My Life, My Truth #2
Not quiet. Not graceful. Full-bodied, shoulder-shaking sobs that rise from somewhere deep and ancient inside me. I clutch the note to my chest like it might disappear if I loosen my grip.
To be loved like that.
Not because I earned it.
Not because I performed well.
Not because I was perfect.
Just because I exist.
It breaks something open in me.
All my life I’ve been fighting a body that betrays me. I fight expectations. Fight fear. Fight the idea that I had to be strong enough for everyone else.
But this.
This is what strength really looks like.
Being held.
Being seen.
Being chosen every time I don’t think I will be.
To be loved is to be complete.
I cry until the storm passes and the ache in my chest feels more like gratefulness than grief. Then I wipe my face, inhale deeply, and sit up.
There’s a notification on my phone. A delivery confirmation. Knox must have already coordinated everything.
I smile through swollen eyes.
Of course he did. When DJ and I got Ajaih we also got a whole unit of others that love us as hard as she does. Speaking of DJ—he was stationed overseas but I planned to text him and remind him how much I loved him when I got home.
I swing my legs over the bed slowly, mindful of the stiffness still lingering in my joints. My body feels fragile in the mornings after a flare. It’s as if it’s deciding whether to cooperate or not.
“Not today,” I murmur softly to myself.
I shower carefully, letting the hot water ease the tension in my muscles. I take my meds and pack my work bag. I choose comfortable but polished work attire. My place at dance academy won’t run itself and I refuse to let sickle cell dictate my ambition.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I see exhaustion.
But I also see resolve.
I see a woman who is loved deeply.
By her siblings.
By Zaria.
By Calil.
By parents who are far more evolved than she gave them credit for. That love and support changes everything.
I press the note flat on my dresser, smoothing it like it’s sacred. Then I grab my keys and head out the door. Today, I choose to live loudly. Even if my body tries to whisper otherwise.
By the time I pull into the lot at Winston Hills Dance Academy, the sun is high and unapologetic. I sit in my car for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, feeling the familiar hum in my joints. Not pain. Just a reminder.
I can do this.
Inside, the studio smells like rosin and clean wood floors. The faint echo of pointe shoes tapping in the distance comforts something inside me. This has always been my sanctuary.
My first session of the day is with Ava.
Nineteen. Brilliant. Technically sharp. Hollowed out by grief.
Her mother died suddenly three months ago. An aneurysm. No warning. No goodbye. Since then, her dancing has changed. Technically she’s still excellent, but something in her upper body collapses mid-phrase. Her arms hesitate. Her turns falter.
Grief lives in posture.
She’s already in Studio B when I walk in. I notice her sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the mirror like it might answer something for her.
“Morning,” I say gently.
She nods. “Morning.”
We don’t rush. I sit across from her instead of standing. “How does your body feel today.”
She shrugs. “Heavy.”
“Where?”
She presses a hand to her chest. “Here and my shoulders.”
I nod. “Okay. Let’s not fix it. Let’s listen to it.”
She looks at me uncertainly.
“Stand up,” I say softly.
She does.
“Close your eyes.”
She hesitates, then obeys.
“Let your shoulders slump the way they want to. Don’t correct them.”
They drop almost immediately.
“There it is,” I murmur. “That’s your truth.”
Her breath catches slightly.
“Now exaggerate it,” I instruct. “Make it bigger. Let your grief have shape.”
Her spine curves forward. Her arms fold inward protectively.
“Good,” I whisper. “Now ask yourself what that posture needs.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, her arms open a fraction.
“Space,” she says quietly.
“Take it,” I respond.
We spend the next twenty minutes moving through structured improvisation. I mirror her shapes, then gently challenge them. When she folds inward, I guide her to unfurl. When she hesitates, I encourage suspension instead of collapse.
“Grief doesn’t mean you shrink,” I tell her. “It means you carry something heavy. We strengthen the muscles that carry it.”
By the end of the session, she’s sweating and breathing hard. Her lines are now longer than when we started. Her chest lifts more naturally.
“I don’t feel as stuck,” she admits.
“That’s because you moved it,” I say. “Grief doesn’t disappear. But it doesn’t get to live in one place forever either.”
Her eyes well up. “What if I forget her.”
“You won’t,” I say gently. “But you can choose to honor her with strength instead of self-destruction.”
She nods slowly, absorbing that.
When she leaves, I stand alone in the studio for a moment, breathing deeply. This is why I do this. My body may fight me, but it also understands pain. And because it does, I can sit with someone else’s without flinching.
By the time I check the clock, it’s almost noon.
Lunch.
My phone vibrates.
Mama: We’re here.
My stomach flips. I smooth my blouse, adjust my posture, and head toward the lobby.
They’re standing just inside the door—Mama holding a large, insulated bag and Daddy scanning the room like he’s assessing structural integrity.
When they see me, both of their faces soften instantly.
And suddenly I am not the therapist.
Not the ballerina.
Not the woman navigating a complicated love life.
I’m their baby girl who needs to stop hiding.
We settle in my office with the door closed.
The familiar scent of eucalyptus from my diffuser mixing with my favorite steak salad that my parents picked up on their way over.
As Mama unpacks the containers or looks like she’s feeding an army instead of one tired daughter.
Daddy bows his head briefly before we touch anything.
“Father, thank You for this food and for this delightfully beautiful, brilliant, amazing child of ours,” he murmurs as he looks over at me and winks. His silliness causes me to giggle as he finishes, “Give us wisdom. Give her strength. Give us understanding.”
“Amen,” Mama and I echo softly.
For a few minutes we pretend this is just a normal lunch. Mama fusses over whether I’m eating enough. Daddy asks about the academy. I answer honestly my passion for dance and advocacy coming through.
But they didn’t come just for small talk.
Daddy clears his throat gently. “Bean, tell us what’s really going on.”
I smile because JaJa has everyone calling me Bean.
I set my fork down.
“Years of flares have taken a toll,” I say evenly, even though the words land with a thud in my chest. “My spleen and kidneys are showing signs of considerate damage. They’re functioning, but not the way they used to. These days my body just doesn’t bounce back the way it did when I was younger.”
Mama’s hands fidget in her lap. Daddy’s jaw tightens with sadness. They both try not to appear affect but I can feel their grief trickling in.
“It’s not catastrophic—yet.” I rush to add. “It’s just… cumulative and causing more flares. It’s a nightmare loop I can’t seem to wake up from.”
Mama reaches across the desk and grabs my hand. “Baby.”
I swallow hard. “I’m tired. Not just physically. Mentally. Fighting your own body every day is exhausting. I plan my life around sickle Cell. I stay stress free. I get rest. I go the mile to avoid triggers. It still ambushes me.”
The words spill out before I can stop them.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m negotiating with something that’s determined to win.”
Mama’s eyes fill immediately. Daddy’s do too even though he blinks hard like he’s trying to keep it together.
“I don’t want to give up,” I continue quietly. “But I’d be lying if I said I don’t get tired of fighting.”
Mama stands and pulls me into her arms without asking. She smells like home. Like a safe place to lay my fears.
“You are not weak for saying that,” she whispers.
Daddy stands too, placing one strong hand on my shoulder.
He inhales slowly before speaking.
“2 Corinthians 12:9,” he says gently. “‘My grace is sufficient for thee: For my strength is made perfect in weak.’”
I close my eyes.
“You have fought with courage your entire life,” he continues. “You fight because you are called to live, to love, and to serve. But listen to me carefully.”
His voice softens. The tone less preacher and more father.
“You fight until you cannot anymore. If the time comes when you reach that place that you cannot fight anymore—you lay the weight of your pain at our Father God’s feet. You will not carry it alone because you were never meant to.”
Tears slide down my face before I can stop them.
Mama cups my cheeks. “You are our miracle. Every day you wake up is a blessing. If you’re tired, say you’re tired. We will carry you when you need carrying.”
Daddy nods. “There is no shame in rest. Even Christ rested.”
A small, shaky laugh escapes me.
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” I admit.
Mama pulls back slightly, frowning. “Disappoint us? For having a disease you didn’t choose?”
Daddy’s brows knit. “Lena, your worth has never been measured by your health or stamina to fight.”
That sentence brings about tears from a deeper place.
I look at them, really look at them.
They are not disappointed.
They are not burdened.
They are grieving with me.
And loving me through it.
Mama squeezes my hands. “We will pray. We will research. We will show up to appointments. And we will feed you until you protest.”
Daddy smiles faintly. “We will have faith in healing while also preparing for rest.”
I inhale deeply, something unclenching inside my chest.
I know in this chapter in my life, I’m not reading it alone.
Speaking of chapters, there is absolutely no way in hell I am telling them about the Provocateur chapter of my life.
That secret is going to the grave with me. Neatly wrapped in body glitter and stage lights.