It seems so idyllic to me, living in one place so long that it etches itself into your DNA. You couldn’t fathom living anywhere else, even if all you do is complain about where you are. That question of “Where are you from?” isn’t met with hesitation or guesswork about which place is more relevant for the conversation at hand. Instead, there’s certainty, and perhaps a bit of pride if you were raised right.

I used to feel that way when I lived on Gibbs Place, an oddly quiet block nestled in the southwest corner of Philly that holds the seed of my adolescent innocence. It felt like home to me. All I’d ever known. And it never occurred to me then that things could change, that I could end up living anywhere else.

I actually don’t remember how I felt when my mom sat me down one spring afternoon and told me that we were moving off the only block I’d known to a suburban town I’d never heard of. A mix of confusion and sadness tinge my memories, but the details have long since evaporated. The next thing I remember is hugging my friends goodbye and eating Papa John’s pizza with my parents in the empty shell of our new home.

The contrast in warmth was shocking to my system, and I asked my mom if it was too late to get our old house back. It was. She did her best to make it cozy for us: removing the hideous wallpaper left by the previous owner, painting a rich plum accent wall in the main living room, giving me full creative control to turn my bedroom into the princess quarters I’d always wanted.

But something was missing, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. In fact, I was fairly certain that our new home was haunted, strange sounds and eerie shadows pressing on me everywhere I went. I rarely left my bedroom at night.

I suspect what was missing was companionship, a sense of community. In this new house, my role as an only child became painfully clear. On Gibbs Place, I’d do my best to fill the rainy days and times my friends were on vacation with creative activities like coloring, having tea parties with my stuffed animals, and rummaging through my mom’s belongings when she wasn’t looking. I knew my loneliness was temporary, that my friends would return soon with fun stories to tell or that the rain would dry up and allow us to play outside again.

But in this new home, there were no doors to knock on, no familiar faces to work my charm and get my friends outside, and most egregious, no friends at all. Without me realizing it, my family’s move to our new home marked a significant turning point in my life: the full acceptance of my station as an only child and the harsh realization that all I truly had was me.

Over the years, life did what it does best, and change became a near constant. I started at a new school, then moved halfway across the country to do it all over again, this time in the cold darkness of a Midwest winter. I got used to being the new kid and, at this point, was more comfortable with spending most of my time alone. I thought less and less of Gibbs Place and focused more on my changing body, my hopeless crushes on boys who never looked my way, and the all-consuming desire for popularity.

It didn’t take too long for my first home to become all but a distant memory, a fun story to tell friends about that one random phase of life when I lived in a city they’d only seen on TV. I’d keep the stories brief, mentioning my close proximity to the airport, day trips to New York or Atlantic City, how the best Jamaican food in town came off a food truck in front of the post office downtown. I almost never talked about Gibbs Place.

A few days ago, I took a walk on a secluded nature trail where I live now in Colorado Springs. This winter has been unseasonably warm, daily highs hovering in the 50s and 60s deep into January, so I elected to take the long way around through a thicket of pine trees, past a family of napping deer, and down to a dried-up riverbed.

As I made my final descent down the dirt path, a familiar sound stopped me dead in my tracks: the soft echoing coos of a mourning dove. And immediately I was transported back in time to that three-bedroom townhouse I shared with my parents, to our fenced-in backyard, where my first dog Weeko freed herself from captivity and I buried my hamster Samantha years later. To the front yard, separated from my neighbor’s by a healthy evergreen bush, its brambly interior saving me many times from being “It.” To Aliya and Tanya and Samiyrah and Ty and Greg and Miss Jean’s grandkids whose names I always forgot. To Miss Donna and Mr. Leroy, Miss Nannette, Miss Marguerite and Mr. Andrew. To the old man on the corner with the yappy schnauzers and the brick-and-wrought-iron fence that stuck out like a sore thumb on our otherwise unassuming block.

I was brought back to Lauren, my next-door neighbor and babysitter eight or so years my senior, who’d make me the most delectable grilled cheeses and let me watch 106 & Park every day after school. I could smell the hot dogs sizzling on the grill at our annual block parties, hear the jingle of the ice cream truck rounding the corner, and feel the blustery fall winds that always seemed to come out of nowhere and knock the power out.

I thought about riding my bike under clear-blue skies, practicing my scooter tricks over and over until my ankles were sore and bruised, playing tag and hide-and-seek in a space all us neighbor kids knew by heart, being teased relentlessly for crying so much, sneaking off the block to see what was so dangerous about the next street over.

I thought about frigid Halloweens, the winter coat my mom forced me to wear that interrupted my metamorphosis into Simba or a witch. I thought about that one house on the next block that gave out $5 bills. I thought about their neighbor who gave out apples.

All of this memory untouched for almost two decades, uncovered by the sound of a bird.

Looking back on it now, I appreciate the opportunity to experience change at such a young age, and perhaps if I think about it long enough I could write endlessly about the varied stories this kind of vagabond childhood produced. But underneath all of that, there’s something about that impermanence, that detachment from place, that half-second hesitation when someone asks where I’m from, that gnaws at me. An innocent question like that shouldn’t feel so charged, so personal, so empty. But it does.

Each time, a subtle ache radiates deep in my gut for Home, a place that looks nothing like Gibbs Place, a place I realize I’ve never been.

When I give that word “home” time to bounce between my ears, I’m always brought back to the same place: a lush, verdant rainforest nestled close to the ocean. If I close my eyes, I hear a waterfall rushing behind me, I see tree elders spreading their branches up and out like my afro. Kindred critters rush about cawing, yowling, barking, announcing that they’re still here, still participating in the miracle of life. I smell a blazing fire overlaid by the scent of roasting freshwater fish. Fresh fruit plops down at my feet, and I make eye contact with the young monkey high in the trees still learning the ropes, still getting a grasp on what it means to be alive. Me too. I leave the fruit there for him to find later. A warm ocean breeze tickles my skin and intermingles with my coarse hair, thirsty for its moisture.

This place feels ancestral, rooted in what’s real, not at all concerned with the fickle and the fleeting, the colonized and the colonizer. This, I realize, is Home.

Lights warm, tinged orange like the sunset.

A plush bed in the center of the room beckons me

to strip down,

to bare myself,

to expose my truth,

inviting me to audition for death,

to surrender.



I climb in, settle,

eyes heavy,

limbs tense with anticipation.

My thoughts lead me anywhere but here,

an unwanted tour guide through the rat race of capitalism.

What should I do after this?

Who needs my energy now?

Is this really a good use of my time?



Well, of course, honey, She says,

in a voice so soft, so sweet, so damn powerful.

She always knows what to say.

Never misses an opportunity to remind me of what’s real,

what’s divine,

what nourishes the soul.



An earthy scent rouses my senses.

Cedarwood? No. Patchouli?

No matter.

Warm, soft hands return me to my body,

deliciously guiding me into the here and now,

pressing my vessel deeper and deeper

into that liminal space,

that world between worlds,

where ancestors dance, sing, rejoice,

where the past, present, and future collide,

where every breath feels like eternity

and no time at all.



I fight to release the tension baked into my DNA,

to reclaim my body from the constraints of the plantation.

I consciously soften,

my ass and thighs carrying the brunt of my generational unrest.

I melt.

Fascia yields.

Muscles, tense and tender, give in.

Skin flows like water.

Fat rolls follow the directions of butter-soft authority,

moving this way and that,

pulling and tugging,

kneading and rubbing,

stretching and smoothing,

all bringing me back to myself,

to the magic of this vessel,

to this altar I created in the womb of my mother.



I dive deep,

subconscious blending with the conscious

in a utopian haze.

Soft hums escape my mouth,

unbothered by outside opinion,

evidence of the bliss delivered by hands working their destiny magic.



Too soon, gentle whispers of gratitude lull me back,

wrapped in a warm cocoon of pleasure and remembering.

A smile etches itself onto my face,

pleased with the multidimensional work we did together.

A bow of grace.

A cash transaction.

A knowing look.



“Do you want to schedule your next appointment?”

Well, of course, honey.

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The deep bass of a heartbeat beckoned me closer, engaging in a nonconsensual dance with my ear drums. Wide-eyed and curious, I followed the other families through the vast exhibit hall, tall ceilings making me feel infinitely smaller in my six-year-old frame (Or maybe I was younger. I don’t know; those years are a blur, a blip in my memory bank that grows smaller with each passing year).

With each step, the thumping grew louder, matching the drum beat in my chest, anticipation mounting by the second. A mix of fear, intrigue, and excitement coursed through me. I distinctly remember the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end as if they were attempting to leap right out of their follicles, though at the time, the sensation was completely new to me. It felt like I was being tickled by a ghost.

My quick pace slowed to a crawl as doubt crept in. I don’t know about this. Do we really have to go in there? Can’t we just go back to the water exhibit, where it’s safe, and fun, and much quieter?

A familiar hand cupped the back of my head, snapping me from my escape plan and ushering me closer to the thumping, which at this point pulsed through the bottoms of my new lace-up shoes.

“Come on, girl. Walk up!” my mom said.

I’m a big girl, I reminded myself. I can do this.

I begrudgingly entered the exhibit room to find the culprit behind the incessant rhythm: a massive replica of the anatomical heart laying on its side. It must’ve been at least twenty feet tall, a behemoth that swallowed my then tiny stature. Inside the room, the thumping was deafening. I could barely hear my fear screaming for an exit.

So I stood there, in half awe, half despair, not entirely sure what to do next. I watched as the other kids clamored about, climbing on chambers, jumping from ventricles, crawling inside the aorta to see what treasures laid inside. I, on the other hand, was frozen still, eyes wide, sweat decorating my forehead.

“Go on and play! Go inside!” my mom encouraged, trying her best to infuse me with an excitement that had long exited my system.

I remained frozen, both captivated by the sight and scared shitless at the dark caverns and ceaseless noise, my two archnemeses. I despised loud sounds then. Fireworks, trains, the thundering crescendo of the THX audio tag before films, and even the sound of a toilet flushing were all enough to evoke a strong fear within me. Loudness felt menacing, overbearing, like any wrong move could mean sudden death, like I was being set up for a sneak attack.

Darkness felt the same: uncertain, sinister, life-threatening. It had a presence all on its own, breathing, pulsing, living its primordial truth. Even back then, I was intimidated by the dark’s power. I knew I didn’t stand a chance. I made it my mission to avoid her at all costs.

So, with the heart’s beat pounding in my tiny ear drums and the dark arterial tunnels whispering certain death, I decided against exploring the exhibit, convinced that if I went inside, I’d never return. I remember having a quick back-and-forth with my mom. Her giving me a pep talk about bravery and potential fun and something about making memories. Me not really listening, tears streaming down my face, already making up in my mind that whatever laid inside would certainly be my demise.

So, with a sigh, my mother grabbed my hand and led me to the water exhibit. Back to the quiet, back to where it was safe, back to where my watery moon felt at home.

I didn’t know it then, but this experience changed my brain chemistry, locking opinions and beliefs in place like puzzle pieces. That giant heart, meant to be a fun, interactive kids’ exhibit, represented much more to my subconscious.

It was an early test from the Universe on grit, on courage, on divine trust, and I had failed. And I’ve paid for that failure every day of my life since. Not in a punitive way, but in the way my feelings lodge themselves in my throat, the way affection and intimacy feel like a bartering chip, the way suppressing my tears has become second nature, the way opening up feels like actual torture, the way only solitude and silence feel like home.

Avoiding that thumping monstrosity at the museum sent me down a treacherous path. Can’t go in there; it’s too dark and scary and loud, my young impressionable mind decided, relegating that space as a no-no zone. And without even realizing it, I made the same conclusion about my own heart, though I could push aside those thumps with Bratz dolls, Lion King, and the contents of my mom’s makeup bag. I could run from that darkness with no one there to convince me otherwise. I could retreat to the safety of my mind, my proverbial water exhibit, where everything is light and fun and only as serious as I decided to make it.

The heart, though? I decided then that the heart couldn’t be trusted. Somehow I knew that what laid inside would break me open, expose my innards, swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful.

Of course, I didn’t have the language for these feelings of existential dread back then, but my soul knew the power that lived inside my chest. It was intimately aware of the primordial, ancestral authority that commanded my attention from day one. But I wasn’t ready to wield it then. I was too timid, too unsure of myself in this new meat suit called Lyric.

It took years of making my way through the dark and facing the loudness that laid inside to get to where I am now: ready to explore the heart of who I was always meant to be.

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On the other hand, the role of The Beginner feels like a cloak of regality has been placed upon my shoulders, like the writing gods have watched me with careful eyes and finally decided, “Yes, she’s ready.” I buzz with excitement at the opportunity to finally express myself, to throw the cover off the creative who’s been lying dormant within me all this time. For the longest, this dormancy felt like a prison sentence, like I was bound to live with a brain stuffed to the brim with insecurities, questions, longings, complaints—without the vocabulary to express it all. I attributed this mentally busy avoidance to being ruled by a Mercury sitting lazily in my Taurus ninth house, pondering endlessly about far-reaching, identity-shaping topics yet doing nothing with them. I’d sit down with my pen and paper and get to writing about a thought or a question. I’d word-vomit my feelings onto the page, then lose my train of thought and move on to something else, something a little less challenging, a little less confronting, like watching dumb TikToks about who should pay on a first date. Our moms were right; it really is those phones.

I’ve always had something to say, but it seemed like I couldn’t get out of my own way long enough to help it materialize into something real, something good. I’d just dump on the page long enough to make that particular point stop humming in the background of my mind. But these thoughts weren’t just thoughts. They were blips of information transported to me from the Universe to make manifest in the physical. I had been trusted with divine information yet deduced it to frivolous babble that I needed to get rid of right away so I can focus on more “important” things, like making money and figuring out if I even liked my boyfriend.

When I finally figured out the point of all of this (a story I will likely share some other time), my mind was blown. I had figured out “the secret.” My writing wasn’t about coming up with a combination of words that sounded good and made semi-decent sense (though that certainly helps); it was a divine tool of self-discovery, a way for me to get to know myself deeply and flesh out the thoughts and emotions that always seemed to resurface at the most inopportune times, like in class, at work, or in bed at 3 a.m. It wasn’t enough for me to do the talk therapy thing of “naming the problem” and “being self-aware.” I had to look at all sides of it, hold it upside down, rip it to shreds, and put it back together again. I had to roll my sleeves up and get dirty. And I had to be okay with what I produced being absolute dog shit. Like, most of the time. Which is painful as hell for a Virgo rising, but that’s really the point of all this, isn’t it? To trial and error your way toward something that feels right, that feels like an accurate representation of who you are in this moment.

Writing to me used to be just a hobby, a way for me to make sense of the incessant noise that bounced between my ears. I didn’t think of myself as a “writer,” certainly not an “artist,” so I never took the time to perfect the craft. I guess on some level I didn’t feel I was worthy to. But that’s the funny thing about callings, purpose, destiny, whatever you want to name it. It doesn’t really need your stamp of approval. The Universe doesn’t really give a shit if you co-sign its next move. All of a sudden, you’re just doing a new thing. Reading, writing, thinking about things you’d never considered. At least that’s how it felt for me. Similar to how I became an editor.

When adults would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d always say something like “a doctor” or “a nurse.” I was fascinated by the human body—I still am—and I thought applying Band-Aids and looking at cool scars would be all that was expected of me. But as I got older and saw the truth behind the profession—thanks Dr. G and Grey’s Anatomy—I quickly realized that my acute Taurean senses would not be pleased with the sights, smells, and sounds of a real ER. All this to say, little Lyric didn’t think too deeply about a career. Why would she?

So yeah, it was a shock to the system when I clumsily stumbled into an editing career during my senior year in college. To an eyes-wide-shut, pseudo-academic such as myself, it was news to me that I had been carving the perfect path toward a career in books practically my entire life.

At age seven, while shopping for winter coats with my mom at Burlington Coat Factory, I dug through a clearance bin and found a bright-blue, lock-and-key journal with an image of a Lisa Frank-esque dolphin plastered on the front. I don’t remember if I pitched a fit and begged my mom to get it (which I was prone to do from time to time), or if this was one of the times she was in a generous mood, no whining required. I imagine she would have been happy to buy me a journal instead of yet another stuffed animal. Regardless, the journal was secured, and I flipped through the blank pages the entire ride home, itching to get back to my sparkly gel pens so I could do some damage. And judging by the shape of that poor journal today, plenty of damage was done. Through the horrid seven-year-old handwriting and my angsty, perpetually embarrassed pre-teen scribbles, I can barely make out my first entry dated April 10, 2003: “Dear Diary, Today was great tomorrow is going to be better because we’re going to have a substitute teacher tomorrow.” Riveting stuff, I know!

And thus began my writing practice, moving steadily from Leapfrog Learning Pad lessons to Type2Learn to vignettes about my friends, fantasies about another life where I had siblings and wasn’t always the only Black girl in my class, to SpongeBob and anime fanfics I confidently posted online. Little did I know all of this would contribute to my career in publishing just fifteen years later and a full-on writing lifestyle at the gorgeous age of twenty-nine.

So here goes. Perhaps I’ll get this right and produce something I can be proud of. Or perhaps the compulsion to write will just follow me to the bitter end, even if all I put on the page is nonsensical trash. There’s only one way to find out.