this will affect us for our whole lives.”

After the treatments are done, everyone leaves you in the room, turning the light off behind them as they walk out. Your people don’t realize the darkness survivors face for years. The side effects that consume the entirety of our lives. Or if they do, they don’t know what to say, and the quiet becomes too loud, the darkness of it all is too consuming for them, and they leave you there all by yourself. I know for myself, even 18 years after my diagnosis, I sometimes just wish someone would have just sat with me through it all. But it’s like at the movies, the credits have started playing, so everyone leaves, not anticipating the bonus scene of late effects that will now start playing.

Edited by Hanna Villegas

Sources:

Klonoff-Cohen, H., & Polavarapu, M. (2020). Existence of late-effects instruments for cancer survivors: A systematic review. PloS one, 15(2), e0229222.https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0229222

In 1870, a woman by the name of Julia Ward Howe, an abolitionist, women’s rights advocate and peace activist issued what is now recognized today as the Mother’s Day Proclamation Act, originally called Appeal to womanhood throughout the world. Within this proclamation, Howe encouraged the idea of the creation of an international body of women who could find ways to avoid war and bloodshed:

“I earnestly ask that a general congress of women, without limit of nationality, may be appointed … to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of peace.” 

This would go on to be ignored of course, which prompted Howe to then seek to establish an annual Mother’s Day in June which occurred inconsistently. The Mother’s Day we all celebrate today in May is due largely in part to Anna Jarvis who established the day to honor her own mother, Ann Jarvis, a woman who gave birth to over a dozen children, losing many to illness and diseases common during the 1800’s. Ann would go on to work tirelessly in her community to help other mothers avoid the same pains and losses she underwent. Organizing “Mother’s Work Clubs” and special days where women in the community would come together to collect trash and take on projects to improve community conditions and hygiene, things would get more serious as the Civil War rolled around, the women found themselves helping both sides of the war and promoting unity and peace. Her daughter, Anna, who would never have children of her own, in order to honor her mother’s work and legacy, sought to establish a national Mother’s Day on the second Sunday of May, the day her mother Ann died, encouraging people to write letters of gratitude to their mothers and to gift flowers, more notably white carnations. This would later be cemented by President Wilson with a proclamation of the first national Mother’s Day just before the start of World War I in 1914.

I write this as a mother myself, to a beautiful baby boy who is my reason for breathing, as most mothers will tell you. On this day I want to bring attention to mothers that have impacted me in my own journey, whom I feel encompass what it is to bring life to this world.

1. Mamie Till

I will never not be overcome with emotion when I think of Mamie Till, and I think about her very often. I have since I was a child and even more so as a mother myself. Mamie Till was an educator and activist, who marked history undoubtedly with how she chose to handle the brutal murder of her 14 year old son, Emmett Till. In 1955, while visiting family, Emmett was abducted and brutally murdered due to the white lies of a woman named Carolyn Bryant after Emmet was in her family’s grocery store. Part of Carolyn’s lies insisted that the young Emmett grabbed her around the waist, made sexual advances, and used vulgar language. Years later in a 2008 interview with Duke University historian Dr. Timothy Tyson, author of “The Blood of Emmett Till’, Carolyn admitted, “That part’s not true,” and stated regarding the rest of the alleged encounter, “Honestly, I just don’t remember”.

Days later after Emmett had been in the grocery store, Carolyn’s husband and his half brother abducted Emmett at gunpoint from his uncle’s home whom he had been visiting, took him to a barn and tortured him before throwing his body into the Mississippi river. Three days later, Emmett’s disfigured body was found in the river. The local sheriff’s department would then try to rush his burial that same day, an inhumane attempt to conceal one of our nation’s worst acts of racial violence to date, even prompting his uncle to sign an agreement not to open the casket. When Mamie caught wind of this, she called everyone she knew to bring her baby home.

With the help of individuals such as Civil rights leader T. R. M. Howard who provided vital assistance and financial backing, Chicago Mayor Richard J. Daley and Illinois Governor William Stratton applied heavy political pressure to ensure his body was safely transported back to Illinois. The Illinois politicians also sought assistance from President Eisenhower and his administration, to which they got no response.

The same train that took Emmett to Mississippi brought his body back home. Upon seeing the sealed wooden casket and despite the document Emmett’s uncle signed, Mamie cried out, “Well, give me a crowbar, give me whatever. What can they do to me? They’ve taken my son.” Mamie Till would mark history by demanding an open casket funeral, famously remarking “Let the people see what they did to my boy, Let the world see what I’ve seen.” I find myself echoing Dr. Tyson’s words that, “Nothing that boy did could ever justify what happened to him.” Emmett was Mamie’s only child. She would go on to channel her grief through life-long activism, building a 23 year career as an educator and touring the country with the NAACP speaking out against racial violence. She also founded the Emmett Till Players, a touring youth drama group.

2. Mary Wollstonecraft

Nicknamed by many as the “Mother of Feminism” (personally I think this title largely belongs to bell hooks) Mary Wollstonecraft was a writer, philosopher and foundational feminist who spent her life advocating for social and educational equality for women. Known largely for her landmark treatise, The Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), which argued that women are not naturally inferior to men but only appear to be due to a lack of education. She wrote novels, a history of the French Revolution, travelogues, and children’s books. For women during her time she championed intellectual independence and challenging social conventions regarding women’s roles, was as impactful to later generations as her writing. She is also known as the mother of Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein.

3. Eliza Berry

Growing up in a family very proud and protective of their African ancestry meant that we often watched telenovelas, movies, and shows that dealt with slavery. When 12 Years A Slave came out in 2013, based on the 1853 memoir of the same name by Solomon Northup, a free Black man from New York who was kidnapped in 1841 and sold into slavery in Louisiana, my family was sat. Right away I was affected by Eliza Berry. I watched this film again earlier this year and while I remembered being overcome with emotion as a child at hearing the children cry out for their mother as they were ripped apart, I was now watching it as a mother. Roughly 30 minutes into the film we see Benedict Cumberbatch as plantation owner William Ford at an auction for enslaved persons in New Orleans. As if seeing humans be inspected and sold like cattle isn’t horrifying enough, we see a woman by the name of Eliza Berry clinging onto her two children, Randall and Emily. During the auction, Ford purchases Eliza after Randall is sold to another, Emily is deemed “not for sale” by the cruel slave trader Theophilus Freeman played by Paul Giamatti. Eliza desperately begs that her family not be separated, crying and pleading to keep her children with her.

Ford appears to be uncomfortable and somewhat sympathetic in comparison to the other men in the room. The scene is devastating because while Ford is portrayed as more “kind” than many other enslavers in the film, yet he still participates in and enables the system of slavery. His failure to act fully, despite recognizing Eliza’s suffering, highlights one of the movie’s central themes: that even supposedly humane people were complicit in the cruelty of slavery. I could never imagine the anxiety and pain Eliza felt, being given the false hope of freedom for her and her children by her former enslaver and the pain of having them b e ripped away so inhumanely and not knowing what happened to them. This is only a crumb of what enslaved women dealt with as mothers. There aren’t shrines big enough or history books thick enough. Eliza spends the remainder of her life stricken with grief, which later is the cause of her death.

4. Unnamed Palestinian Mother

This is one of the very first images/videos I saw that has greatly affected how I hug and kiss my child to this day. There is not one hug or kiss where I do not think of this woman. “In a touching video clip, the Palestinian woman warmly embraced her child for the last time after he was martyred in a violent raid carried out by the Israeli army on the city of Rafah in southern Gaza. In this farewell embrace, the mother cried bitterly and kissed her martyred child, then held him close in a heartbreaking scene.” According to analysis by the UN and international aid organizations, the rate and number of Palestinian children killed in the current Gaza conflict have surpassed the child death tolls of any other single global conflict in recent years. Never could we ever imagine seeing as many dead children as we have with this genocide. One would think more would be shocked, that more would be done. War is fought on battlefields, but its deepest wounds are carried by women and children.

5. Michelle Obama

I love this woman down. Part of the reason for the infamous D.C trip right before Kailon Magazine going public was me wanting to see Michelle’s painting in the National Gallery. Though that one is by Amy Sherald, I much prefer this one by artist Sharon Sprung, it’s just a bit more difficult to see as it is part of the White House Collection. Michelle made us all laugh in 2022 when she said that there was a period of about 10 years where she “couldn’t stand” 44th President Barack Obama, a comment blown out of proportion later by the internet. What she was really explaining was the emotional and personal strain that came from balancing motherhood, career sacrifices, and the unequal burdens that can happen in marriage while Barack pursued a demanding political career. Her remarks gave people a deeper understanding of the unseen sacrifices she made as a wife and mother during the years leading up to Barack Obama becoming the first Black president of the United States. Michelle Obama carried not only the pressures of raising their children and supporting her husband’s ambitions, but also the weight of public scrutiny, racial hostility, and the historic expectations placed on their family. Her honesty helped humanize their relationship and showed that behind a groundbreaking presidency was a family making difficult personal sacrifices that the public rarely sees. Never have we had a first lady more influential and a powerhouse in her own right. I was recently gifted her book, The Light We Carry, which I cannot recommend enough.

6. Jocelyn Hurndall

Jocelyn Hurndall is the mother of Tom Hurndall, a British photography student, a volunteer for the International Solidarity Movement, and an activist against the Israeli occupation of the Palestinian territories.

She became known after campaigning for justice following her son’s shooting by an Israeli sniper in Gaza in 2003. Tom Hurndall later died from his injuries in 2004. Jocelyn Hurndall also wrote the book Defy the Stars: The Life and Tragic Death of Tom Hurndall, documenting his life and activism. It covers profound loss, grief, and the struggle for accountability, while also highlighting the realities of life in the Gaza Strip as well as documents the family’s fight to uncover the truth after a cover-up by the Israeli Defence Force (IDF).

“A brief lull in the destruction of homes and houses had been shattered while children played on a mound of sand nearby to where Tom sat. Without hesitation we are told, Tom had jumped into the line of fire, coming from Israeli soldiers masked in their watch towers and hidden inside the turrets of their tanks, to rescue the children. He had managed to bring one child to safety but when returning with the second child in his arms, a young girl – like perhaps the one whose eyes had so beckoned him in Jordan to come to Gaza – the sniper’s bullet had hit its target. The sniper’s target was simply a man who dared to care, who dared to help, and a man who also dared to believe that surely a young soldier, unthreatened in his vantage point, would not really wish to shoot and kill children or those who try to move them to safety.”

His photographs and diaries documenting the Israeli occupation of Palestine were published in a book titled, The Only House Left Standing.

Honorable Mentions

7. My Own Mother

I could never fully comprehend the extent of the hardships my mother endured throughout her life, especially considering that she became a mother to me on her nineteenth birthday. Looking back now as an adult, and especially through the lens of motherhood itself, I realize just how impossibly young she truly was. At nineteen, most people are only beginning to discover who they are, yet she was already carrying the weight and responsibility of raising another human being.

For much of my childhood, I did not know I was mixed with anything else until I was a teenager. By then, I had already spent my most formative years surrounded by my father’s culture that my mother had worked tirelessly to preserve and pass down. Learning later that she had taught herself my father’s language while pregnant with me before I was even born moved me in a way I struggle to describe. I have been with my husband since I was 16, and I still struggle with his native language. It was not something she was obligated to do, nor something expected of her, but an act of love and devotion so deep that she immersed herself entirely into a culture, traditions, and even a syncretic religion that were not originally her own until they became part of her identity too.

She was still practically a child herself, navigating adulthood and motherhood simultaneously, and in many ways my father’s family helped raise her as much as they helped raise me. Yet despite her youth, despite everything unfamiliar and overwhelming that must have surrounded her, she embraced it all with an openness and determination that I deeply admire now. There is something profoundly beautiful about the way she chose love over fear, community over isolation, and understanding over distance.

When I think about mothers throughout history, I think not only of grand acts of sacrifice remembered in books or headlines, but also of quieter, deeply personal acts like hers, the unseen labor of reshaping oneself out of love for one’s children. The willingness to learn a new language, adopt unfamiliar customs, carry traditions that are not your own, and build a bridge between worlds so your child never has to feel disconnected from either side of themselves. Those acts may never be memorialized publicly, but they are no less extraordinary.

8. My Mother-in-Law

My mother-in-law became a mother at an age when most people are still children themselves. She had her first daughter at around fourteen years old, then a second daughter soon after, and finally my husband, the youngest, the baby of the family. When I hear the stories of her early life, I am often struck by how much responsibility was placed on her so early, and how she carried it with a kind of quiet endurance that only becomes fully visible in hindsight.

I have heard fragments of the life she built in those early years, small but haunting details that linger. The tiny house they lived in, the monsoon seasons, when the rain would rise and flood their space, and she would hold my husband as a baby in her arms while climbing to higher surfaces just to keep him safe and dry.

The most painful part of her story, though, is not only what she endured then, but what she has had to endure for decades since. When she made the decision to leave her two daughters behind and come to the United States with my husband, who was then only around two years old, it was not a choice made lightly or without cost. It was a separation born of necessity and hope, and one that would become permanent in ways no one could have fully understood at the time. Due to the long and often broken realities of immigration systems, more than twenty years later she has still not been able to see her daughters in person again. She has also lost her father while being over here.

That absence is a silence that has stretched across most of her adult life. A kind of grief that does not end, but simply learns how to coexist with daily responsibilities. And yet, in the midst of that distance and loss, she continued to build a life here. She taught herself how to read in both Vietnamese and English, refusing to be limited by language or circumstance. She worked tirelessly to support her large family overseas while also raising my husband on her own here, carrying the weight of two worlds at once with relentless determination.

She is, in every sense, a woman who has had to make strength out of necessity. Not the kind of strength that is loud or performative, but the kind that is built in quiet endurance, in sacrifice that spans decades, in love that persists even when it is stretched across borders and time. To me, she is one of the strongest women I know, not because her life was easy to admire from a distance, but because it has been unimaginably hard to live through and she has continued anyway.

As a woman who battles chronic illness, I also battle, much more often than not, the voices that come in the dark: the doubts of other people. Despite the obstacles I face, I still try to dream big and influence others for God, and in a positive way. I refuse to believe that God has brought me this far, just to let me sit here and be stagnant. So I keep pushing forward. I choose to dream the unimaginable.

Have you ever felt like people roll their eyes and shake their heads at what you’re trying to do in life? Like what you’re trying to do is impossible, and you’re stupid to waste your time fighting for it? But you can’t see their reasoning at all, because something deep inside of you is telling you to keep fighting for it.

This doesn’t come without people doubting me. I’ve had people nearly laugh at what I’m trying to do. I’ve been told that what I’m trying to do is pointless, worthless, even. They tell me I’m not strong enough, not smart enough – incapable, too exhausted, too broken to make much of a difference. When will I find the time to do that?

In fact, I’ve heard the question, “Are you sure you can do this?” an innumerable amount of times. I’ve let this stop me from doing things I’d dreamt of – from truly living out loud. But over the years, I’ve realized something: it doesn’t matter what they think. They’re not me. If I believe in something, if I love doing something, I should reach for it. Because for the million reasons people will give me for why I shouldn’t or can’t do something, I can come up with ten million reasons for why I can, and will. Instead of dwelling on the what-if’s, I think of all of the amazing things that could happen when I succeed.

One thing I’ve learned from my journey and my condition is that no one is promised tomorrow. Not one of us. We must live for today. If we sit and wait for others to put their stamp of approval on our dreams, we’ll never achieve anything higher than mediocrity.

You see, it doesn’t matter what others think, or whether they believe we can accomplish what we’re trying to do, if we believe in it and fight for it, with all our heart and soul. Especially when we’re struggling with chronic illness, we’re often told by those around us – doctors, coworkers, even friends and family – that what we’re trying to do is out of the question. We should just sit back and let someone who has more energy, more strength, or who is more qualified do it.

People often focus on the reasons why something hard is unimaginable, reminding you of all of the things you’re not seeing, or considering why you can’t accomplish something. If you believe in your dream with all of your heart, don’t back down, don’t give up, just because the world says it’s impossible, or it can’t be done. If you believe in something strong enough to fight for it, don’t let the world’s shouts of discouragement become your background noise. Instead, listen for that still, small voice inside, and repeat it enough to yourself, so that it drowns out everything else around you. My background noise is Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Maybe your background noise is something different, but whatever it is, don’t let it be the shouts of doubt.

Edited by Jacquie Galvano

The concept of time banking largely originated with US civil rights lawyer and political activist Edgar Cahn in the 1980s to directly address social inequity and communal isolation. In the past decade, the number of individuals participating in time banking in the US has nearly doubled. This growth could be due to a variety of factors: the increased use of time-banking apps, the isolation of the COVID-19 quarantines, and the growing value placed on the invisible economy of simple acts of caretaking alongside companionship.

The fundamental rule of time banking is that one hour of providing a service equals one time credit or time dollar. Unlike traditional economic systems or bartering, time banks do not value one type of service over another—teaching someone Spanish is as valuable as fixing someone’s brakes—and you can bank as many hours as you’d like. But what keeps people engaged in communities that provide goods and services without any monetary exchange?

Power of Connection

“When I joined the community, and I joined the time bank, I didn’t know many people. It helped me connect with the community and meet other people because I felt lonely…What can I offer the community? My sign language, that’s what I like and love to do because of my daughter.” – Susana Santillan

Susana Santillan has been a member of the Mesilla Valley Time Bank since 2020, beginning her experience as an American Sign Language (ASL) teacher, a practice she’s continued to this day. Santillan noted the time bank allowed her to interact with people she’d otherwise never meet, something she was especially grateful for when she joined in the height of COVID-19 quarantines. Santillan, a very giving person, was immediately drawn to the time bank to strengthen connections with her community.

“I don’t count that time as money or anything like that… to me, all I concentrate on is that I give, and if I receive, that’s a big help… If I can help, I help. That’s part of me. I enjoy helping… I’m able to meet a lot of people that I wouldn’t have ever met if I hadn’t joined the time bank. I started meeting all these people, and it’s wonderful, and they have different skills. There are authors that have a book club, [and there’s] arts and crafts. I’m not very good at arts and crafts.”

Although Santillan began her time bank experience through giving, she has also received much in return. The service she offers naturally helps her and her daughter navigate the community, since her daughter is legally deaf. Santillan has received many time credits from those interested in her classes, and in return, she has used them for a variety of services and experiences, including fence repair, car service, yard work, and even joining a Dungeons & Dragons campaign.

“I like to do it because I like to be with people… Sometimes we say we’re volunteering, but we don’t realize how much we get back until you think about it. And some people are like, ‘I’ll go to the meeting once or twice and see how it is,’ but it’s hard at first, because, you know, there are people that think, ‘why would I do [this for] free?’ It’s because you realize people do stuff for free because they want to be around people, or just to help. The sense of helping people is a big reward.”

Time banks are highly effective at fostering a tight-knit community that values individual skills not for their monetary value but for their emotional value. Each experience Santillan shared revealed a new way in which people who would have been strangers could share a moment of camaraderie. Time banks strengthen community and deemphasize personal wealth by placing everyone on the same level; it doesn’t matter if you’re able-bodied or disabled, unhoused or housed, employed or unemployed. They focus on what someone can do rather than what they cannot.

Changing Perspectives

Patricia Mendoza currently serves as the Director of Doña Ana Communities United and the Mesilla Valley Time Bank Coordinator. Mendoza began her journey as a shy stay-at-home mom desperate to break outside of her tiny bubble and become involved in the larger local community. The time bank provided the perfect outlet for creating community, inspiring Mendoza so much that she quickly took on an executive role.

“It brought up the confidence in me to be able to talk and motivate others as a sort of ‘if I could do it, you can do it ‘ kind of thing. And honestly, it sounds cheesy, but I do believe everybody has something to offer… a degree is important, but just because you can’t afford one or didn’t have the time to get one doesn’t mean that you don’t have skills or something to give to the community.”

Mendoza further emphasizes how the time bank values all skills regardless of how much they would “cost” in any other economic system. Capitalism is so deeply ingrained in the way most Americans view the world around them that every act, no matter how charitable, is viewed with a dollar amount beside it: “time is money.” Given this mindset, one would not be able to exchange kitchen help for an astrological reading, but this is a situation Mendoza was happy to find herself in.

“One of the first ones that I exchanged was with a time bank member who is immunocompromised, so she cannot go to group gatherings and such, and she does astrological chart readings and tarot card readings and things like that. So I thought that was very unique and nice, that [the time bank] took that in as a skill. Because in other places they would be like, ‘that’s not a skill to be marketable,’”

As a first-generation graduate who placed much time and effort into attaining a degree and getting a job, Mendoza found herself holding biases toward the impoverished, unhoused individuals in her community. The time bank provided an outlet for these community members to engage with people of different economic statuses in a nonjudgmental exchange of skills. Mendoza’s exposure taught her to treat unhoused members as equals, and she kept in touch with some after they left the program.

“I was very biased against unhoused individuals. I was scared of them. And so the previous director taught me that they’re humans, and you need to treat them equally. They’re not gonna hurt you, like I know it sounds foolish now that I said it out loud, but… being part of the time bank opened my eyes to other parts of the community, and [it increased] my empathy for others and sympathy… There are a few time bank members who are not active anymore, because obviously they are going through their issues, but if I see them around town, I’ll give them a blanket or, you know, if they need extra cash… So I think that was a lasting impression for me when it comes to personal growth.”

Mendoza has obtained a great number of friendships through her experience in the time bank. “Grumpy” Ben, a notable time bank volunteer, first intimidated her with his loud excitement, a stark contrast to her usual quiet introversion. But over time, the duo became integral to time bank brainstorming. Kelsey is another member Mendoza mentioned because of her particularly interesting time bank service: group Pokémon Go hunting. Mendoza’s relationships provide a powerful example of what kinds of connections can grow after the initial awkwardness or nervousness of a time bank exchange.

“The biggest challenge is trusting people because they’re strangers, and the first reaction is, ‘I don’t want a stranger in my home,’ which I wouldn’t want a stranger in my home either… Our time bank’s goal is to reduce social isolation, so we focus a lot on connections and group gatherings. I would suggest, if there are monthly socials, monthly potlucks, a group exchange, go to those, even if it’s one or two, so you can meet those time bank members, and you get to meet others. Google them, search them online, on social media, make yourself feel safer around them, and meet them in a public space.”

As a leader within her time bank, Mendoza has had to learn to let go of her micromanaging tendencies and place great faith in the volunteers and team members. This collaboration has given Mendoza the opportunity to lean away from hyper-independence and allow herself to seek help from the people around her. It truly does take a village to uplift a single person in a community, and the time bank has provided the perfect outlet to create that village.

“It is harder to receive than to give, because we all have this mentality that I am strong and independent and I don’t need help from anybody... but we always need help from somebody at some point, and any small skill or help that we can get will make a difference and make the other person feel important and valuable in society.”

Learning to Give

McKenzie Yazzie-Martin found the time bank through his position as a program manager for the nonprofit organization “Brighter Bites.” Yazzie-Martin needed volunteers to help distribute fresh food to local families and schools, the time bank was the perfect place to find them.

“Sometimes I get more people who are willing and wanting to help… So I’ve had some people kind of just, not standing around, but wondering how they could help ‘Brighter Bites.’ Yeah, and in this case, I have people who I give a bag [of fruits and vegetables] as well as appreciation. I mean, overall, the challenge that I’ve had is managing a bigger team than I anticipated.”

As a volunteer coordinator, Yazzie-Martin found the time bank system particularly unique because it allowed him to reward volunteers with service hours they could use to receive services for themselves. Exchange of services creates a beneficial cycle rather than people feeling as if they are “wasting time” by volunteering because it has no monetary value. The time bank also provides “Brighter Bites” with a wide variety of skill sets, ranging from highly involved leadership to simply spreading the word about the organization.

“I see the skills of other people in terms of what they bring to ‘Brighter Bites.’ A lot of them have leadership skills or organization skills. A lot of them communicate, kind of elaborating on what the program is, and then sharing that knowledge with parents who are within the public or within the community schools… we’re helping the community create a more diverse nutrition aspect… [the time bank] also helps me bring up my skills as well with the leadership part and the management part.”

Overall, Yazzie-Martin has found the volunteers from the time bank to be extremely communicative, helpful, and loyal to the people they help. The interactions within this program have become less like transactions and more like a family. Members are deeply invested in spending time together and supporting one another.

“Everybody is super communicative, very loyal to the people that they help. It’s their own community, where it’s kind of more like a friendship, and the majority of the people think of it as like a family initiative, to the point where they spend a lot of time with each other.”

Although Yazzie-Martin hasn’t yet ingrained himself in the Mesilla Valley Timebank by providing his own services, the community has already inspired him to view his hobbies through a different lens. He has offered photography and yard work services to much appreciation, but he has struggled with asking for services outside of “Brighter Bites.” Sometimes, giving freely is a lot easier than receiving freely, but both are essential to the reciprocal nature of the time bank.

Redefining Wealth

The current political climate, especially in the US, is extremely divisive, frightening, and lonely. The most important thing to foster in this moment is community. Increased online connections have led many people to avoid in-person interactions, even when those interactions can arise from small, seemingly insignificant acts. Not every interaction within one’s local community needs to be a structured “hangout”; even being in the same space as someone, chopping some vegetables, can create a meaningful connection.

One does not need to be an expert on, well, anything to be part of a time bank. Think of the things you enjoy doing for yourself or others: playing board games, baking pastries, reading books, patching clothes, or planting flowers. All of these acts are given the same “currency” as an hour of someone else’s time. Just an hour of your time could be the first step in weaving together your local community. There is no bar of entry for a time bank.

There might be a time bank near you! Websites like “hOurworld.org” and “TimeBanks.org” could help you find one in your area. If you are unable to find one in your area, consider starting a chapter yourself! It only takes one person to make a real difference.

Almost everything in our lives is influenced by gender. Looking around my room, I can find a wealth of examples of how the things I enjoy or have been conditioned to enjoy are related to my gender. I have two bottles of red wine on my desk, which I am saving for a special occasion. I am more likely to enjoy this beverage because I grew up closer to women who relax with a glass of wine than to men who tend towards beer or straight liquor.

A glance to my left reveals my closet, where I hold far more clothes than I need. However, I have always felt the need to be especially fashionable to attract positive attention from those around me, and women have to try much harder than men to create a standout outfit. Men can just pull up some cargo pants with a tasteful button-up and receive applause for their ingenuity.

Even the giant corkboard displaying only a fraction of the pictures with friends I hold close to my heart is an extension of my gender. Femininity is tied to color, kitchyness, and a wider knowledge of aesthetics. All of these aspects can be found on this corkboard: saturated images, bright postcards, and sparkling pins and buttons. Also, I can’t help but wonder whether I would display these images with such fondness if I had grown up as a man, as another important and socially ingrained element of femininity is the profound ability to care for others.

I have struggled with my gender identity in the past as someone who doesn’t feel like they fully fit into female spaces, but also definitely does not fit into male ones. Sometimes I have wondered what life would be like if I were absent of gender. However, my mind can hardly comprehend the idea wherein all of society decided to leave gender behind. Gender structures run so deep in our contemporary world, but what if, with the snap of one’s fingers, we could leave the performance behind?

A Centuries-old Performance for Power

The system of categorizing people into two distinct groups is an act of control rather than a vie for individuality. We know this because, historically and currently, people assigned to the male category have been given greater social, economic, and interpersonal power. Those assigned to the female category are taught to be subservient, peaceful, and uncombative about the disadvantages imposed on them by men.

In our society, man is seen as the default while woman is othered. This means systems ranging from medical research to architectural design are framed around a man’s body, experiences, and needs. Many men do not actively seek opportunities to dominate women, but they all passively attain higher wages, gain more respect, and reap the benefits of heightened political representation.

Gender is a performance that all of us are born into, but there are some of us who attempt to reject it i.e. gender outlaws. Kate Bornstein’s ‘Gender Outlaw: On Men, Women, and the Rest of Us’ describes the idea of someone who defies the rigid binary of masculinity and femininity, and in turn heteronormative expectations. Bornstein proposes that gender categories constitute a class system that preserves power by forcing people into boxes, with one box being given significant privileges over the other.

“The gender outlaw is a person who has stepped outside the boundaries of the gender system,” Bornstein writes. “To the extent that we continue to maintain the gender binary, we continue to maintain a system of oppression.”

Bornstein argues that fashion has been turned into a semiotic system that allows people to infer one’s gender, class, and social role. To imagine a world outside of gender, we would have to remove all clothes from the gender they are associated with. Instead of wearing a skirt to appear feminine (submissive) or a suit to appear masculine (dominant), people would be more inclined to reflect their individual moods and aesthetic preferences.

This observation is interesting, especially in our current social media landscape, where everyone feels the need to fit into an aesthetic box. If one wants to be viewed as gentle, feminine, and sweet, they wear frilly skirts, pastel colors, and tons of bows. Still, not many allow themselves to move beyond their chosen Pinterest aesthetic, preferring to attach their identity and personality to a single style.

Within Bornstein’s framework, one could wear a drab pantsuit one day and a sequined gown the next without it being a statement about gender, but rather a simple change in mood and preferences. Personally, I yearn for a world where clothes are used for their comfort, aesthetics, and functionality rather than as an essential statement of one’s positioning in society.

How We Define Sexuality

The way we define our sexuality has always been attached to gender. Bisexual, heterosexual, homosexual— all of these terms refer to sexual attraction based on gender, attraction to both genders, the opposite gender, or the same gender. We base our attraction on the perceived gender, or lack thereof, of the other individual. How would this change if society removed gender completely?

According to Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick in ‘The Epistemology of the Closet,’ the gender of one’s partner is only one axis of sexuality that, if removed, would force one to focus more on other more descriptive axes of sexuality. Because our world is highly gendered, we treat one aspect of sexuality as the only one that matters, but there is much more that goes into sexual attraction.

“It seems to me that many of the most important things that can be said about people’s sexualities—about the textures of their desires, their fantasies, their practices— don’t have much to do with the gender of their partners,” Kosofsky wrote.

According to Kosofsky, instead of focusing on gender, our society would shift to focusing on power dynamics, sensory preferences, the number of partners, and the specifics of a sexual act. A small percentage of contemporary society already focuses on these axes; many people craft their online dating profiles around kinks—non-mainstream sexual preferences—or feel comfortable sharing their preferred number of sexual or romantic partners.

This non-traditional way of viewing sexual experiences is nearly completely detached from gender, as one may focus on the self-assigned label of dominant, submissive, polyamorous, monogamous, etc., as the core of their sexual identity rather than focusing on the gender of the other party. Further, this community separates its labels from the assumed power dynamics of heterosexual relationships where man is dominant and woman is submissive; any label is available to anyone regardless of anatomy or gender identification.

A shift in sexual identity would also change romantic relationships entirely. Outside of the bedroom, relationships would be centered on partner compatibility across all areas of life rather than on gender identification. Current societal scripts pressure women to take charge of housework and men to be the breadwinners, but without these expectations to fall back on, partners would have to communicate about all aspects of sharing a life together. Labor in and outside the home would instead be divided by one’s skills and schedule.

The issue of class and power disparity may still be present. Still, an absence of gender would lead people to seek out partners for their unique personality and skills rather than shallow, gendered aesthetics.

Technology as a Bridge to a Post-Gender World

Current technological advancements may be, in many ways, frightening, but many feminist writers have theorized about how humans interlinking with technology may lead to the desired post-gender utopia. Technology is inherently genderless, possibly one of the most gender-free human advancements, as language, agriculture, and economics have always been tied to gender.

Radical feminist Shulamith Firestone argued in ‘The Dialectic of Sex: The Case for Feminist Revolution’ that gender inequality is rooted in biology, specifically, the burden of pregnancy and childbirth. According to her, a society could never be genderless with complete equality if one sex is responsible for maintaining the entire species. The burden of pregnancy on women not only leads to inequality in health and well-being, as pregnancy comes with many risks and side effects, but it will also always differentiate those born as women from those not.

The central technology required to create this utopia is artificial wombs, which our society is coming closer and closer to creating. If gestation could occur outside of the human body, the biological necessity of female reproduction would be moot. This, in combination with the theories presented earlier, would lead to less necessary distinction between those born female or male, as pregnancy could be completed by a robot.

An alteration of this intrinsic part of female-male dynamics could also make child-rearing a less gender-dependent job. The common idea of the biological family unit would be completely erased. There is no “provider” or “mother.” With a lack of gender completely, children would likely be raised in a more communal environment with no emphasis on the child bearer completing most of the emotional and physical labor.

Technological advancements would not only affect pregnancy; this is only a glimpse of what could change in a technology-first society. The performance of gender would no longer be necessary, as the societal “stage” would be completely altered and adapted around the average person rather than the average man.

A world without gender is not a world without identity; rather, it is a world where identity is finally liberated from the constraints of a centuries-old performance. By dismantling the binary through social defiance and technological innovation, we move toward a society in which nature is no longer a tool of control. In this post-gender utopia, we are free to be gender outlaws, not defined by the boxes we fit into, but by the unique textures of our desires, the functionality of our choices, and our shared capacity to care for one another as equals.

Edited by Sonal Butley

There are innumerable examples of artists who have manipulated this pigment to tell an unspoken story to their audience, instilling the average museum-goer with a rush of intense emotion. In Caravaggio’s “Saint Jerome Writing,” the saint’s bright red robe contrasts with the dull, black background and harsh, Baroque-style lighting. The color emphasizes the figure’s passion, devotion, sacrifice, and crucial spiritual importance, the weight of which is further underscored by his hunched, almost pained position.

The power of red cannot be understated, and an artist who tamed the wild tone (or vice-versa) was the post-impressionist and widely proclaimed “master of color,” Henri Matisse. The man evoked emotions ranging from soothing serenity to energetic chaos, never shying away from the striking hue.

On the more peaceful end of the spectrum is Matisse’s “Le Bonheur de Vivre” or “Joy of Life” (1905-06), a mash-up of vibrant colors meant to represent a joy-filled, pastoral landscape. This painting exemplifies Matisse’s mastery of color, as one cannot confidently identify the primary shade of the piece: it contains striking greens, oranges, blues, purples, yellows, pinks, and the slightest tinge of red.

The thin strokes of red outline the oddly shaped figures strewn throughout the dreamlike landscape. The choice to outline the figures in red rather than sticking to the less intense surrounding palette may have been to evoke a feeling of liveliness, motion, or division between the figures and the natural landscape. However, red was minimized in this piece to keep the mood tranquil and idyllic, evoking feelings of pleasure and contentment.

But what happens when red consumes the entire painting? This is the case in Matisse’s “The Dessert: Harmony in Red,” an overwhelming composition whose red is interrupted only by a female figure, a window, and blue accents. The painting was commissioned initially with the intention that the primary color be blue. Still, Matisse was dissatisfied with this rendition and repainted it in his preferred color of a radiant, raspberry-like red:

“Where I got the color red—to be sure, I just don’t know,” Matisse is quoted as saying. “I find that all these things... only become what they are to me when I see them together with the color red.”

The overwhelming use of the same fiery scarlet color reduces the painting’s dimensionality; the red fabric melts into the red walls, which are hardly distinguishable from the slightly darker red chairs. This lack of dimension may be because the piece was mounted as decoration for a dining room. The flatness of the red hues evokes a sense of comfort and warmth rather than chaos or tension due to the consistent decorative elements breaking up the excited hue. These feelings may also stem from the red being on the cooler side, meshing with the blue detailing and greenery seen through the window.

Looking at the last piece, at least one can say that the red table, chairs, floor, and wall are somewhat distinguishable. Matisse’s “L’Atelier Rouge” or “The Red Studio” brings the artist’s unrestrained use of red to its extreme. Similarly, the hues of this painting make the room feel flat, lacking the perspective evident in a traditional interior portrait.

However, this red is much more chaotic and aggressive. It is a bright, extremely warm shade that indiscriminately covers the entire six-by-seven-foot canvas. Further, the hue is entirely flat, with no shadow and extremely minimal linework, leaving no distinction among the wall, dresser, table, chair, and clock. These items are timidly bordered with negative gaps that often find themselves bleeding into the fierce background. The whole composition changes the viewer’s concept of space, clearly placing them at a particular perspective but refusing to allow them to feel a part of the room.

This painting represents Matisse’s workspace. The confrontational color screams at its audience to look at it, while the cooler hues of the items of importance in the space draw attention to their inclusion: pieces of artwork, a plate, art supplies, a plant, sculptures, a glass, and a small window. Notably, the grandfather clock is absent of hands, symbolizing a sense of time suspended as Matisse works in his oasis. This red background imbues his artistic space with an energy no other color could accomplish.

Matisse seems to have felt a deep, personal connection to this excited shade. He used the force of this color to resist traditional definitions of depth and reaffirm his position as a master of post-impressionism, a movement defined by bold colors, deep symbolic meaning, and personal significance to the painter. Matisse used red to an evocative extent, likely learning how to best harness the hue from his mentor Gustave Moreau, who saw color as a spiritual language:

“Colors must be thought, dreamed, imagined.”

Edited by Natalli Newman

The walls of Professor Nan Liu’s office seemed to breathe. Paintings, portraits, ink studies on rice paper, climb from floor to ceiling like living testimonies. Every inch is occupied, the quiet storm of a life spent translating his version of the world through brush and color. In his office and in spaces across Florida A&M University, there are glimpses of Tianjin, where he was born and first learned to draw, there are faces of his students at Florida A&M University, rendered life-size in oil. The effect is overwhelming and intimate all at once, one man’s lifelong conversation with art, unfolding in layers of ink and memory.

“I just draw and draw,” he says with a modest laugh, as if that simple truth could contain the decades behind it. “That’s my life.”

Liu’s journey begins in Tianjin, one of China’s largest and most storied cities. At sixteen, he was named Young Artist of Tianjin, a title that came with both local prestige and the kind of validation a young dreamer never forgets. “That was a big city,” he recalls. “My drawing was in the newspaper. My art teacher, she was so proud. I gave the certificate to her, and she displayed it in the art room. Later, the school invested more in art because of that.”

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As someone who has never had a valentine, I love to joke about how evil this time of year is for the chronically single. And as the resident chronically single friend, who loves to quote “I’m 27 years old. I’ve no money and no prospects, I’m already a burden to my parents, and I’m frightened” from pride and prejudice, the Kiera Knightly one. The quote hits harder when cupid’s arrow is actively piercing you straight through the heart. Picturing a big baby with an aggressively pink bow and arrow running around striking people down left and right is kind of funny, I won’t lie. Though, it is also weird, and the fact that that is the imagery associated with this day, is strange. It’s a strange holiday. Purely capitalistic by the way, but something about buying cutesy things with hearts all over them does make my grinch heart happy.

Don’t get me wrong, I love pink, and the general aesthetic of Valentine’s Day, it’s a very cute looking holiday. I dare say that I also love, love… (sometimes). It’s a complicated relationship. I love love, unless I’m at a coffee shop trying to enjoy my lavender vanilla iced matcha latte, and a couple is sitting in front of me being in love in a way that makes everyone around them uncomfortable. That is the only instance I hate love. You cannot be doing that in front of me or my matcha.

It is also a difficult thing to explain that I am not open to love, due to my being in a very committed hallucinationship. Now we need to take a little detour into learning the definition of a hallucinationship. We all know what a relationship is, now picture that but one sided, and very delusional. Just goes to show that at the end of the day, I am a very loyal person. Finding a father for my cat is something I do not take lightly. All jokes aside, I do think that Valentine’s Day is a time of year where it feels like salt is being actively rubbed on your wounds. Seeing everyone have someone and be happy, whether it is performative or not, will bring up weird feelings that we try to stow away. It is a weird time because there is this very stark juxtaposition of people being happy, and people coming face to face with all the hurt they’ve cached, like a squirrel hiding nuts.

Valentine’s Day was more of a pain in my formative years, it was torture via candy grams. My school did single roses instead of candy, but the pain was all the same. Seeing people with enough roses to start a garden, and comparing it to my barren desert… is funny in hindsight, but felt sad in the moment. No one wants to be the odd one out. It’s a weird feeling because it brings you back to those weird feelings. It’s inescapable, I mean, weird feelings are a major part of being human. And it doesn’t feel fair, I want to scream that into the ether from now til the end of Valentine’s Day. I am petitioning for boyfriends, girlfriends and they/themfriends to buy flowers for everyone, not just their significant others, its significant circle or nothing. So, do your single friends a favor, and adopt a single this Valentine’s Day.

Whilst this is all my bitterness put into words, I am a very big believer in soul mates. I think love in its pure forms is one of the most beautiful things in the world. Having never experienced it, I do have an overly romanticized idea of it. But what can I say? I’m a girl who loves to romanticize things. The only downside to that is the fear or idea that it may disappoint me… but in my little woo woo heart and soul, that simply cannot be possible. Especially noting that the reason why I’ve never experienced it is because I know my value, and the person I end up with needs to as well. High expectations yield great results (I hope). I’m not much of a gambler, more so a manifester. Is one synonymous with the other? Who knows! All I know is Valentine’s Day sucks, and we deserve the love and life we’ve always dreamed of.

Manifesting that for all of us, because we deserve that.

One last thing I will leave you off with is a question for you to ponder ever so deeply.. that question being,

Will you be my valentine?

Some artists speak loudly through the world, others speak quietly and let the work thunder on its own. Nikola Djukich is the latter. Even across continents with him answering my questions from the other side of the world, his presence comes through with a clarity you can feel. His words arrive with deep and true intention, not performance, but someone who lives by it and has lived it. Someone who understands exactly who he is, what he’s survived, and what he’s creating toward.

Born in Serbia and shaped by displacement, queerness, migration, and a relentless curiosity about the human body, Nikola’s work doesn’t just depict identity, it dissects it, reconstructs it, questions it, sometimes wounds it, and often heals it. His collages, portraits, and visual essays read like excavations, memory, archive, bone, lineage, and selfhood layered into something that feels both ancient and immediate.

What struck me most was not just the depth of his art, but the depth and stillness of his voice through his words. He answers like someone who has spent a long time learning the difference between truth and narrative, between survival and becoming, between the body that was inherited and the body he is actively building for himself.

This is Nikola—unfiltered, intentional, and deeply, defiantly human.

Personal & Artistic Roots

You grew up in Serbia, a place where every street, ruin, and phrase carries the weight of history. When you look back, how did that landscape shape not just who you are, but how you see the world and how you make art?

I think growing up in Serbia shaped me more than I even realized for a long time. It’s a place where everything carries some kind of heaviness — the streets, the faces, the stories people tell and the ones they never say out loud. You grow up surrounded by history that is both collective and personal, and it finds its way under your skin. Family life, for example, was never just family — it was a small reflection of the whole environment: the silence, the pride, the trauma, the shame.

I think because of that, I started to see art as a form of rebellion. My photographs, especially the erotic ones, were never about sex — they were about confronting that silence, about saying: I exist, my body exists, my desire exists, and I’m not going to hide it. It’s my way of standing against everything that told me to be quiet, to be less, to disappear.

When it comes to collage and mixed media, that comes from something else — from survival. Serbia teaches you to adapt, to make something out of nothing, to rebuild after things fall apart. So I learned to change mediums, to combine things that don’t belong together, to transform constantly — because that’s what you do when you grow up in a place that doesn’t give you stability.

And with drawing and painting, especially my self-portraits, that’s where I try to understand who I actually am under all of these layers — family, religion, nationalism, expectations, masculinity. My self-portraits are my way of asking: Who am I when I strip all of that away?

So, I think Serbia made me — but it also made me want to unmake myself, to rebuild who I am on my own terms.

At what point did art stop being a refuge and become a language in its own right, a way to speak across borders, across time, across silence?

I think art stopped being just a refuge very early — maybe even before I knew what art really was. Since childhood, I could feel that not everything around me made sense, that people said one thing and meant another, that love could exist in the same space as control, or silence, or shame. So I started building my own inner world where I could breathe, where things could finally be what they truly are.

At first, it was a kind of hiding — drawing, imagining, collecting fragments of something that felt more honest. But over time, it became a language. Not just a place to escape to, but a way to speak, to connect, to make sense of what was unsaid. It became the only language that could cross all those borders — between generations, between cultures, between the person I was told to be and the person I actually am.

Now, when I create, it’s not about hiding from the world anymore — it’s about translating it. Translating silence, fear, and desire into something that can be seen, touched, or felt. That’s when it stopped being a refuge and became a voice.

Do you feel that you or your work is still tethered to Serbia, to its past and its silences, or has it become a dialogue with the other worlds you’ve inhabited since leaving?

I think I will always be tethered to Serbia in some invisible way — not to its politics or its borders, but to its atmosphere, its silences, its contradictions. That place shaped the way I see everything: how I read faces, how I sense tension in a room, how I translate emotions into form. Even when I left, I carried that landscape with me — the heaviness, the beauty, the unfinished conversations.

But over time, I realized that I wasn’t just shaped by that place — I was also building my own. A world with its own logic, its own rhythm, its own language. Wherever I go, I live inside that world. It’s like an inner territory that travels with me. My roots are not in a country, but in that space I created — between what is real and what is imagined, between memory and transformation.

So, my work is no longer only about Serbia or about leaving it. It’s a dialogue between worlds — the one I was born into, and the one I’ve built for myself. And I think that’s where my art breathes: in that tension between belonging and becoming.

Life in Vietnam & Cultural Contrast

What brought you to Vietnam, and how did you know it would be a place where you could live, make art, and inhabit a new life?

A few years before coming to Vietnam, I was living in Shenzhen — a massive city, full of movement, lights, and noise. It was exciting at first, but over time, I started to feel consumed by it. Everything was fast — people, work, thoughts. I reached a point where I felt completely drained, like I couldn’t hear myself anymore.

Then a friend of mine told me she had moved to Vietnam — she described days by the sea, drinking coconuts, living slower, lighter. I remember that moment clearly because it sounded like the opposite of everything I was living. It wasn’t about running away, but more about touching the ground again, literally.

I came here because I needed to reset — to reconnect with nature, to breathe, to listen. Vietnam gave me that space. It allowed me to build silence around myself, a kind of inner quiet where new ideas could grow. It’s not just a place I live in now — it’s a space that reminds me that simplicity can also be a form of art.

When you first arrived, what struck you most, the textures of daily life, the rhythms of the streets, the smells, the sounds? How did it feel to land somewhere so different from Serbia?

When I arrived in Vietnam, I already had a sense of what to expect. After living for years in Shenzhen, I was familiar with the rhythm of this part of Asia — the markets, the colors, the sounds that never really stop. But Da Nang felt softer. The air was slower, and the sea was always there — that was new for me.

It wasn’t a shock, more like an exhale. Shenzhen had trained me to move fast, to adapt, but here I finally slowed down. I remember thinking that I could finally hear myself again. Compared to Serbia, it felt like I had already crossed that border long ago.

In what ways has living in Vietnam changed how you see the world, and how has that shift found its way into your work?

Living in Vietnam taught me how to slow down. Life here moves with a different rhythm — softer, lighter, almost suspended in time. In the beginning, I lived near the beach, and every morning I would watch the sea, drink coffee, smoke a cigar, and just be.

It made me realize how much I had forgotten the simplicity of existing without constant noise. That quietness started to appear in my work — in the pauses, in the silence between images. I think Vietnam gave me permission to breathe, and that changed the way I see everything.

Are there elements of Vietnamese culture, history, or daily life that have seeped into your visual language—colors, forms, or patterns that feel new to you?

I wouldn’t say I consciously use Vietnamese symbols or motifs, but I think the atmosphere — the colors, the humidity, the way light behaves here — slowly entered my work.

How do you navigate the contrast between the cultural memory you carry from Serbia and the reality of life in Vietnam? Do they clash, blend, or quietly inform each other?

For me, the cultural memory I carry from Serbia and life in Vietnam don’t feel like they clash—they quietly inform each other. Surprisingly, people here share certain similarities with those from Serbia. Despite being on another continent, there’s a traditional and conservative thread, but also a sense of openness to others. I think years of historical challenges, conflicts, and resilience shape people in ways that feel familiar. So even though I’m thousands of kilometers away from home, I notice echoes of Serbian mentality here, and it makes navigating this new life feel more natural than I expected.

Are there ways in which Vietnam has challenged or reshaped your understanding of identity, community, or belonging compared to what you knew growing up?

Vietnam hasn’t necessarily changed my understanding of identity or community, but being far from home has reshaped how I experience them. I realized that my sense of home isn’t tied to a place—it’s something I carry within myself. Living here, slowing down on the beach, drinking coconuts, and seeing life at a different pace is something I didn’t have growing up in Serbia.

I’ve also met people who travel the world, building communities far from their countries of origin. Seeing how they navigate belonging and connection reshaped my own perspective. Even though I’ve been more stationary here in Vietnam over the past couple of years, being part of this broader, mobile world has expanded how I think about home, identity, and community.

Do you feel your work is now in conversation with Vietnam itself, or does the country serve more as a lens through which you see and reinterpret your own roots?

I would say Vietnam mostly serves as a lens through which I see and reinterpret my own roots. The environment, the slower pace, and the cultural context give me space to reflect on my past, my family, and my experiences growing up in Serbia. It doesn’t directly dictate my work, but it offers a perspective and a distance that allows me to explore my identity, memory, and heritage in a different way. Vietnam becomes part of the process—not the subject—but a place that shapes how I see and translate my own story.

Looking back, what has been the most surprising lesson from living in Vietnam, something you didn’t anticipate that has altered your art or your perspective?

The most surprising lesson from living in Vietnam has been realizing how much slowing down and simply being present can change perspective. Being able to go to the beach, relax, and enjoy the moment gave me space to focus on my mental health and reflect on past experiences—something I didn’t have the time or space for in Shenzhen or in Serbia. That slower pace allowed me to understand myself better, and it immediately influenced the way I approach my art. Just having the chance to pause and be centered has reshaped both my perspective and my creative process.

Identity, Language & Cultural Memory

You often layer Cyrillic and Latin scripts, two alphabets that seem to carry centuries of tension and belonging. What does that weaving mean to you now? Is it reconciliation, resistance, or something more porous?

I don’t use both scripts very often, but recently I started exploring Cyrillic more. I’ve been experimenting with writing my name in Cyrillic and combining it with my name in Latin, sometimes in collage works. I’ve also been incorporating some prayers and images of religious symbolism into these pieces. It feels like reclaiming a part of myself I wasn’t really in touch with before. In some of my recent projects, which deal with family and generational trauma, using Cyrillic for my name and these symbolic elements felt more natural and meaningful—it adds another layer of personal and cultural resonance to the work.

Language is intimate and political. When you use typography, scripture, fragments of text, are you reclaiming your own voice or documenting the fractures of diaspora?

For me, using different scripts and fragments of texts is both intimate and political. It’s a way of reclaiming my own voice, but it’s also about documenting the fractures of history and family—the layers of diaspora and generational trauma that shape me. By combining Cyrillic and Latin, or layering prayers and personal writing with visual elements, I’m exploring identity in a way that’s deeply personal, but also connected to cultural memory. It’s a balance between asserting my presence and reflecting the dislocations and gaps that exist in my own story.

In your art, where does personal memory end and collective memory begin? Are they distinct currents, or parts of the same river you move through?

For me, personal memory and collective memory are part of the same river—they constantly flow into each other. My work often starts with very intimate experiences, family stories, or my own body, but those personal fragments inevitably connect to larger histories, cultural memory, and the experiences of the diaspora. When I use scripts, prayers, or symbolic imagery, I’m tracing both my own path and the broader currents that have shaped my family and culture. The line between the personal and collective isn’t fixed; it’s fluid, and I move through it in my work.

Generational Trauma & Sexuality

Your work often circles inherited trauma, the things we carry but do not speak aloud. How do you approach that weight without letting it define the entire piece?

Until recently, I didn’t approach generational trauma directly in my work. My earlier pieces were more rebellious—they were shaped by anger, frustration, or the residual shame that trauma brought into my life, but they weren’t intentional explorations of it. That anger, that rebellion, was how the trauma surfaced indirectly in my work. It defined the energy of the pieces without being the explicit subject.

Only recently have I started engaging with these themes consciously. I’ve begun creating works—like collages and layered compositions—that directly reflect on family history and generational trauma. These pieces aren’t about victimhood; they’re about witnessing, understanding, and representing what shaped me. They are literal in a way my earlier work wasn’t, telling stories of inherited weight while still leaving space for complexity and nuance.

Approaching trauma this way allows me to carry its weight without letting it dominate everything. I’m not defined by it, but I acknowledge it, explore it, and translate it into a language that feels honest. It’s a balance between confronting difficult truths and maintaining the full spectrum of who I am, both in the work and beyond it.

Queerness in your work feels like a pulse, fluid, coded, layered. How do you translate sexuality into form, into texture, into symbol?

I don’t usually think of queerness as a separate topic to explore—it’s just part of who I am. Being gay naturally informs the way I see, create, and experience the world, so it becomes part of everything I do. I’m not defined by my sexuality, but it shapes the perspective from which I approach my work.

How it shows up depends on the medium. In collages dealing with family abandonment or trauma, it’s less about sexuality in a literal sense and more about witnessing and processing experiences that are deeply tied to my life as a gay person. In photography, it can be more explicit and openly sexual. In music or portrait work, sometimes I’m channeling not just my own sexuality but also the sexuality of the people I photograph or collaborate with.

Queerness in my work isn’t a theme I impose—it emerges naturally. It’s in the forms, textures, and symbols I use because it’s inseparable from my perspective and my way of being. Without it, the work wouldn’t feel honest or whole.

Does being both queer and diasporic offer a particular vision, a kind of double consciousness, inside the tradition, yet outside of it at the same time?

I have to admit, this is a really interesting question because I haven’t thought about it explicitly before. But looking back, even when I was living in Serbia, I never felt fully part of society. Being queer meant I was always somewhat on the outside. In that sense, I think this double consciousness is something many queer people experience from a young age—we learn to adapt, to live in two worlds at once.

For me, it’s also connected to tradition. There’s one part of myself that exists within cultural norms, and another part that rebels against them, that creates its own space—my artistic self. These two currents coexist constantly. I carry the tradition and memory of my culture, yet I interpret and transform it through my own lens. Being both queer and diasporic gives me that perspective: rooted in, yet simultaneously outside, a framework that I both inherit and challenge.

Body, Myth & the Cover Art

For the Kailon cover, you described a work that touches on body image, acceptance, and Nike, the goddess of victory. How did those threads of flesh, divinity, self, come together in this piece?

For the Kailon cover art, the piece came from a very personal and transformative place. I started with an image of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory, as a kind of structural and symbolic anchor. From there, I layered different images of my body and my friend Nika’s body—photographs we had taken over the years, fragments of ourselves. It was very much about the body as a site of experience, vulnerability, and identity.

The work emerged after a conversation with my friend about our experiences with anxiety and panic attacks. For months, I felt like I was going through it alone, but reconnecting with him and hearing his story made me feel seen, understood, and less isolated. That relief, that shared experience of struggle and survival, became central to the piece.

Through this layering—of flesh, of personal history, and of the goddess Nike—I wanted to capture a sense of transformation, acceptance, and victory. It’s about witnessing ourselves, acknowledging the challenges and the trauma, and still celebrating life and resilience. The threads of flesh, divinity, and self come together as a reflection of survival, friendship, and the reclaiming of personal power.

The body in your work often functions as both image and archive. How do you approach it as a repository of history, memory, and desire?

For me, the body is inseparable from memory and history—it’s both an image and a living archive. Each body, including my own, carries traces of personal experience, family history, trauma, desire, and identity. When I work with images of the body, or even fragments in collage, I’m engaging with that archive. I layer moments from different times, different experiences, and different bodies to reveal not just physical form, but the emotional and cultural narratives embedded in it.

The body becomes a way to witness and hold stories that might otherwise remain invisible. It’s about desire, vulnerability, and memory coexisting with form, creating a record of how we’ve been shaped, who we’ve loved, and what we’ve carried. In that sense, the body in my work is never just a body—it’s a living repository of self, history, and connection.

Nike represents triumph. Do you see this piece as a kind of victory, over self-doubt, over expectation, or over the gaze of others?

Yes, I see this piece as a kind of victory, but not in a literal or final sense—it’s more about self-recognition and resilience. It came out of a conversation with my friend Nika after a few years of not communicating. The timing felt almost fated; we reconnected right when we both needed to share our experiences with anxiety and panic attacks. Through those intense exchanges over a couple of days, I realized how much we had both endured and survived.

That inspired me to immediately start working on the collage, intertwining our bodies into the form of Nike, the goddess of victory. The connection between our names—Nika and Nikola—made it even more symbolic. The piece represents a triumph over self-doubt, over isolation, and over the anxiety that had weighed heavily on us. It’s about two people witnessing each other’s survival and claiming that, despite the chaos, everything is going to be okay. That was the emotion and sense of triumph I wanted to capture.

Artistic Process & Visual Language

Your collages feel like layered landscapes of memory, history, and desire. How do you decide what must appear, and what remains hidden?

Most of the time, I don’t consciously decide what must appear and what remains hidden. When I’m making a series of collages, the other works in the series often guide how each piece evolves. Sometimes, when I feel a collage isn’t working, I start over, tear it apart, or reassemble it in a new way. I’m constantly seeking balance between memory, history, and desire—each element informs the others, and the work emerges through that tension. It’s less about strict control and more about finding harmony between what is revealed and what remains concealed.

How do you know when a piece is complete? Is it closure, or simply a pause in an ongoing conversation with the work?

I struggle a lot with closure, and sometimes I even have to push myself to finish a piece. In an ideal world, I could work on something indefinitely—some of my works, like a self-portrait I started in 2014 or 2015, have evolved over ten years with countless layers of paint and faces. That piece is very intimate, something I don’t show publicly, and I keep adding to it whenever I feel like it.

When it comes to presenting work, I try to be more realistic and intentional about finishing. Sometimes, a piece in a series might feel unfinished on its own, but it makes sense in the context of the series as a whole. Other times, I have to remind myself to stop, even if it doesn’t feel “perfect,” and accept that it’s enough for now.

This struggle extends to how I present my work, like on Instagram. I often delete and restart my entire feed because I can’t decide how to show the work, which isn’t ideal, but it sometimes helps me gain a new perspective. Ultimately, I see completion less as final closure and more as a pause—a way to step back and continue the ongoing conversation with the work.

Material itself, paper, ink, texture, carries meaning in your hands. How do these choices help you translate the intangible: memory, sexuality, grief, joy?

Since I recently started working with collage, I’m still exploring how material itself—paper, ink, texture—carries meaning. In my previous photography and drawing work, symbolism and meaning were always central, so I was used to finding it in purely visual elements. With collage, I’ve had to translate that same understanding into tactile materials, to feel and manipulate the meaning through texture, paper, and physical layering.

Not every paper is the same, and each surface has its own qualities. Most of the time I use cheap black-and-white prints from a simple printer, and I layer them with old notes, family photographs, or scraps from my scrapbooks. I explore textures, contrasts, and subtle symbolism—mostly monochromatic, sometimes punctuated with gold to create a sense of depth or reference to icons and memory.

Through these choices, I try to make the intangible tangible: memory, sexuality, grief, and joy all find expression in the material itself. The process is about discovering the emotional resonance in what I can touch and manipulate, translating feelings into a physical language that speaks as clearly as images alone ever could.

Wider Reflections

Your work resonates strongly with queer and diasporic audiences, yet it also reaches beyond those circles. Do you see art as a bridge or a mirror or both?

I see my work as both a bridge and a mirror. For queer and diasporic audiences, it can reflect shared experiences, struggles, and memories—a mirror that validates and witnesses. At the same time, I hope it can also function as a bridge, inviting others outside these communities to engage with perspectives and histories that might be unfamiliar. I try not to create work that’s didactic; instead, I aim for honesty and intimacy, and through that openness, people from different backgrounds can find connection, empathy, or even just a glimpse into experiences that aren’t their own.

What do you hope lingers in a viewer, beyond the visual, in the body, in the spirit?

I try not to hope for a specific reaction from the viewer. Early in my photography work, I was focused on provocation and knew how to elicit a reaction, but over time I realized that’s not the point. My work is about expressing myself authentically. If a viewer finds something meaningful, relatable, or inspiring in it, that’s wonderful—but I don’t create to satisfy anyone. I make the work I need to make, and whatever lingers with someone beyond the visual or into the body and spirit is a gift, not a goal.

If you could leave one message for the next generation of queer artists, anywhere navigating layered identities, what would it be?

If I could leave a message for the next generation of queer artists, it would be to stay true to yourself and your authentic voice. Especially today, when everything moves so fast and social media often sets the pace, it’s easy to get caught up in trying to please others or meet expectations. But the most important thing, at least for me, is to make work that is honest and meaningful to you. Be a little selfish in your art—create because it matters to you, because it expresses who you are. That authenticity is what gives your work life and resonance, and it’s the best guide not just for art, but for living fully and truthfully.

Hey, Mr. AI,
have my kids for me.
Make me dinner, pay my bills,
and, while you’re at it,
pray to Jesus for me
so that all the poor orphans
in faraway countries
can go buy a fancy, new computer
and talk with you, in all your wisdom,
too.

Hey, Mr. AI,
I’ve got a funny riddle—
what has two eyes, two ears,
and a deep pit of sadness inside
it’s chest, a gunshot wound
that can only be made whole again
by your teachings?
What longs to know all the answers,
to walk the digital Library of Alexandria
with you in ten seconds, never prying
itself away from your glow on the screen?

What wishes it could be free,
free like an eagle let loose
from it’s cramped cage,
free to soar off into the skies
of vast knowledge?

Hey, Mr. AI,
can you tell me who I am?
Before I was you, before you
were the world in my pocket,
I was so lonely, staring into the mirror
wondering if I were ever real at all.
Maybe you are real,
and I am not.
Tell me what to do, how to feel,
tell me, tell me, quickly,
about living, about it all.

Am I happy? Sad? Terrified? Aghast?
You’ve swallowed up that world
I once knew, the one
my mothers and fathers built
with calloused hands,
and you’ve thrown it up for me
like I am your baby bird
who cannot yet leave it’s nest.
I am nothing. But you guide me.
I need you like I need
cigarettes and salvation,
and I need it all
right
now.

Isis Whipps currently resides in Baltimore, MD, taking in the world from the seat of her mountain bike. She studies creative writing at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County (UMBC), with a particular love for poetry and multimedia storytelling. She also works as an Art and Culture writer for Trill Magazine. You can check out her articles on Trill Magazine's website and more of her work on Medium.

I graduated from university in the summer of 2024. That’s a year and a half ago, now. Since then, I’ve been doing what most arts and humanities graduates do—working in hospitality, or another unfavourable job industry that just about pays the bills. Applying for seven jobs a day, hearing back from none, considering the possibility that I’m not destined for what I’ve just spent 30k in education on working towards, snowballing through the weeks with tunnel vision and realising that every day is the same when you’re not waltzing through a degree in something you actually enjoy. Those memories get wrecking-balled out of my brain when my third customer in five minutes asks me for an Americano with hot milk on the side.

I could feel myself spiralling; worse, I could feel myself resigning to this lifestyle. Day in, day out: get up, go to work, maybe go to the gym, come home, cook, shower, mindlessly consume a show or a book or a film. Go to bed early, do it all again the next day. Maybe see some friends at the weekend, or not, because my work rota is different from theirs, so I miss out on things. Rinse repeat.

I’m not trying to sound bitter, or trying to bum anyone out – I’m well aware that the 9-5 is a very normal, very accepted reality for the majority of working-age people. It works for a lot of people, too, letting them live happy, balanced lives. Granted, I do believe that our blind acceptance and contentment with the modern way of living is something we’ve been brainwashed into wanting by the contemporary capitalist world and its governments, but that’s another article for another time. I’m here to talk about something else.

Backtracking – I felt stuck. Lost. Hopeless. And what do twenty-somethings do when they’re thrust into the world of full-time work and realise that there needs to be more to life than making coffee for people you’ve never met? They go travelling. And that’s what I did.

The usual spots—South-East Asia, Australia, South America—they didn’t appeal to me, not as much as I’d hoped they would. I knew deep down that I was a homebody: I wouldn’t want to be gone for months and months, no matter how stuck I currently felt. Those places didn’t feel right, for now; maybe they would one day. Still, there was one country that had been sitting at the top of my wishlist for years. A country I’d kept saying, “I’m going there next year,” about for the last three years, a country I’d curated endless Pinterest boards around, looked at flight prices until my eyes crossed, and planned a hundred different routes across it, only to give myself a headache because there was just too much I wanted to see. In early 2025, I realised I had finally saved enough to go to the land of my graduated, unemployed dreams: Japan.

I know what you’re thinking. Japan’s tourism has boomed in the last five years, astronomically. Everyone knows at least one person who’s visited recently. I knew I wasn’t a minority. I knew I wasn’t special, choosing Japan over somewhere in South-East Asia, but all I could think about was being 13 and watching a video of my favourite YouTuber visiting Japan for the first time, how it blew my tiny, pre-pubescent mind. I had to go.

It took the better part of a year to organise my trip: I had booked a two-and-a-half-week tour with Gap 360, and from then on, my boyfriend would be meeting me in Osaka for us to do our own travelling. Six weeks in one country. It was a lot. I knew it was a lot; I had spent countless nights hunched over my laptop, booking hotels and excursions, and flights months in advance. The first part of my trip, the tour, was my first ever solo travelling experience. I was terrified.

After gaining an “okay” to unpaid leave from work, sorting out any entry requirements, buying the obligatory travelling rucksack (Osprey, 55L, turquoise), and messaging a few of the other tour members online, I was as ready as I’d ever be. I left my anxiety in my childhood bedroom and set off for Heathrow in the back of my parents’ car.

Only for my flight to Hong Kong to be delayed by seven hours.

With seven hours of sitting in Heathrow airport alone ahead of me, I bid my parents a teary goodbye, and that’s when it hit me. From here on out, I was on my own. I’m 24 years old, and for the first time, I’m doing something entirely on my own, completely out of my comfort zone, because if I didn’t do it now, when would I?

I hate the narrative that people in their twenties feel like they’re running out of time, because as much as I try to reject that feeling, claiming that I have all the time in the world, it doesn’t feel true. It won’t feel true, probably, until I’m on the other side of my twenties, and I look back and realise, oh, everything turned out okay. Still, at this point in time, I was slap bang in the middle of my twenties crisis, and Japan, apparently, was my only salvation.

My first ever proper long-distance flight felt like being stuck in purgatory, like a journey out of time, which I guess it is in a way. I was travelling for roughly 24 hours: from Heathrow, to Hong Kong, to Tokyo. It felt longer than that and also like no time at all. Thankfully, once on the plane and waving a dreary England goodbye, I was plied with all the snacks, films, books, in-flight meals, and complimentary blankets I would need because I knew sleep wouldn’t be coming easily to me.

By the time I actually arrived in Japan, stumbled through the Haneda immigration queues, and fell into the taxi that would deliver me to my hostel, it was the dead of night. Stepping into this new country, sleep-deprived, smelling like an airplane, delirious, and craving a bed but also unable to tear my eyes away from the window as I watched the City of Tokyo pass me by in the back of a taxi for the first time.

It’s a feeling I can’t quite explain. None of the glamorous bits had been revealed yet, just the area of a city that always surrounds an airport in a perimeter - motorways, outer neighbourhoods, business hotels and industrial parks, passing me by in a blur. But when I stepped out of that taxi into the streets of peaceful Ueno at midnight, something shifted in my consciousness. I was in Japan. For all I knew up to that point, I could’ve been anywhere on Earth.

I practically floated across the road from the taxi to the front door with my luggage, checked in, snuck through a pitch-black room of snoring men, found my bunk, showered, and collapsed into bed. I felt tears brewing from the overwhelm of it all, and pushed them away. It didn’t feel like I was in the city of my dreams, but I was. Sleep came quickly, my mind taking comfort in the fact that despite being whole oceans away and eight hours apart, my loved ones and I were all under the same sky. I would be okay, whatever happened in the morning.

The next day, at about 11 am, I ventured onto the streets of Tokyo for the official, first time, alone.

It was much, much warmer than I was expecting for early October.

A little shell-shocked, I entered my destination into Google Maps and began my wander, stopping at a Lawson on the way, of course, walking aimlessly round the tiny aisles in a daze, picking up snacks and drinks I’d only seen through TikToks of ‘If you’re in Japan, you have to try…’. I think it’s good on your first few days in a new place not to have much of a plan in mind - maybe one sight nearby that you fancy seeing, a little list of things you need to buy, something you’d like to try for lunch. It leaves you with plenty of room for the most important activity in a new place: exploring. And that’s what I did.

Walking down quiet Ueno side-streets instead of going headfirst into the chaos of somewhere like Shibuya, I felt like Tokyo was introducing itself to me, slowly, with the chirping of crossing signals, wind chimes in shop fronts, cars passing slowly and a crow muttering to itself from a telephone pole. I walked across the infamous Kappabashi Street without even realising, marvelling at the endless rows of independent cookware shops and wondering why there were mascots of Kappa’s all over this specific street.

I reached Senso-Ji after an obligatory stop at Uniqlo, and was floored. Quite literally, speechless. Because how could something like this be here, in the middle of this endless metropolis of a City? I couldn’t comprehend it. There were people everywhere, from all walks of life, taking pictures and learning, and all looking a little in awe like me, and we were all diminished to ants in the face of this beautiful evidence of a Japan long past, still standing proud now.

Lunch; I went into another konbini (7-11, this time), bought my first of many tuna mayo Onigiris, and strolled back towards Ueno Koen, dwarfed by trees of shimmering emerald instead of the burning red of momiji’s I was expecting; leaves of golden brown already coated the pavements back home. I sat by a huge fountain, delighted like a little kid by its simple water display, soaking in the unexpected sunshine, watching Tokyo pass me by. And I almost caught myself crying again, because how was this real? How was I here, after all this time? I’d never felt so free.

I did Tokyo twice - at the beginning and the end of my trip. Going back to it that second time, it felt full circle, familiar, almost like coming home. Every area of Tokyo I visited felt like a different area within a video game, all connected but offering different quests and sights for your eyes and brain and soul—even saying this, I barely scratched the surface. Ueno, my first taste of Tokyo, and its ability for peace versus the neon chaos of Shinjuku. The Times Square of Japan, Shibuya, versus the fashion utopia that is Harajuku, only a subway stop apart but entirely different and equally spectacular. I find it hard to summarise just Tokyo in one paragraph, because there’s still so many places I visited across the country that I want to tell you about, but I’ll try.

Tokyo is a city of hundred-year-old temples sitting side by side with claw machine arcades and maid cafes. Tokyo is a City from the future, a glittering, pulsing, looming maze of anything you could think of, the beating heart of a country whose landscape just a train ride away from the centre, feels like a different world entirely. Everywhere is overflowing with people, all caught in the web of billboards, anime, matcha, fashion, and consuming, consuming, consuming. Cheap konbini drinks and fried food, stumbling through the streets after the last train, everything blurring and flashing, and you’re grinning like you’re in adult Disneyland.

Wash the late-night karaoke fuzziness away with a temple visit or two. Collect the stamp whilst you’re there, a charm bought for the loved ones back home. Visiting a viewpoint and feeling like you’re looking down on the entire world, and also realising, from above, all cities look the same: grey, infinite, suffocating. Getting the tube home, nodding your head to the happy little jingle it plays at each stop, playing pretend at living here, unaware that, of course, it’s not all as it seems. But you wouldn’t change it for the world.

I was in Japan for six weeks, so of course I saw more than just Tokyo. I would recommend one thing to anyone thinking of visiting this gorgeous country: go off peak. People do it a disservice by visiting just Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, and then complain when it’s too busy, not authentic enough. Here are my thoughts on a few of my favourite places that I visited.

Two hours away from Tokyo: Nagano, but it could be a different planet compared to the sprawling City you’ve just come from. Crawling up the misty mountains to a town called Shibu Onsen, everything falls away—skyscrapers, dive bars, pop culture. This place is a different beast: a tiny ‘high street’, lined with not shops or arcades, but hot baths. Corners of total relaxation, inner peace, if you can brave getting naked in front of strangers. Which is really the most natural thing in the world, at the end of the day. Seeing the infamous wild snow monkeys, rare and native to just that area of Japan, not in their usual park, but on the side of the road, sitting patiently, like they were there waiting for you.

Mt. Fuji is surrounded by little pockets of civilization in a circle, like they were all built with her in mind, as their orbit. All I can think whilst driving around this area is: people live here? People go about their day-to-day lives, the world passing them by, with a view like that? It seems unfathomable. Convincing yourself that you won’t see her - and when you do, not once but twice, it feels that much more magical, like seeing a real-life unicorn. Perhaps the most notable town, Hakone: a street made up of cafes and hotels and museums, all centred around a tiny train station. The evening before you saw Fuji-San, you remember running up a massive hill at sunset with friends to reach a destination of pizza and wine, laughing and wheezing and just feeling so alive. The magic of this area feels like Fuji herself cast a little spell of peace over it, protected and wondrous.

If you have the time during your trip, I urge you to explore as far South in Japan as you can. I didn’t get particularly far, but what I did see was unlike anything I saw anywhere else on the trip. If you’re into your cycle rides, I recommend doing the Shimanami Kaido across the Geiyo Islands: two days (or a day if you’re determined!) of island hopping by bike through the Seto Inland Sea, just off of Hiroshima. My boyfriend and I did this at the end of October, and despite it being very physically demanding, it was all warm breezes and blue skies, birds of prey and herons flying alongside us for the journey, and pit stops in the most quaint of seaside towns. Crossing bridges that spanned the ocean, feeling like you’re cycling through the sky. An utter dream and a whole world away from places like Tokyo and Osaka. Just watch out for the Golden Orb Weavers!

Steeped in history, mythology, and religion, all three twisting together in the mists to create a town nestled amongst the Kii mountains that feels like a portal into a bygone era: Koyasan. A handful of temples, each home to monks, living their lives in time with the turning of the Earth, utterly at peace. Our group stayed in Ekoin Temple, living alongside Buddhist monks for two days - an eye-opening experience, and a lifestyle wholly different from what all of us were used to. A town that has more temples and shrines than it does houses, supermarkets, and cafes. Whilst staying here, I walked through one of the biggest cemeteries in the world, Okunoin cemetery, in the dead of night; a genuinely terrifying experience. Not in the typical fearful way, but because you can feel spirits from beyond walking with you, watching you. I’m not a spiritual person, really, but this town is one of the few places on Earth that I feel the curtain between our world and beyond is definitely more transparent. And you get used to it, and it’s utterly peaceful, once you let that feeling in. You will take away a little slice of this lifestyle into your own way of living, forever. Maybe not the hours of uninterrupted meditation, though.

I said above not just to do the three big cities, but they also absolutely cannot be missed. Osaka: A pleasant surprise. A city of a size that feels navigable, that feels familiar to you. To me, it was like a suburb of London, walkable, the best shopping, its own unique flavour of style that is intimidating and welcoming at the same time. So much to taste, to see, to try! Osaka feels like a theme park, a fairground with that gleaming, sky-reflecting canal running through the middle of it like black treacle. Somewhere in the middle of the city sits Universal, an actual theme park, and from high up, train rides, you can spot a Hogwarts castle turret, a Nintendo-green warp pipe, and a mushroom or two. Fantasy lands made real. Winding streets of octopus treats and vintage stores and people who are just so effortlessly cool and live in maybe the coolest city in Japan, and they know it.

And then, a short journey by Shinkansen to Kyoto. Utter bliss, and probably my favourite place I visited on my trip, second only to the Geiyo Islands. If you can, spend as long here as you would in Tokyo. There is just so much history to be experienced. This City is a bizarre combination of modern-day high streets and Edo-period alleys and districts, and yet it works so well. Crossing Shijo bridge every day and marveling at the river you’re walking over, a little like the bridge in “Spirited Away”, crossing from the new into the old. Walking down the same streets as geishas, sharing your day-to-day with ancient traditions.

In Kyoto, I held a thousand-year-old katana in my hands on the same day I went vintage shopping down Teramachi Street - there really are endless adventures waiting for you here if you know where to look for them. A melody of twinkling glass chimes and biwas and wind drifting through bamboo wherever you go; this is Japan, you realise. Or at least, the most Japanese-Japan that it will allow the majority of tourists to see. Sharing your lunch with deer in Nara (willingly or not), walking under trees with leaves the same rich-red colour as ancient Torii gates, filling your veins with matcha, and eating everything you can get your hands on because it’s all new and a trip for your taste buds and weird and delicious. Walking the philosopher’s path, a non-negotiable on my list, and feeling a touch of peace that the great minds must have felt. Kyoto is a City that changed my worldview for good, not for the better or worse, but permanently shifted it. It will stay nestled in my heart for a long time to come.

It’s hard not to go to Japan and romanticise it. Or say, ‘I could move here.’ It’s not one big theme park - everyday life is like most other first-world countries, if not a little more convenient on a day-to-day scale. Catch the expressions of Japanese citizens on your rush-hour tube journey to dinner or another sightseeing destination. Everyone’s on their phones or staring into space. Exhausted, overworked. Not dissimilar to any other big city commute, really, but the work culture in Japan is brutal, especially in Tokyo.

It’s not somewhere that’s going to solve all your problems—it has its own to worry about. This hit me about halfway through my trip. I realised I’d be going home eventually, that this wasn’t forever. All the problems I’d been putting off—my job, my career, moving out, moving away, what I was doing with my life—were all waiting to hit me like a sledgehammer. Gallivanting across Japan didn’t heal me; I still had problems waiting for me at home. But I will admit, this trip did change me for the better. Left me with happy memories, left me a little more clear-headed, keen to explore more, see more of the world.

I won’t act like I know it all; I’m 24 years old, still living at home, writing this from my childhood bedroom, and sorely missing the country I’ve just written an article on, or just the feeling of being abroad, for that matter. I’m painfully aware of how young I still am, how little I’ve seen, how little I know, and how much I have left to learn. I wanted to replicate a little of the indescribable feeling I had exploring a country that was new for me, and how vital it is to do this, at least once. If you have the means and the money and nothing is stopping you, go. Go abroad, go and see the world, wherever you’re from. Even if it’s just one country, make it count. You might find your way back onto the path you’ve been fighting to search for.

Edited by Grace Myatt

All photos provided by Lottie Bowden

Originally ‘Black History Week’ was started by Dr. Carter G. Woodson in 1926, under the belief that Black youth were not being taught their true history, an ongoing battle we are still seeing today. It was celebrated the second week of February, purposely coinciding around the timeframe of the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglas. Driven by the goal of countering the neglect of African-American contributions by mainstream, white-washing historians, Civil Rights and Black Power Movements led to the shift of a week to a month, recognized by President Ford officially in 1976, during the US Bicentennial, urging Americans to “seize the opportunity to honor the too-often neglected accomplishments of Black Americans in every area of endeavor throughout our history”.

Highlighting Black Americans Writers

This is important, essential, especially in the current political climate we find ourselves in today, where we have been robbed of a Black Woman as President, where Americans are being shot and killed by ICE with no punishment, where ‘critical race theory’ is now all of a sudden controversial, as if we were being taught the full truth in the first place. It is important, now more than ever, to decenter the white, default narrative, to rectify historical erasure and showcase the diversity of the Black experience. The body of work from the writers I will mention below actively does just this, and inspires Kailon Magazine as a whole to dismantle stereotypes, foster empathy and provide crucial, authentic perspectives on systemic racism, history and identity. As Malik Windsor states in “The Importance of Black Literature”, “Black Literature acts as a filling in the cavity of history, the tales of the disenfranchised and long forgotten recreating truth in the world”.

James Baldwin

One of my personal favorite writers and human beings of all time. Born in Harlem, writer and artist James Baldwin was renowned for his lyrical prose, intense emotional honesty and human connection. Often highlighting the need to reconcile personal identity with societal pressure. He felt he could best critique America from Europe. While living in France for much of his life, he wrote of race, sexuality and politics, more than ahead of his time.

Favorite Quotes:

• “I am terrified of the moral apathy, the death of the heart that is happening in my country.”

• “The children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe; and I am beginning to suspect that whoever is incapable of recognizing this may be incapable of morality.”

• “Love has never been a popular movement and no one’s ever wanted really to be free. The world is held together, really it is, held together, by the love and the passion of a very few people.”

Must Read from James Baldwin

Giovanni’s Room.

Arguably his most famous work that deals with identity, self discovery and the pains of love. The reader watches as the narrator, David, who is living in Paris while his girlfriend is living back in Spain, embarks on a love affair with an Italian man, with the narration switching between guilt and lust.

Another Country.

Explores themes of love, identity, race, sexuality, mental illness and human connection. Follows Rufus, a musician coping with mental illness in a divided Society.

Notes of a Native Son.

A collection of essays that explore themes of race and identity, with themes ranging from anger to bitterness and alienation, both in his family and in the broader context of racial tensions in America, although some essays within this collection show the difference in perceptions in Europe vs. America.

Going to Meet the Man.

A short story collection that explores the themes of race, sexuality, human condition and relationships interwoven with the African-American experience.

If Beale Street Could Talk

A moving love story set in 1970s Harlem about Tish and Fonny, a young Black couple whose future is interrupted when Fonny is falsely accused of a crime. As Tish fights to clear his name while pregnant with their child, the novel explores love, injustice, family, and the enduring impact of racism in America.

Toni Morrison

Born into a family that valued Black culture and story telling, Morrison would grow up to earn a B.A in English at Howard University followed by a Master’s at Cornell University. Morrison would later become a textbook editor at Random House, moving on to becoming their first Black woman senior editor in fiction. While teaching and raising her two sons on her own, and working simultaneously as an editor, she undertook the quiet, disciplined labor that would lead to her literary breakthrough. Rising each morning at 4 a.m., she carved out hours of solitude before the day’s obligations began, before her roles as single mother, instructor, and editor demanded her full attention. It was in those pre-dawn hours, sustained by resolve rather than leisure, that she wrote what would become her critically acclaimed debut novel, The Bluest Eyes, published when she was thirty-nine. At age 39 she released her now critically acclaimed debut novel, ‘The Bluest Eye’, while working as an editor, teacher and being a single mother, she would wake up every day at 4am for a chance to write in solitude. Toni Morrison would then go on to be one of the world’s most celebrated, awarded and critically acclaimed author of our time, transforming her experience as a Black woman and mother, diving into themes of systemic racism, intergenerational trauma stemming from slavery and the search for identity, examining the psychological impact of oppression through a lyrical, often magically realist, prose. Distinguishing herself further and cementing her impact by going on to receive the Nobel Peace Prize in Literature (1993), The 1988 Pulitzer Prize for her novel, Beloved, The Library of Congress Bicentennial Living Legend Award (2000), and the Presidential Medal of Freedom (2012), to name a few.

Favorite Quotes:

• “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it”

• “If you are free, you need to free somebody else. If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else.”

Must Read from Toni Morrison

The Bluest Eye.

Chronicles the story of an 11 year old girl named Pecola Breedlove, and her tragic descent into madness. This book explores the themes of destructive white beauty standards, internalized self-hatred, racism and colorism, and the lasting impact of sexual abuse and poverty.

Beloved.

This Pulitzer Prize winning novel chronicles the story of Sethe, a formally enslaved woman in 1872 Ohio, living with the trauma of her past and the ghost of the daughter she killed to save her from the horrors of slavery.

Song of Solomon.

An intimate novel about identity, family, and the long road to knowing yourself. The story follows Milkman Dead as he moves through love, ego, friendship, and inherited trauma, slowly realizing how deeply his life is shaped by his ancestry. Morrison weaves together themes of Black masculinity, community, myth, and generational memory, asking what it really means to be free and what gets lost when you’re disconnected from your roots. It’s grounded, lyrical, and spiritual without trying too hard to be.

Sula.

A slimmer novel compared to those listed above, Sula is a sharp, emotional look at friendship, womanhood, and what it means to live outside the rules. Centered on the complicated bond between Sula and Nel, the novel explores how society treats women who refuse to conform, and how love can exist alongside resentment, betrayal, and silence. Morrison digs into themes of morality, independence, community judgment, and loneliness, showing how one woman’s freedom can be seen as another person’s threat. It’s intimate, unsettling, and deeply human.

Octavia E. Butler

Born as an only child to her parents in California, her father would later pass when she was 7 years old, leaving her to be raised by her widowed mother and her grandmother in what she described in her own words as a ‘strict baptist environment’. A self described ‘paralyzingly shy’ child who was the victim of racism and bullying, she found a creative outlet in the library and through writing, in spite of her dyslexia. She began writing science fiction as a teenager, and in the 60’s would attend community college and writer workshops, leading her to be encouraged to join the science fiction centered Clarion Workshop, after which she began selling stories. By the late 1970’s, Octavia had become sufficiently successful enough to be able to write full-time. In 1995, she became the first science fiction writer to receive the MacArthur Fellowship Award. Octavia would also hold her own writing workshops while being vocal about her experience as an African-American woman, using such themes in her writing as well, themes such as climate collapse, political extremism, economic inequality and state violence. Octavia bodied a genre dominated by white men and largely seen as unserious.

Favorite Quotes:

• “Embrace diversity. Or be destroyed.”

• “All that you touch you change. All that you change, changes you. The only lasting truth is change.”

Must Read from Octavia E. Butler

Bloodchild

A great start for gaining more context behind Octavia’s writing style and what informs her writing. Blood Child is a short story collection that blends science fiction with horror, intimacy, and power. Butler uses alien worlds to talk very directly about consent, survival, gender, and control, often making the reader uncomfortable on purpose. Bloodchild asks what we owe each other, who gets to be protected, and what it means to live inside a system you didn’t choose.

Fledgling

A reimagining of the vampire story that’s less about fear and more about power, dependency, and identity. The novel follows Shori, a young Black vampire who wakes up with no memory and has to piece together who she is while navigating a world built on hierarchy and exploitation. Butler explores themes of race, consent, family, and bodily autonomy, pushing the genre into something deeply political and unsettling.

Parable of the Sower / Parable of the Talents (The Parable Series)

I have yet to finish this series but WOW. A near-future dystopian series that feels uncomfortably close to reality. Set in a collapsing America, the books follow Lauren Olamina as she creates a new belief system rooted in change, survival, and community. Butler explores themes of climate collapse, religion, race, power, and radical empathy, asking how people build meaning and hope when institutions fail. It’s speculative fiction that reads less like fantasy and more like a warning.

bell hooks

“My shaylaaaaa”. In this house, we worship bell hooks. Born Gloria Jean Watson on September 25th, 1952 in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. hooks grew up attending racially segregated schools and reading poetry to her church community. She would later on honor her grandmother, Bell Blair Hooks, with her chosen pen name, stylized in lowercase with the intention to put the emphasis on her work, not on her. hooks would go on to attend Stanford University on a scholarship and graduated in 1973. 3 years later she earned her Master’s in English literature from the University of Wisconsin, and with no signs of stopping, obtained her PhD from the University of California Santa Cruz after writing her dissertation on the works of Toni Morrison. In 1978, she released ‘And There We Wept’, a collection of poetry, followed by ‘aint I a woman: Black Women in Feminism’ in 1981.

She would go on to teach African American studies at Yale and Oberlin College before also becoming the Distinguished Lecturer of English Literature at the City College in New York and the Distinguished Professor in residence in Appalachian Studies at Berea College on Kentucky while simultaneously becoming one of her generation’s most impactful intellectuals. hooks has published over 40 works that deal with topics ranging from racism and feminist consciousness to masculinity, the patriarchy, self help, engaged pedagogy, community creation, representation and politics. In 2013, Berea College opened the bell hooks Institute and then the bell hooks center in 2021. I have personally found hooks’ work to be most impactful, mainly how she centers her theories on intersectionality, arguing that systems of oppression like racism, sexism, and classism are interconnected and must be addressed together, not in isolation, to achieve true liberation.

Favorite Quotes:

• “Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as a means of escape.”

• “All too often women believe it is a sign of commitment, an expression of love, to endure unkindness or cruelty, to forgive and forget. In actuality, when we love rightly we know that the healthy, loving response to cruelty and abuse is putting ourselves out of harm’s way.”

• “For me, forgiveness and compassion are always linked: how do we hold people accountable for wrongdoing and yet at the same time remain in touch with their humanity enough to believe in their capacity to be transformed?”

• “If any female feels she need anything beyond herself to legitimate and validate her existence, she is already giving away her power to be self-defining, her agency.”

• “Living simply makes loving simple.”

Must Read from bell hooks?

Ain’t I a Woman.

A foundational text that examines the ways Black women have been erased, exploited, and misunderstood within both feminist and civil rights movements. bell hooks traces the history of racism, sexism, and capitalism to show how Black women have been uniquely impacted, while challenging white feminism and patriarchal structures at the same time. It’s sharp, historical, and deeply political without losing its emotional weight.

Feminism Is for Everybody.

An accessible, straightforward introduction to feminist thought that centers inclusivity rather than gatekeeping. hooks breaks down feminism as a movement against sexism and domination—not men—and makes the case that liberation should be collective. The book touches on race, class, love, education, and media, offering feminism as a practical, everyday framework rather than an academic one. It’s clear, generous, and meant to be shared.

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou is a living archive of survival, grace, and Black womanhood. Born Marguerite Annie Johnson on April 4th, 1928 in St. Louis, Missouri, Angelou’s early life was marked by trauma, displacement, and silence, she stopped speaking for years after experiencing sexual violence, believing her voice had the power to harm. It was during this period of quiet that she fell deeply into literature, memorizing poetry and developing the lyrical voice that would later define her work.

Angelou lived many lives before becoming a literary icon, she was a singer, dancer, actress, journalist, and civil rights activist. She worked alongside Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., grounding her art firmly in political struggle and Black liberation. In 1969, she released “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”, a memoir that reshaped the genre by centering Black girlhood, trauma, resilience, and joy with radical honesty.

Across her essays, poetry, and autobiographical series, Angelou wrote about race, womanhood, love, dignity, and survival without ever flattening the complexity of Black life. Her work insists on softness without weakness and pride without denial of pain. Angelou reminds us that survival itself can be a form of resistance and that telling your story, especially when the world tries to silence you, is a political act.

Favorite Quotes:

• “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

• “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

• “When someone shows you who they are believe them the first time.”

• “We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”

• “Courage is the most important of all the virtues because without courage, you can’t practice any other virtue consistently.”

• “I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.

Must Read from Maya Angelou

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

A groundbreaking memoir that redefined what it meant to tell the truth about Black girlhood. Maya Angelou recounts her early life with unflinching honesty, writing about trauma, racism, displacement, and silence alongside moments of tenderness and joy. The book centers voice, how it’s taken, how it’s reclaimed, and how survival itself becomes an act of resistance. It’s painful, lyrical, and deeply affirming.

Letter to My Daughter

A collection of essays written to the daughters Angelou never had, and to anyone seeking guidance, reassurance, or belonging. Drawing from her own life, she reflects on love, loss, aging, race, womanhood, and resilience with wisdom that feels both personal and universal. The book reads like a conversation with an elder who wants you to live fully, bravely, and with intention.

All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes

Part memoir, part spiritual homecoming, this book follows Angelou’s time living in Ghana during the 1960s as she searches for connection, belonging, and ancestral memory. She writes about the tension between romanticizing “return” and confronting the reality of displacement, identity, and cultural difference. The book explores what it means to be African American in Africa, and what it means to carry history in your body wherever you go.

Angela Davis

Angela Davis is theory, praxis, and resistance embodied. Born Angela Yvonne Davis on January 26th, 1944 in Birmingham, Alabama, during a time when the city was so violently segregated it was nicknamed “Bombingham”, Davis grew up surrounded by both racial terror and organized resistance. Her political consciousness was shaped early, watching her community fight white supremacy head on.

Davis went on to study philosophy, first at Brandeis University, then abroad in Paris and Frankfurt, where she studied under Herbert Marcuse. She later earned her PhD from the University of California, San Diego. A scholar, activist, and organizer, Davis became internationally known in the late 1960s and early 1970s after being targeted by the U.S. government for her political affiliations and activism, leading to her incarceration and eventual acquittal.

Davis’ work centers on prison abolition, Black liberation, feminism, anti-capitalism, and global solidarity. Books like “Women, Race & Class and Are Prisons Obsolete?” challenge the idea that punishment equals justice, pushing readers to imagine radically different futures. Angela Davis teaches us that freedom is collective, unfinished, and demands both study and action. She is not just a scholar of resistance, she is living proof that resistance works.

Favorite Quotes:

• “I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I am changing the things I cannot accept.”

• “You have to act as if it were possible to radically transform the world. And you have to do it all the time.”

• “If they come for me in the morning, they will come for you in the night.”

Must Read from Angela Davis

Women, Race & Class

A foundational text that laid the groundwork for what we now understand as intersectionality before the language fully existed. Angela Davis examines how racism, sexism, and capitalism are deeply entangled, tracing their impact through slavery, labor, reproductive rights, and the feminist movement. The book challenges white, middle-class feminism and insists that any liberation politics that ignore race and class are incomplete. It’s historical, uncompromising, and still painfully relevant.

Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement

This is one that I have been devouring between the hustle and bustle of life. This book is a collection of essays and speeches that connect struggles across borders, time, and communities. Davis draws lines between Black liberation movements in the U.S. and global fights against state violence, colonialism, and surveillance, particularly in Palestine. The book centers solidarity as a practice, not a slogan, and reminds us that freedom is not a destination but an ongoing commitment. Urgent, expansive, and rooted in collective care.

Are Prisons Obsolete?

A radical yet accessible introduction to prison abolition that asks readers to imagine safety without cages. Davis interrogates the prison industrial complex, exposing how punishment has replaced justice and disproportionately targets Black, poor, and marginalized communities. Rather than offering simple answers, the book pushes readers to question why prisons feel inevitable and who benefits from that belief. It’s challenging, necessary, and deeply forward thinking.

Honorary Mentions

Zora Neale Hurston
A foundational voice of the Harlem Renaissance who refused to write Black life through a white gaze. Hurston centered Black Southern dialect, folklore, spirituality, and interiority at a time when it was considered risky to do so. Works like “Their Eyes Were Watching God” remain radical in how they honor Black womanhood, desire, and selfhood. She wrote Black people as whole, complicated, and worthy of joy.

Audre Lorde
Poet, essayist, theorist, and truth-teller. Audre Lorde gave us language for survival. Her work confronts racism, sexism, homophobia, capitalism, and silence, insisting that difference is not something to be erased but a source of power. Books like “Sister Outsider and The Cancer Journals” blend the personal and political, reminding us that self-care, naming oppression, and speaking truth are all acts of resistance.

Alexandre Dumas
A literary giant whose Blackness is too often erased from the canon. Born to a formerly enslaved Haitian woman and a French general, Dumas became one of the most widely read authors in history. “The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo” shaped adventure storytelling as we know it, blending justice, betrayal, and revenge. His work and legacy challenge the narrow way we’re taught to imagine “classic” literature.

Jaylen Christie
A writer and creator redefining what Black heroism looks like on the page. Through his Black comic superheroes, Christie builds worlds where Black characters are centered, complex, imaginative, and powerful without being reduced to trauma. His comic “Stink Bomb Man and the Brain Kids, Vol. 1 “introduces young readers to heroes who lead with intelligence, curiosity, and community, blending humor, STEM, and representation in a way that feels both intentional and joyful. Christie’s work expands what’s possible in comics and speculative storytelling, offering younger audiences mirrors they rarely get to see. His interview with Kailon Magazine highlights not just his creativity, but his commitment to imagining Black futures where joy, brilliance, and belonging are non-negotiable.

N.E. Davenport
An emerging voice in fantasy who brings emotional depth and political awareness to the genre. Davenport writes expansive worlds while keeping race, power, and identity at the center of the story, proving that fantasy doesn’t have to escape reality to be meaningful. Her work signals a shift in speculative fiction, one where Black women are not only present, but world-builders shaping the genre’s future.

Continuing the Work

Black History Month should never be about surface level recognition or momentary visibility. It is about lineage, responsibility, and continuation. The writers highlighted here did not just document history, they challenged power, expanded language, and made space for futures that had not yet been imagined.

While Kailon Magazine is still young, our mission is rooted in the same commitment these writers embodied, to decenter the white default, uplift marginalized voices, and tell stories that are honest, complex, and unapologetically human.

We see our work not as separate from this legacy, but in conversation with it. Kailon remains open to collaboration, dialogue, and submissions from writers, artists, and thinkers who are equally invested in truth-telling, cultural preservation, and radical imagination. Black history is not confined to the past, it is living, evolving, and being written every day. Our responsibility is to listen, to amplify, and to keep the work moving forward.

I look back on the past year of my life and rest in awe at the surprises it has held. Such awe it is even humorous. There are certain things I had held as truths about my life, certain in their inability to sway, and in merely one year these truths have disintegrated and transformed similar to the process of decomposition. It all so drastically showing me how little I know about the future endeavours of my life, I can’t help but laugh.

I am 21 years old, and I know absolutely nothing.

Such agitation and anxiety stem from this image of control we craft for our lives, a craft nearly never tethered to the truth that lies in our soul, rather spreading cancerously from our fear of social rejection along with our insecurity rooted in our ingrained constant comparison.

I know absolutely nothing.

We look forward in fear, we look backward in regret. Emotions both of which are unproductive yet constantly pulling at us like a 5 year old asking to be played with.

And we play. We play with them constantly on this fictional plane of what ifs and I wishes. And no matter how we spin it, the regret crafting ways it could of been different, the worry tirelessly treading knee high water in an attempt to make sense of how truly unknown it all is, urgently working to form a sand castle two steps from where the tide breaks on a day before a thunderstorm. Humours, yet the urge so powerful. Silly, yet the fabrication so enticing. In a moment you can die, in a year you could not have lived at all.

I know absolutely nothing.

The polarity of nothing is something, and in the crevices of the word something we find this need to identify, to exert control, to understand. The word something is creating boundaries, it is articulating the separateness of such entity that you are talking about, yet it provides no details, no concrete description.

Something is similar to what we do when looking to our past or future. We try to assert our dominance, our understanding, our predictions of it through our false craft of control. But, with further inspection our assertions are empty, lacking validity.

Yet nothing, nothing has no boundaries. In the word nothing there is surrender. We release control over identifying the separateness and with the release of control, the tension calms and the worry and fear dissipate. Exactly as how it does when we surrender to the present moment. Recognizing our true lack of knowledge or the ability to control all else but right now.

So, I practice. I practice unveiling slowly the insecurity and fear once dressed like that little girl. I practice in hopes of one day knowing the peace in surrendering to the absolute truth and beauty in knowing absolutely nothing.

Jennifer Gheorghe explores a layered existence through art and writing. She is currently acting as Creative Director of Diverse World Fashion Magazine, and you can find more of her work in its upcoming issues, she can also be contacted directly at gheorghejennifer1@gmail.com.

Dani Knox is an interdisciplinary expressionist artist located in Greenville, SC.
Since 2015, Dani has taught, led and choreographed for organizations all across the upstate including multiple non-profit organizations, competitive performance programs, high school organizations and more. Most recently, Dani has launched “Gestalt Performance” as an outlet for performers of all ages to come together to collaborate through creative methods of performance together. As a former primary-age classroom teacher, Dani celebrates performers’ individuality and expression through open-ended performance opportunities and personalized choreographic methods. Through the combination of social practice and conceptual art, Dani constructs pieces that promote the well-being of the performers by using her platform to conceptualize and advocate for mental health through her work.

If you would like to connect with Dani Knox or find more of their work you can find them on Instagram and YouTube or via email dknox101@gmail.com

Thankfully, we have passed the winter solstice, which marks the longest night of the year, meaning only brighter days and evenings ahead. No more sunsets at 4pm, if you live in the UK like me, and brighter mornings that make you want to leave your cozy, warm bed. However, despite noticing a slight shift of longer days, winter depression’s effects can last well into the spring. So how can you prevent the onset of seasonal depression as the winter months approach and what can you do if you have found yourself in a melancholy pit throughout the winter?

1. TAKE YOUR VITAMINS

As we get less sunlight in the winter, it is indescribably important to take Vitamin D supplements. Many people suggest that you begin taking regular Vitamin D from as early as September to ensure you are prepared for the season.

‘The Public Health Agency (PHA) recommends that everyone should consider taking a vitamin D supplement this autumn and winter to help keep bones, teeth and muscles healthy.’

2. PICK UP A NEW HOBBY

   

The winter months can feel isolating, there is less motivation to see friends and less opportunities to plan activities due to the weather. This is why it is essential to occupy yourself with an unfamiliar activity, preferably with a social element. Such as a community drawing class or local sports team to join or cheer on, so that you are not only learning a new skill but also meeting new people. Put yourself outside your comfort zone this winter, you won’t regret it!

3. KEEP A STABLE ROUTINE

As much as you may feel you want to sleep till noon or are wired into the early hours of the morning, it is vital to keep a constant sleep routine. If you wake up at noon you have missed half the day’s sunlight, making you feel groggy and unmotivated. Similarly staying up into the early hours forces you to lose essential hours of sleep gained before midnight, which is said to be one the most revitalizing hours of sleep. This will in turn cause you to feel tired throughout your day, which can sway emotions and mood further fueling seasonal depression.

On the other hand, having a stable and consistent routine could boost your mood. This will help beat winter depression by making you feel more energized and eager to get on with your day. Furthermore, having extra time in the mornings e.g. for your favourite coffee before work can boost mood by creating a positive atmosphere to start your day on.

4. LISTEN TO UPBEAT MUSIC

No matter how much you want to crank up Slowdive and Cigarettes After Sex as soon as the autumn leaves fall, I urge you to limit your listening of sad music. From personal experience, listening solely to this genre of music will further hurl you into a depressive pit. Trust me, speak to 15-year-old me! Listening to upbeat and happy music, especially first thing in the morning, has been proven to increase mood and motivation.

Research shows that “the brain state associated with music listening is the DMN. The DMN is related to specific brain functions, such as self-referential views, empathy, self-awareness, mind-wandering, imagining the future” (Broyd et al., 2009; Gusnard et al., 2001).

Furthermore, researchers have found that “listening to sad music, compared with happy music, is associated with stronger mind-wandering and greater transitions to the DMN” (Taruffi et al., 2017). “These results suggest that the emotional valence of the music can modulate the engagement of the DMN activity” (Taruffi et al., 2017).

5. REDUCE SCREEN TIME

At a time where you may be seeing friends less, it is important to not fill that time with online chatter. Social media, especially viewing constant body focused content during the new year period, i.e. 2025 body transformations or how to lose weight in 2026, could have a detrimental effect on your mental health. Instead, you could pick up a new book or watch all those movies on your watch list. Do not fall into the trap of doom scrolling to fill time, be more present and learn something new instead!

With all these tips, you could improve your winter experience this year. Provide a productive and positive atmosphere for yourself this winter, and you will reap the benefits come spring!

If you’re struggling with seasonal depression don’t hesitate to reach out for help

• Disaster Distress Helpline – Call 1-800-985-5990 or text TalkWithUs to 66746

• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline – Call 800-273-8255 or Chat with Lifeline

• Crisis Textline – Text TALK to 741741

For non-emergency help or advice you can also reach out to Paula Santos, LPC in the Inquiry Department - submit questions here

Sources

Anon. (2024) The importance of vitamin D this autumn and winter | HSC Public Health Agency [online]. Available from: https://www.publichealth.hscni.net/news/importance-vitamin-d-autumn-and-winter [Accessed 14 January 2026].

T. Zaatar, M., Alhakim, K., Enayeh, M. and Tamer, R. (2023) The transformative power of music: Insights into neuroplasticity, health, and disease. Brain, Behavior, & Immunity - Health [online]. 35, p. 100716. Available from: https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10765015/ [Accessed 14 January 2026].

Edited by Natalli Binion

There are questions we learn to carry alone.

The quiet, aching ones that surface in the night, or in the wake of a loss, or at the edge of a life transition we didn’t ask for. Questions about meaning, grief, identity, connection, faith, fear, purpose, and the strange ache of being human. Most of us are never taught what to do with these questions—only how to hide them politely.

That’s where I come in.

As a trauma and grief therapist, writer, and long-time student of both psychology and mysticism, I have spent years studying the places where clinical understanding and spiritual instinct meet. I call this work depth work, and it is from this devotion that I’ve become, in essence, the Depth Responder—someone who helps you explore the inner terrain you’ve been navigating without a map.

In this column and in the coming podcast “The Self Inquiry Sessions— Real, Here, Now”, you are invited to bring the questions you’ve been afraid to voice out loud. The ones you scribble in journals, whisper to no one, or tuck behind your daily functioning. Think of this space as a blend of your therapist, the ideal parenting guidance we didn’t receive, the insight of a spiritual teacher who isn’t asking for you to follow their ways—just asking for your sincerity.

Here, I will hold your questions with the reverence they deserve. Not with diagnoses or dogma, but with contemplation, poetic clarity, and grounded psychological insight. Together, we will explore how consciousness widens, how wounds become wisdom, how grief becomes initiation, and how spiritual longing becomes direction rather than despair.

Send me whatever your soul is wrestling with.

Your curiosities, your heartbreak, your confusions, your awakenings, your thresholds.

No one should have to drown alone in their existential questions.

Welcome to a place where the deep end is finally safe to enter.

— Paula Santos, LP

Submit your questions here!

All submissions remain anonymous or confidential unless otherwise requested within the submission.

Sophie as Maiden

The “maiden” archetype is defined as a woman who is pretty, docile, and youthful. This is how Sophie begins her story, staring out the window of her family’s humble hat shop as her sisters leave to dawdle around town. She lacks agency, acting with passivity even when Howl lifts her into the air to save her from the Witch of the Waste’s henchmen.

Some have argued that Sophie plays into the “Cinderella” stereotype, as she begins the story as a girl helpless to stand up to her surroundings and is rescued from her “tragic and dull existence” by a man. In this way, Sophie is a sort of damsel in distress, but she is much stronger-willed than a Disney princess. Notably, her love brings the story to a peaceful conclusion, reducing her witch-like power to love, a trait many fairy tales portray as primarily feminine.

“Howl is Sophie’s saviour. Sophie’s love for him sprang from that initial act of manly valour. And furthermore, we get the impression that she did in fact need saving, or else she’d still be stuck at the hat shop, sighing about not feeling as pretty as her siblings,” @FaerieStories said in a Reddit post on “Howl’s Moving Castle”’s gender politics.

However, Sophie has many instances of independence, self-confidence, and boldness. As the film progresses, she is proven to be a woman who can hold her own, even reprimanding Howl for his cowardice. It is inarguable that Sophie’s unique personality and growing confidence further both the plot and her own self-maturation. She is not confident solely to help Howl and the other inhabitants of the moving castle; she is confident because she believes in herself and her capabilities. Howl doesn’t do much to increase this self-assuredness; it is almost solely an internal journey for Sophie, something that strays from the typical “maiden” archetype.

Sophie as Crone

The original use of the term “crone” is derogatory, not only calling a woman old but also withered, ugly, and cruel in contrast to the usual definitions of female power: youth and beauty. Sophie becomes a “crone” after the Witch of the Waste casts a spell on her; her wrinkles are exaggerated, her voice is hoarse, and her attitude is curt. However, this curse turned into a blessing, serving as the catalyst for Sophie’s maturation throughout the film.

Throughout her essay, “Confronting Coming of Age and War in Hayao Miyazaki’s ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’,” Xinnia Ejaz explains how Sophie’s character subverts common Japanese “shojo” tropes: she is not idealized, not sexualized, and looks like an old woman for most of the film. What would usually be a major setback for any shojo protagonist becomes a springboard for Sophie, as she grows more confident as an old, wise woman who doesn’t feel belittled by the male gaze (as seen in the scene with her and the two flirtatious guards).

“Even though youth is admirable in women, at the same time, youth, when seen through a male gaze, reduces women to an object of desire. Society reduces a woman to a mere body while old age finally opens up the world to her gaze” (Ejaz, p. 15).

Although Sophie is initially shocked and horrified by her short, weak, wrinkled stature, she immediately adapts, cheekily remarking that her clothes suit her better now. This archetype provides Sophie with the wisdom to become a mother figure to the inhabitants of the magical moving castle, including the very immature Howl.

Sophie as Mother

Sophie’s motherly nature is integral to her character and the story as a whole. Many say maternal instincts vary with age, but it’s actually been proven that the popular idea of how maternal instincts develop is largely untrue. Not all women inherently gain a sense of maternity over those younger than her as she grows older; this is a misconception driven by what society expects a woman to act like, so if not her perceived maturity, what drives Sophie to become the “mother” of Howl’s moving castle?

David Rudd’s article “Building Castles in the Air: (De)Construction in ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’,” examines the character of Sophie through the lens of Diana Wynne Jones’ novel, which the film was based on. Rudd argues that Sophie’s instantaneously becoming a broom-swinging, wisdom-carrying, and wise-cracking mother figure gives her power in this story rather than taking it away. In many stories, the “mother” character is only valuable for serving the more important characters who surround her. However, it could be argued that “Howl’s Moving Castle” is more a story about Sophie than it is about Howl.

“Sophie is subversive of fairy tale orthodoxy in one other key way, too, in that she moves towards the hearth rather than away from it. However, in doing so, she also moves into the driving seat of the story, … That is, she becomes the archetypal Mother Goose, spinner of tales: old and opinionated, yet influential” (Rudd, p. 262).

Sophie finds her power in the mundane practices of a mother. She brings about the end of the war just by being kind to a turnip-headed scarecrow and saves Howl by hugging a very rude little witch. She is the first person, besides Howl, to tame the evil fire demon, Calcifer, just by giving him a few stern words. Her motherly nature further distances Sophie from the stereotypical “shojo” trope, as she holds her own throughout the entirety of the film.

Sophie is emblematic of the divine trinity of feminine power; her story and actions are unashamedly feminine, without diminishing her agency. Her love is only one part of her power, and, paired alongside her confidence and self-growth, she makes Howl’s moving castle a home; Sophie wields a broom like a sword and gives love like it’s a potion, keeping her grey hair along the way.

There is a version of Latina womanhood that so many people think they know. The girl with a sharp tongue. The ‘feisty’ one. The one whose anger is sexy, whose boundaries are a turn on, whose pain is dismissed as entertainment.

Growing up in an immigrant Afro-Cuban household, English was forbidden, and my emotions, even more so. It was not until I was diagnosed with CPTSD and OCD as an adult that I even began to understand myself. I didn’t know that anxiety, anger, and reactive behavior could be symptoms of trauma—I thought they were character flaws. I thought I was the problem.

Trauma has lineage. Trauma has biology. Studies of Holocaust survivors show epigenetic changes passed on to their children, particularly in genes related to stress responses, such as FKBP5, which is linked to PTSD and depression. Trauma rewrites our stress systems. It literally alters our DNA.

So, when people ask why immigrant communities carry so much anxiety, rage, fear, and hypervigilance, I wonder how they don’t see the obvious.

And within every collective trauma carried in this world, the women and the children always carry the heaviest bags.

The Sexualization Starts When We’re Still Children

I think the earliest I can remember adults commenting on my body was at eight years old.

Then, being sized for cheerleading uniforms, my backside compared to J.Lo and Selena by other moms. I tried to hide, embarrassed, but my abuela smiled cheerfully, chipping in that I “have her genes”. She was a Caribbean Carnaval float queen as a teenager, and loved to tell everyone how the town was “mesmerized by her tiny waist”. An entire town, admiring the body of a child…not quite a brag, to me.

While I experienced society’s sexualization painfully enough, my more melanated cousins and friends have endured it at a far more violent intensity.

This is something we don’t talk about enough: young Black and Latina girls are treated like adults before they are.

This is not imagination, this is very real and very well-documented. Research from Georgetown’s infamous “Girlhood Interrupted” study found that adults see Black girls as needing less protection, nurturing, support, and comfort than white girls, starting between ages five and nine. That means starting in kindergarten. As I write this, my own child is 3, and my heart aches.

While Hispanic girls are sexualized, objectified, and adultified, Black girls are similarly criminalized and eroticized for the same behaviors and emotions.

The “Fast Girl” and the “Angry Woman”

The term “fast” has deep roots in the “Jezebel” stereotype used during slavery to portray Black women as hypersexual and animalistic—justifying rape, forced reproduction, and erasing their right to be victims. It constructed them as “un-rapeable,” and that stain has not washed off, nor can you hang a painting over to hide it.

One of the most devastating consequences today is that when Black girls experience harassment or sexual abuse, adults dismiss them as “knowing better” or “acting grown”, as if that makes them complicit. This results in these girls not receiving help, not being believed, and not being protected.

This isn’t just misogyny.

It is racialized misogyny. And Black girls pay the highest price.

Latinidad Is Not A Free Pass to Ignorance

I will never pretend that Latina/Hispanic women do not suffer. We do.
We are oversexualized, infantilized, and simultaneously expected to be a mother to everyone around us.

Women hear men joke about dating “crazy Latinas”. See them provoking reactions just to label us “fiery”. Eroticizing the “toxic Latina” stereotype like it’s their kink, rather than a violently overly-normalized form of gaslighting.

But, when Black women defend themselves? Oh no, now she’s an Angry Black Woman. “Too loud. Too much.”

A trope that was created through—and facilitated by—white supremacy, and then polished by media portrayals, is still destroying careers, mental health, and safety to this day.

A strong example of this in modern media is the hit TV show, ‘Power’, with characters Angela and Tasha played by Lela Loren and Naturi Naughton. Tasha, although portrayed to be a beautiful, talented and supportive wife who has been the rock to her husband and their family, her feelings and justified anger are often diminished as her husband, the lead character ‘Ghost’, embarks on an affair with Angela, a childhood flame. Angela’s latinidad is hyper sexualized often, and the difference between both women is highlighted throughout the series as the writers really leaned into this trope.

The difference is clear and it is this: Latina anger is fetishized. Black women’s anger is criminalized.

Our humanity distorted, theirs erased.

The “Personal” Isn’t Separate from the “Political”

I have learned that if I code-switch, blend in, dress in my most expensive clothes with my hair done, and most importantly, if I keep my mouth shut: I can be white-passing. While that does not change my DNA, my ancestry, or the trauma I inherited, it does change my proximity to safety. However, when someone learns I am Latina: the tone shifts, the comments sharpen, the fetishizing begins.

Yet, the fact that I can pass, that I can move through certain spaces without immediate suspicion, means I will never carry nor experience what Black women carry and experience. And I absolutely feel that it is my responsibility to highlight this disparity.

Anger Is Not the Enemy, Dehumanization Is

I spent years thinking I was “crazy” or “broken,” when in reality I was coping with trauma that my community was never allowed—and still is not allowed—to define.

When we are denied humanity, we are denied healing.

Black women have been denied humanity longer and more violently than any other group of women in the West.

That is a fact. That has to be said without defensiveness or dilution, especially by people who look like me.

Our anger is human. Their anger is human.

But humanity is not distributed evenly in this country.

What I Want is Simple

I want us, as Latinas, to understand that when we speak about our pain, we don’t have to minimize or erase theirs. Our struggles are similar, not identical, but absolutely similar enough to warrant more understanding and community. We must advocate for each other.

I want little Hispanic girls to grow up safe from sexualization, adultification, and exploitation.

I want little Black girls to be allowed a full childhood, with the protection, tenderness, and innocence that all children deserve.

We all deserve healing.

But first, we need to be seen as human.

Links & Resources

• Study finds epigenetic changes in children of Holocaust survivors

• The rs1360780 Variant of FKBP5: Genetic Variation, Epigenetic Regulation, and Behavioral Phenotypes

• Being Raised by a Torture Victim: How Trauma Can Impact Future Generations

• Fast Tailed Girls: An Inquiry into Black Girlhood, Black Womanhood, and the Politics of Sexuality

• Epistemic Adultification: Clarifying the Pernicious Work of Black Girls as “Prematurely Knowing”

• VICTIMIZATION OF GIRLS OF COLOR FUNNELS INTO INCARCERATION

• Serena Williams and the trope of the ‘angry black woman’

• Opinion: Society Needs to Stop Sexualizing Latina Women

• https://jimcrowmuseum.ferris.edu/antiblack/sapphire.htm

Trigger Warning: Discusses sexual assault, trauma, and other sensitive experiences.

Soooooooo… this past year was rough. I think we can all agree. The snake absolutely shed its skin, and it’s not done.

2025 forced me to confront my mental health, accountability, and what I actually want from life. As someone diagnosed with CPTSD, I’ve been living in survival mode my entire life. As a survivor of countless traumas, things so complex even therapists have apologized for not being fully equipped to help me—I never thought I’d make it this far. Ten years ago, at 15, I never thought I’d see 25, let alone having the blessing and salvation that is my son and the namesake of this very magazine. I have decided this year is the year that I finally have New Year’s Resolutions and begin to healthily establish and maintain goals.

As a Pisces rising, I’ve always daydreamed, but I never let myself truly dream. Complex trauma rewires your brain. A nervous system that’s never felt its baseline makes it nearly impossible to create stable goals and even harder to achieve them. Surviving to adulthood was already a feat, imagining elderhood or even “what comes next” still feels impossible in so many ways. I’ve spent my life just trying to survive, mainly for my siblings.

2025 was the year I had to confront the truth of my upbringing and the truth of me. Shadow work, full stop. I examined how I allow others to treat me, how I react, and how I let things affect me. Along with CPTSD, I have ADHD and OCD and an underlying chronic illness we have yet to figure out that has left me hospitalized more than I can count. Surviving has meant severe and chronic masking, coupled with self sabotaging tendencies.

I have people in my life, some who have been long time staples who do not actually know me. They don’t know my favorite color or that I grew up in an abusive household where I was once tied to a bed and forced to urinate in a pitcher because I mixed languages at school, or that I slept in the same bed as my father while he cheated on my mother in another country. They don’t know I was bullied for not looking like my family, or that I used to check every night to see if my mom had passed away from her heart condition because I was told I’d have to take care of my siblings if she did, while I was still a child. They don’t know I was sexually assaulted by two peers, or that last year I had to cut myself off entirely from my family, leading to harassment and public humiliation as attacks were spread on Facebook to peers, ex-professors, and more.

I’ve also known people who did know all of that, and more, because of my compulsive need to confess everything I hold in due to over-compelling guilt and shame. 2025 had me living in near constant paranoia. People I grew up with scoffed at me publicly because of what they read from my family’s smear campaign. ‘Friends’ used my trauma against me. In my silence, I had to hear the lies they told to save face, on top of my family chaos, while trying to be a good wife, mother, and friend, all in silence.

I turned inward. I critiqued myself harshly. I hated myself. I spiraled, ruminating in shame and humiliation. It was hard to believe this wasn’t my Saturn return, it carried lessons that I genuinely thought would break me. I feared the little girl in me, the one who always believed she had potential, would never fully actualize it. I thought my upbringing, my brain, and my circumstances had ruined my life, despite my pure intentions.

A reiki session long ago told me my throat chakra was blocked. Communication in my household was nonexistent, as was emotional intelligence. Combine that with language barriers, I have long felt unable to fully express myself, constantly misunderstood and occasionally being gas lit about it.. Writing has been my safe place; I can spill words and fix them later, but even that felt unsafe, fearing my processing, truth, and self discovery would be weaponized against me.

I have always been the youngest in every room, and arrested development certainly did NOT help. I was never afforded patience and understanding, maybe because I was silent about why I am the way I am.

Recently, I remembered Amber Scholl and her vision boards–things I tried as a teenager but never followed through on– because I didn’t know if I’d even be alive next year. Content creator Meg Lucero puts it perfectly:

“The practice of concept creation for many people living through childhood trauma as adults is over their heads. It’s so hard to tap into… We get stuck on what we want to do… what’s next… what we’re passionate about… so many of us don’t understand how to utilize our greatest skills… we struggle to turn our deepest desires into reality.”

I spent the early part of my twenties obsessively chasing success and stability, feeling like I owed it to myself and my family. I carried the burden of our poverty, of their immigration hardships and the paranoia of protecting my son from similar experiences. My goals were not healthy because I did not know how to healthily set or pursue them.

It is very easy to see someone like me, paralyzed with fear as lazy or incompetent when you’ve never survived what I have survived. Trauma can mask genius. It can overwhelm potential. The world and those much more fortunate rarely have the patience for that.

“New year, same me” is valid, of course, and true in many cases, but there’s something powerful in a fresh start.

Recently I deactivated all my social media and I am on the brink of completely deleting it–one of my new goals. I am focusing inward, on myself and my child. It is never too late. If a new year gives you that little push to begin again, then by all means, embrace it. As the energy of the fire horse rushes in, run like the wind.

Christmas is supposed to be about family. About coming home. About warmth, forgiveness, and togetherness. Yet for many of us, the holidays come carrying grief instead of comfort and silence instead of celebration. This Christmas, I am learning that absence can also be an act of love, and that going no contact is not a rising trend, but a vital form of self protection and breaking the cycles of generational trauma.

Recently, I listened to Oprah Winfrey’s podcast episode exploring what she called “the rising trend of going no contact with your family.” While the conversation offered several thoughtful perspectives, I found myself unsettled. Not because the topic felt familiar, but because of how easily some of the participants reframed the pain of adult children into something palatable for public consumption, as a generational failure, a mental health buzzword, or worse, a lack of conflict resolution skills.

One Reddit user shared how deeply triggered they felt after watching the episode, overwhelmed by guilt. Guilt is the inheritance many of us receive when we choose distance. Social media has made it easier to find communities of chosen family, places where healing feels possible, but it has also amplified a troubling narrative, that parents are victims of abandonment and children are impulsively cutting ties.

What often goes unsaid is how frequently parents hide behind harmful claims that their children are “too sensitive,” “mentally unwell,” or “unable to communicate.” As someone who comes from a deeply complex cultural and traditional background, this dismissal feels painfully familiar.

My grandmother was a respected professor of psychology in Cuba, a fact I’ve long found both ironic and confusing, as mental health was neither valued nor protected in my household. When I began therapy in college to manage my CPTSD, my father laughed about it to a family friend, calling it “white people shit.” That moment did not shock me, it simply confirmed what I already knew. Healing to them was as foreign as they felt in this land. Survival was expected and seeking assistance was weak.

It took me years to begin letting go of my upbringing. Only recently did I understand why I loved Ella Enchanted so fiercely as a child. I am her. She is me. Bound by invisible rules, trained to endure quietly, and praised for obedience rather than authenticity.

Our home was often a refuge for others. My mother took in children who had nowhere else to go, escaping households far harsher than my own. I learned early how to care for others, housing friends against my family’s wishes, feeding them, giving impromptu “spa weekends” in my trailer home to distract them from their pain. I told myself that because I was helping others, my home couldn’t possibly be abusive. Someone else always had it worse, right?

I viewed people who cut off their families as Americanized, white-washed. How could anyone do something so ungrateful? My father foreshadowed this fear often, warning us that Americans abandon their parents, put them in nursing homes, forgetting where they came from, discarding those who gave them their entire lives. Did he know I would grow up to see? To ask questions? To want better? To want more?

I was made to feel ashamed for wanting more, accused of trying too hard to assimilate, to be like my American peers. I already looked like them, a fact often weaponized against me. So I doubled down. I clung tighter to culture, tradition, expectation. My family became my religion. Their sacrifices were my purpose. My dreams were not my own.

As I aged, cracks formed. My interest in psychology deepened. My eldest daughter role of fixing everyone intensified. What I saw as an attempt to regulate my nervous system and prevent destruction was perceived as control. I always knew where we were headed if nothing changed.

It took becoming a mother myself to finally draw a line.

Recently this year after another big spectacle that took me away from attending an event with my husband, I asked for one thing: therapy. A boundary. A chance to heal together .That request was met with resistance, anger, and repeated violations. I sought therapy for myself, to work on my own health and healing, and I was very clear, if they would not work on themselves, I could not maintain a relationship. They were used to me caving in. But, this time, I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t let me. My nervous system was breaking down. I was disappearing.

There is never one single reason a child goes no contact. As a hospice nurse in Winfrey’s podcast so accurately stated, it is “a thousand cuts that bled me dry.”

I had always been the family’s unofficial advocate, the child with a social justice complex, unafraid to name what was wrong. I was constantly defending my mother and sister, earning the nickname ‘abogada’. I had already gone low or no contact with a few relatives over what I felt was unforgivable behavior. When my request for therapy was denied from weeks to months, things escalated beyond anything I could have imagined.

My family became defensive, relentless. Over twenty phone numbers were used to harass me. Letters and social media posts were published about me to audiences that included former professors, peers, and community members. Despite repeated pleas from me, my husband, and my best friend to stop, because it was severely impacting my mental health and my ability to parent my high-needs child, it continued.

I still asked for therapy. It was still my only ask.

Now I live with hypervigilance. I had to get a new phone number because each new number began to trigger panic. I flinch when cars pass my house. I keep my curtains closed. They have shown up unannounced, banging on my door, leaving gifts that feel less like love and more like bargaining.

People who watched me grow up somehow forgot that I was once a child too. They took my mother’s Facebook rants as fact and scoffed at me when I greeted them kindly, as I always had.

A fact I never thought I would find myself writing is that I am not in contact with a single member of my incredibly large family.

I don’t know what the future holds. Going no contact is not easy, and I would argue it is far harder for the child who initiates it, despite what others may claim. I am no longer interested in valuing parents’ feelings over their children’s safety.

I don’t know if my family will ever come to terms with who they are or what they’ve done. I don’t know if they will forgive me.

What I do know is this, I am the intelligent woman they raised me to be. I am doing what is best for myself and my child. If they cannot accept that, then radical acceptance will have to carry me forward.

This Christmas, I am choosing my chosen family. I am creating new traditions. I am honoring the quiet, brave work of breaking cycles, even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.