I Love Her, I Love Her, I Love Her

I used to chase this feeling in songs, books, movies, and even men—a feeling of power I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I wanted it to consume me, so I could nurture it, embody it. Just to feel that the fetus of a woman I could be— stirring inside me— so I’d know she exists somewhere. I’d replay the same verse of a song, watch the same scene in the movie, and reread the pages in the books. I wanted to feel all that power those characters and artists felt, embodying their courage, vulnerability and strength. Through them I learned the type of woman I want to be, the woman I know I’d love unconditionally.

I remember the birth of her, how she clawed herself out of me, the pain of how it almost broke me— I was terrified that I wasn’t strong enough to meet her. She was going to come either way but I hoped she was strong enough to do it without me if I couldn’t make it to see her. I just hoped she’d be everything I dreamed. I remember feeling her stir inside of me, the moment I found the voice in me that weakened over the years, the more I used that silenced voice, the more I felt her. She was real.
I often think back to my little girl self, because if I remained her I would have been strong enough all along. I don’t remember exactly when I lost her or for better words abandoned her. How did that little girl have the courage to stand up to her own father even when she knew she was fighting a battle she couldn’t win? How she knew she'd be reprimanded even though she knew the truth would earn her verbal and physical retribution. Yet, she was unafraid, and she stood her ground.

I lost sight of her and I tried so hard to get her back. I hated who I became in my first real relationship at 17, I grew silent, because I was terrified of the weapon my voice could become, even when I meant well, but the truth never brought anyone running back to me— only running scared, for the fear of their safety. I thought something was wrong with me. So, I thought I was protecting all the people I love by withholding the bullets that were my tongue.

I was too young to understand the power that already resided in me because my elders and my peers were so threatened by it. I knew so young who I was. And I took ass whoopings to be her. But the isolation it caused was soul crushing. So, I retreated and silenced my voice, never telling anyone how bad it hurt to do so. I became a human punching bag. Each blow, a fatal hit to the little girl I used to be and the woman who needed her. I escaped through poetry, songs, fiction books, movies and TV shows— it felt like I was cracking myself wide open yet nothing came out. I was a shell.

I remember December of 2020, I went completely mute. I had 5 years worth of silence haunting me, gnashing at my sense of identity. Even though that year had been a peak in my life— I felt like a superhero— by the end, I was unraveling. I used my voice for the first time in so long, it completely changed my life, and helped others. For the first time I felt respected for using my voice, I spoke truthfully, raw and genuinely. There was no retribution this time, I felt a spark in me, like something was brewing and beating. I felt like I was so close to that little girl, but just not quite. I felt like she just grasped my hand— but I lost my grip in the crowd, pulled by how many people grew to depend on me. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I looked down to see that I’ve become an auntie.

I felt like I had an outer body experience, seeing my niece become, how I wanted to protect her from what I had become. I would never reprimand her. My niece has grown into the little girl I’ve been searching for. Her confidence, fearlessness, her audacity to be unapologetically her. Little did she know she was stirring a rebirth in me. She was the reality of everything I’ve lost and she was guiding me back to her. We call each other Monkey because of how much she clings to me, but if only she knew I too cling to her. She was saving me from a life of retribution. And then I felt it— a fetus of a woman latch onto my insides.

But in the midst of it all, I felt everything and nothing at the same time. I felt like I was dying, but I looked fine. Everyone thought I was on top of the world, but I felt that the world was on my shoulders and I was crumbling under the pressure. And I did, I succumbed to the pressure. I retreated to my bedroom, and cried every night— a silent aching cry. I didn’t talk to anyone, until I reconnected with my former best friend. It was a difficult conversation to have about all that space we left in between. I felt so disconnected from everything, including her at the time. But in the space I learned her dependence on me made me feel a responsibility I took seriously.

I wanted to protect her, but I didn’t realize how I was stifling her. I was being so hard on her because I wanted the best for her. I saw all the woman she was and could be and I wanted her to find her serenity in who she was. It made me feel like a fraud, that she saw me as a guide sometimes, because I too was struggling to be the woman that everyone assumed I was. Everyone thought I had it all together. But inside, I was barely getting through the days, the weeks, the months. I wanted to be everything for the both of us. How scary it was to put myself on the line to guide her. I was the one leading us through land mines. The journey was violent. I felt so alone, because I wish I had some guidance to become the woman I needed safely.

Then our reconnect became a disconnect. I had to find the voice to say I’m not strong enough, that I exist and I could no longer be a shield, that the choices, no matter how small, had an impact and consequences on me. I didn’t mean to lose her. I needed to be honest. I no longer wanted to be the strong woman, the woman who just understands and brushes off my own discomfort. I had to do it for myself, and when I lost my best friend. I realized I was shedding my old self, and I wanted her to understand. That drastic change had been six years in the making. It was not overnight.

That disconnect was an awakening that I was no longer afraid that people would run away if I used my voice. So, I put it all on the line with a boy I realized I did not love. Every time his actions sent my body warning signs, I spoke up. I was not afraid to disrupt the image he had of himself, disrupt his peace he found in me, when he was not a safe space for me. I became addicted to the power I felt that my words held so much weight. I became my hero, proud I was finally fighting back. I unloaded the clip—my tongue. And I was fighting a war. I knew I should have left him sooner, he was not at all the man I wanted to end up with.

With power came greed. I was proving a point to myself through that boy. I even started playing games, cautious about when to pull the trigger and when to not. And when it all came crashing down I spitfire missiles, making sure they landed perfectly to destabilize him. I was no longer afraid, no one was ever going to have the power to silence me. I remember the smile I had on my face as I tore him down with the truth. I felt free— like I cracked open, the woman I was incubating inside of me suddenly developed a heartbeat.

As I write this in May 2025—ten years later—I’m no longer that 17-year-old girl, but now a 27-year-old woman. I realized I am now the woman I dreamed of being. I am no longer afraid. I love me broken, angry, bitter, happy, optimistic and even naive. I am free. I made it to the other side, and I got to meet this woman I birthed face to face. And she forgave me. Because the version of me I hated had a hard time forgiving herself for the mistakes she made along the way, for stifling her power. I promise I’d never learn silence, I’ll never conceal my beauty, I’ll walk with my head held high, I’ll let myself be human, wear my heart on my sleeve—parting ways with the idea that love is scary. I’m not afraid anymore. The woman I am today—I worked so hard for her becoming. God I love her, I love her, I love her.