My book

From Ashes to Wings

I didn’t choose the fire. Nobody does. But I lived in it.

I am biracial — too Black for some rooms, too white for others, and for a long time, too lost for myself. I learned early how to fold myself small, how to answer “What are you?” with a shrug instead of a story. I learned how relationships could feel like another kind of fire: burning hot, leaving scars, teaching you that love and harm sometimes share a bed.

Then came the unraveling. Unhoused. Not just without a roof, but without a tether. You find out how many people walk past you when you’re carrying all your belongings in a backpack. You find out how quickly the world will criminalize survival. A night in a doorway becomes trespassing. Asking for help becomes loitering. Mental illness stops being a diagnosis and starts being a charge sheet. I was ashes. And the system kept trying to sweep me into the dustpan.

But ashes are fertile.

The Cocoon Stage‍ ‍

Rock bottom gave me something the world never offered: stillness. For me, that meant facing the mental illness instead of outrunning it. It meant admitting that trauma had written rules for me, and I’d been obeying them like law. It meant looking at my record — at the choices and the circumstances — and deciding it wouldn’t be the last chapter.

Growing Wings‍ ‍

A butterfly doesn’t come out perfect. The wings are wet. They’re fragile. The first time you try to fly, you fail. 1

And somewhere in that stacking, I stopped being ashes. I wasn’t a butterfly yet, either. I was becoming. Biracial and whole. Mentally ill and medicated. Formerly unhoused and holding keys. Criminalized and now clearing my record, one court motion at a time.

Why I’m Writing This‍ ‍

I’m writing this book because I needed it and couldn’t find it. I needed someone to tell me that you can be all these things — Black, white, broken, blamed, sick, struggling — and still rise.

I’m writing it for the next woman sitting in intake at 2am, wondering if she’s too far gone. For the person who got released with a paper sack and no address. For the kid who doesn’t see their mix in any mirror. For anyone who’s been told their story ended at the fire.

It didn’t.

The ashes are where we start. The cocoon is where we heal. The wings are what we earn. And when we finally fly, we don’t fly away from what broke us. We fly so the next person sees that it’s possible.

If you’re reading this from your own ashes: stay. Dissolve. Rebuild. You are not the ending. You are the becoming.

And I promise you — the sky is still there.