I wrote the poem Letter to My Healing Self in 2021 or 2022. Coincidentally, my guiding words for those respective years were Acknowledgment and Discovery.
As I reflect on my words and recall what I was experiencing during that time, it is not only the ache that moves me to tears, but also the joy of knowing that everything moving forward held an opportunity for growth and healing.
Growth and healing from what? Where do I start?
Perhaps I'll start in the middle, jump back to the beginning, and then move forward into the continuum.
The Middle.
I have a tattoo on the inside of my right bicep. It reads Ndu Bu Isi, an Igbo phrase meaning "life is paramount," "life is first," or "life is supreme."
It is a continual reminder of a pivotal moment in my life when the thoughts running through my mind were: I don't want to die, but I don't want to be alive either.
Along this journey, I discovered my Nigerian heritage, more specifically my connection to the Igbo people, one of Nigeria's largest ethnic groups.
The beautiful thing is that the phrase found me first.
The Beginning.
For years, I was in a relationship where emotional and psychological manipulation was disguised as the "hard work" of love. That experience continued to fracture my already fragile understanding of love and relationships. I recognize now that I would do almost anything to feel seen or loved, even if it meant sacrificing parts of myself.
Infidelity, financial control, and isolation gradually eroded my sense of self. I began questioning my worth, abandoning personal ambitions, and accepting instability as a normal part of loving someone.
It wasn't until I reached an emotional breaking point that I sought help and began to recognize the patterns for what they were—not love, but control.
With distance came clarity, and with clarity, the courage to leave, rebuild, and rediscover myself.
(Back to the middle)
And by rediscovering myself, I mean lots of tears, wine, sex with strangers, running a marathon, discovering yoga as a form of healing, long conversations with friends, and saying yes to things I'd never imagined doing—like swimming with dolphins. Oh, and therapy.
Healing wasn't always pretty. But it was mine.
The Continuum.
The line from my poem that stays with me most is, "this is where we begin."
When I wrote those words, I was learning to begin again. Today, I recognize that beginning was only one of many.
My art and poetry are more than just a craft. They are a language of healing, love, and storytelling. A reflection of vulnerability that I never imagined I would find strength in, let alone share so openly with the world.
As I complete my 43rd year on earth and embark on my 44th, it is in the beginning that I find excitement and joy. The possibility of what could be, what I will learn, and where I will go.
What exhibition will my work be in next? What moments in life will spark new poems and stories to share? In what city will I find my next adventure? Who will I meet? Where will love lead me next? Who will I become?
It's not that I don't have goals, because I have many. But I've found that life has a way of unfolding unexpectedly, and in those moments, I've often found myself unexpectedly prepared.
As much as this poem points to a time of healing, it speaks more loudly to resilience, hope, strength, courage, and vulnerability.
And the possibility of what is yet to come.
That is what excites me most.
Letter to My Healing Self
You have already been swept off your feet—
by the one who knows you best.
You’re working on it:
growing,
healing,
learning to love yourself.
And I’m glad you’re taking the time to reflect—
to sit with acknowledgment
and acceptance.
In the end, you’ll teach yourself some things:
you have this innate ability—
to love,
to trust others,
and more importantly—
to be yourself.
You’ll also learn
how to find balance,
how to set boundaries,
how to stay open,
how to be patient,
how to sit—
with peace.
And if you forget,
I am here to remind you—
the greatest love stories, books, and trilogies
took years to write—
sometimes a decade or two.
And so, in this moment—
you’ll be alright.
There is so much more of you waiting
to take flight.
And unlike a book,
some stories
are too beautiful
to end.
So, for you, my friend—
this is where we begin.
— James Allen, 2021,2022 and 2026