Finding Freedom in Vulnerability

Life can be summed up by two words- it is a consummation of being and doing.

Sometimes we escape being by doing. At times we define ourselves by what we have done, and who we have done it with. When it all comes down to it, we end up having to sit with ourselves, and accept who we are being and take the time to understand what it is we are feeling. In the worst of times, this feels like sitting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. There you are– soaked and expectant–bobbing up and down, waiting for a wave that refuses to come.

We become sad.

We are disappointed, we envy the birds, we curse the day.

We forget to appreciate the epic sunset unfolding right before our eyes.

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In college I had a friend named Bilal. We became friends during my freshman year at Brown because he was a beautiful and extremely eloquent African man (the only one, at that, in the sea of white that was our poli sci class). After listening to him talk just once, I immediately felt he was someone anyone could learn from. I remember coming to this conclusion whilst sitting out on the main green during our weekly discussion section. I was so distracted by his aura of utter perfection that all I could do was fixate on him from across our circle and hope he didn’t think I was weird for staring. That was the effect Bilal had on pretty much anyone– so imagine my elation when we actually became friends!

We would talk about the readings, his Ivorian roots, and the horrors of political corruption in West Africa. I would take mental notes to emulate his self-assuredness in my quiet time. During the weekends, I’d occasionally party with him and his super cool roommates–appreciating their eclectic taste in music and refusal to place themselves in any one box. Of all the people I had the pleasure of meeting during my time at Brown, Bilal Thiam is one of the most inspiring people I’ve ever known. He was brilliant, humble, empathetic, thoughtful, kind, and generous with his time, and his support. I remember when I was competing as Miss Cranston in Miss Rhode Island America, and battling misogynoir and isolation on campus, Bilal was one of few classmates who donated to my campaign raising money for the local children’s hospital. My friendship with Bilal made me feel seen. More than that, Bilal was sure to make sure I knew I was valuable (I have a feeling he made all his friends feel this way).

The fact that someone so suave and cultured thought I was interesting made me rethink my own view of myself. Perhaps I was cooler than I thought after all! Perhaps my niche interests, intense passion for free-spirited living, and unbridled curiosity were a point of attraction and not just cause for exclusion or ridicule.

It was the start of the pandemic when I learned of Bilal’s passing.

Unbeknownst to me he was battling a long and brutal fight with a rare form of cancer and he had left us at just 24 years old. A mutual friend was visiting Atlanta and shared the news with me. Shock was the only reaction I could muster–beautiful and kind people like Bilal weren’t supposed to die so young.

I don’t think I actually processed until right now in this moment- two years later. I sat down with an open and expectant laptop, ready to commence my daily fight with self-induced writer’s block. The wine was starting to kick in and I remembered a great method for tackling challenging essays when I have a lot to say. I began writing, and I smiled to myself thinking about all I learned at Brown. I happily reminisced of my late nights at the Rock, powered by Starbucks and driven by impeding 8am deadlines that I conveniently ignored for the last 2 weeks. I was lucky to have friends who also found themselves penning 12 page papers about sociological phenomenon.

In a wave of deep reflection, I longed for the the pleasant camaraderie of my New England liberal arts gem. Somewhere in the nostalgia, I began to tear up as I remembered who taught me the very trick that was getting me out of my 30th existential crisis of the year.

Bilal Thiam. That smart, beautiful, African man who showed me love through his patience, his kindness, and most of all his friendship.

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I believe that when people we trust, love, and care about leave us, we try everything to stop the pain. We hide it with clothes. We distract ourselves with new hobbies. We run away to a new city, a new state, hoping that perhaps our change in environment will shock us into being who we were before. Before loss, before betrayal, before disappointment, before anger, before confusion. We use everything around us as a bandage and then we don’t actually allow ourselves to feel the pain that threatens to overcome us with each day. We are scared of what it will mean to actually mourn. We fear that people will dismiss us for still grieving, for still ruminating, for still hurting. But how can we be human , how can we mend our broken hearts if we don’t even allow ourselves to feel it all. The pain we wish to escape holds us back from healing because we allow it to.

So this is what I have to say. Stop scheduling the tears into your perfect life, and only making room for the beautiful moments. In trying to erase and ignore our pain, we ignore our humanity. We also silence the good that comes from a much needed cry. I liken us to the Georgia sky in late spring , secretly heavy with grey and just waiting to let it all out. But sometimes, it happens at an inconvenient time, a time when we have no room for feelings, lest they slow us down from doing what we need to be doing and achieving what we need to be achieving. But you know something?

There is beauty in that pause.

If you’ve ever sat down and watched rain approach, it is a striking unfolding of light and then the world is submerged in a deep rumble, and all you can hear is the dry cough of terrains thirsty for the very thing we fear. The quiet hum of drizzles that slant against our windows become ardent tsunamis and we are overcome with the emotions of an Earth that holds nothing back- because she doesn’t have to and neither do we.

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I cry because I have felt the deep sting of grief. I smile because I know that the sun rises again after thunder scares me into slumber through a long and treacherous life, an endless night. I pause, because my stillness begs me to know this part of my being. I love because that is all I can do when the storm ends. That is my heart’s alchemy at work, pulling split branches and resurrecting abandoned fields to blossom again.

So yes, it is 1 am and I am crying happy tears. How could I not? I had the pleasure of meeting one of my favorite guardian angels at such an impressionable time in my life. I am weeping because I can’t call my friend and thank him for being in my life.

I am free because I have allowed myself to be human.

Now, I think it’s time for you to do the same.

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To read more about finding strength and freedom in emotional vulnerability, order a copy of my book Force of Nature. This collection of narrative and lyrical poetry inspires readers everywhere to embrace the feelings and emotions that make us who we are- beautiful forces of nature.