10/24/2026
B*tching because I care sooooo very much about the birthright and necessity it is to feel connected to our people. Every season is ancestor season. And yet, our people were gathering together this time of year to sing their songs and tell their stories and remember who we come from, on purpose.
I believe in approaching our ancestors with respect, discernment, and a readiness to tend some of the unprocessed s**t that’s still pent up in our lineages and inside our own bodies. But whiteness too quickly turns everything into a project. The moment you fall out of relationship, you lose the plot.
To stay in the heart, to enter the ache, to let it crack you open — that is the point, to me at least. My ancestors remind me daily that the only way out is through. There will be some hard stuff to sit with. There will be so much beauty and remembrance of what has always been yours to rest in. The question is whether or not you can let yourself be truly held in the process.
Between a sea of “shoulds” from strangers on the internet telling you how to do a thing right, may we not lose our hearts in the process. The moment something becomes too fixated on those conditions, we have fallen into the trap of whiteness. And if there’s no consideration for confronting colonial harm, we’re equally missing an opportunity to bring necessary repair.
But — in my opinion, none of that deep work can actually be done if we’re not able to be vulnerable, held in the absolute tenderness of reconnection and the complexity of healing. Most of my ancestral work has looked like tearful swaying, aching songs, Rageful shaking, the occasional moan and ecstatic laughter. You cannot think your way through this one. Your ancestors are also you. Your heart is the crucible.
I love you. Stay steady. Come home. You do not have to earn it. Be careful enough to not channel the ghosts but beyond that, let the gift of your homecoming be enough. Your people will be waiting for you no matter what, and there’s no shame in how long it’s taken us.
