"Roots, Rest, Grief, and Death" - One Creative's Chorus

Honoring the path and the path-clearers that walked me here

I’m drawn to patterns. I’ve read that it’s not just me—our brains are wired to seek them out—and that tracks because this fascination has been a constant in my life. Patterns are part of what compels me to write about how I’m shifting. I’m slowing down and savoring the way I work, and this shit is way lighter on my brain and my spirit than my former, fast-ass ways.

Over the years, I’ve experienced the full range of financial realities as an entrepreneur. There were times when I felt the pressing need to create, to produce something that could generate income quickly. But there were also times when I was driven by something else—by intellectual curiosity or spiritual inquiry—creating from a place of cosmic obedience and passion rather than solely necessity.

In my 20s, 30s, and even early 40s, I would often burn through the night, sacrificing sleep to stay laser-focused on launching a course, collaborating on a project, or meeting a freelance writing deadline. I was undeniably creating impact. People would tell me how much my work moved or helped them, and sometimes the words would flow effortlessly. Alongside my own blogging, I worked with a range of editors—some incredible, some mid. One of the incredible ones would later become my short-term literary agent (shout out to Nick Chiles!) and helped me birth my most recent book. But despite all these genuine connections and heartfelt impacts, I couldn’t seem to crack the pattern that kept me from translating that energy into consistent financial stability.

From 2012 to 2015, life felt like a whirlwind of upheaval. We became nomads, not because we wanted to, but because we had to. Once both of us stepped fully into self-employment, we weren’t generating enough income for the kind of stability two people raising children need. So we packed up and traveled, spiritual and emotional resources aplenty, financial resources not so much. Our journey eventually brought us back to Jamaica, where my partner and I are from. Living there for half the year became a vital financial strategy. We could move with the seasons, traveling in the off-season when flights, short-term housing rentals, and real food were still within our li’l rinky-dink budget.

By 2016, when I launched my podcast, I felt a new rhythm begin to emerge. It was subtle, but it was there. Over the nearly 300 episodes, the show brought more impact and attention—people began inviting me to speak about the intersection of liberation work and parenting. Slowly, damn near imperceptibly, a path opened. One listener, in particular, became a vital part of that shift. She had benefited from my work and had the resources to offer support.

She came through like a force of nature, machete in hand, cutting away the dense overgrowth I had been chipping at for years but could never quite clear. That’s when the soil beneath the foundations of what I now call Savorism began to soften and take root.

This partnership was transformative (and that’s not a word I throw around all willy-nilly). What began as a tentative donor-donee relationship bloomed slowly, carefully, softly, yet bravely into something deeper—a friendship turned sisterhood. Together, we waded into uncharted waters, unlocking a form of wealth I hadn’t accessed before—not just the love and emotional support I always knew I was rich in, but actual financial resources. Money. Currency. Bread. This shift gave me the space to step back and finally reckon with feelings and patterns that had long been buried beneath my workaholic tendencies.

I had always known I was surrounded by love, but there was a hollow space between me and the people I cared for. I wasn’t fully present for my children, for my partner—not at the levels I wanted to be, and in some cases needed to be. And they felt that absence too. I know because they’ve told me so, and because I’ve seen the evidence of what I missed showing up in aspects of my children. The grief of knowing I had been so consumed by work, and so under-resourced in space to rest and regroup, that I couldn’t truly be available for the ones I loved was heavy. I’m not saying I wasn’t present at all, because our unschooling life supported so much necessary presence and emotional work. I am saying though, that plenty of things went untended and sometimes that’s haunting.

In July 2019, I made a conscious decision to bury that old version of myself. I grieved her, and I’ve been commemorating that loss ever since. The gully of sorrow and anger I felt for all the years I’d worked so hard without seeing a financial return was overwhelming. Going through old portable hard drives and Google Docs felt like exhuming a graveyard of projects—so many dead ideas that never saw the light of day. Or saw the light of day, but made no real difference, and no significant dollars. I was furious, but also heartbroken. I create from the heart, so there was a dense sense of loss in how much of myself I’d poured into these creations, only for them to go unfulfilled.

But as is sometimes characteristic of death, there was also room for new life. My sister-friend’s machete werk became a tool that helped me carve through the wreckage, making space for me to sit with my grief, to sift through the ashes, and see what I could salvage. Over time, and with the support of other amazing women I met and who expanded my sister-count, I laid everything out before me and freakin’ realized I wasn’t evolving! I was just repeating old cycles, running harder on a path that was leading nowhere. I wasn’t creating from a place of growth, but out of habit. I was trying to resurrect the past, instead of allowing a new chapter to emerge.

Committing to my practice of Slowing down and honoring that grief gave birth to the "I Let It Die" course. It’s a space where we confront the things we’ve clung to for too long and finally let them rest. Creating this course has been like sitting in vigil for the person I used to be, letting her go with intention and care. Unlike before, I didn’t rush through the process—I took my time, rewatching the sessions, taking notes, and connecting deeply with participants. It felt like I was midwifing something new into existence, not from the frantic energy that once drove me, but from a place of stillness and presence.

As I open the doors for this next roving caravan of "I Let It Die," I carry this same reverence for the process. I’m hella committed to moving at a pace that honors what has passed, while nurturing what’s yet to come. This is for sure a journey of death and rebirth, of letting go and leaning into the unknown. Thankfully, I’m not on this walk alone! When we sit in our sessions, we work together, we learn to sit with our grief, to let things die when they need to, and to be curious about what comes afterward.

As we gather here today, let us honor the Akilah who once carried so much with such grace and determination. She was committed to her work, pouring her energy into projects, conversations, and points of connection, driven by a deep desire to foster change and nurture community. Her efforts weren’t in vain—they mattered, they built something meaningful, and they laid the foundation for everything that followed.

But in honoring her, we also acknowledge the weight she carried and the toll it took. She was running on fumes, sacrificing sleep and precious time with loved ones just to survive, always hustling, always chasing. She couldn’t step back, unravel her emotions, or make the shifts her soul was calling for—that Akilah was stuck in a loop. The long hours, the juggling of roles, the moments when her energy was stretched thin—those were real. And so, we honor her by allowing her to rest, knowing that she gave all she could in the ways she knew how.

This isn’t a goodbye—it’s a recognition, a deep bow to the Akilah who did the work, held the space, and kept moving forward, even when it was hard. She is a part of everything that exists now, her imprint remains in the work and the relationships she nurtured.

And so, we honor her life, her dedication, and her journey. We hold space for both the grief and the gratitude, allowing her story to be felt fully, as we continue to learn from all she lived and gave.