I want you to picture this; open your third eye for me. Just for a few seconds, walk with me. I want to talk to you in my warmest tone. I want you to feel and hear it.
Imagine you’ve just entered a warm room after being out in the cold. The walls are a non-startling white, easy on the eyes. There’s a skylight above us, and it’s a breathtaking view, the sky has never looked so glorious. The floor is a plush carpet, so you’ve taken your shoes off, wriggling your toes in the soft, fine wool.
There’s a sofa set for you in the corner burdened with blankets and pillows, the kind that swallows and envelopes you in a warm hug. The kind you never want to get up off. If you like tea, there’s a lush blend of mint and chamomile, piping hot, with honey, puffing steam in front of you. If you’re like me, red wine. Or beer? Hear me out. If it's spirits for you, God save your soul, there’s some gin I guess, or whiskey. Now that’s better.
A scented candle is lit, and it smells like citrus and vanilla, a floaty, heady blend. There’s tree, always. Sit back while I wrap it in paper for you, it’ll make for better listening. Better everything.
And of course, there’s music playing. It wouldn’t be me if there wasn’t. I’ll let you decide for yourself, but I’m listening to Vanilla Honey by Tash Sultana.
I have many “forever” songs, but since this song came to me, it has not left me. It has held me through the most change I’ve ever experienced in my life. The best change. Happy change.
I want to talk to you, just as I spoke to you in the beginning— with worrying candidness. This is reflection, much-needed introspection and an overall assessment of who I am now apart from the people I’ve been in my life and since I started this newsletter especially.
This is a where-is-she-now update. I did not in fact fade away into obscurity. I feel more seen now than I ever have. I’m as intense a thinker and feeler as I am a writer. I’m a complainer, a worrier. But somehow, the stars align for me. I believe it with every bone in my body.
I see angel numbers almost daily. My 11:11s are prayers, and something must be doing something, because I could never have imagined I’d be who and where I am now as a writer three years ago when I started this newsletter. And even if they’re empty sighs into the universe, they’re a daily reminder of my wants. A lot of them are about my writing; my hopes and dreams that I’m tossing into the world the same way I swung my arms open with a vulnerability I can no longer muster in that debut letter.
My strokes of genius are less few and far between now. Nearly every day for the past three years I’ve written something that I’m at least a little proud of. My writing has done things for me that I cannot even begin to explain. It has given me purpose, the wind beneath the wings of my aspirations.
I’m confident now. I say I’m a writer with ease like it’s skin. “Hi, I’m Atinuke, and I’m a writer.”
Before anything else, that is who I am, and that is what I do. And I’m pretty good at it too. Pretty good. I can say that now, unabashedly, because I see the value of my work. I see that this grand dream I have for my life is possible. That I might actually be able to pull it off.
The anxiety is still there, but it’s never inspired by doubt in my ability. It’s everything else. Capitalism, expectations expectations expectations, the passing of time; but I never wonder if I’m good enough. I know I am. And I could even be great.
This is my three-year appraisal, and I’m looking back beaming with pride knowing that even now at my humble beginnings, I’m someone that younger me would be proud of. The Atinuke that sat at the back of literature class frantically scribbling poetry into paper, reading it and thinking, oh. “I’m amazing. I’m actually a good writer”.
I have those moments more often now. And the love for it (the art of writing) is my beating heart. Steady, persevering. I’m passionate about many things, but this remains my number one. The anchor that I tied to my brain.
I blow my own mind, and there’s nothing like it. The external validation? I couldn’t be more thankful.
I’ve done cool things and worked in cool places with cool people. I’ve never done work that I didn’t enjoy or wasn’t passionate about. It’s been a journey, and I’m thankful to still be on it.
This newsletter was my first step, and I’m beyond grateful for everyone who reads it. I have such a deep appreciation for you; you set me on my path. I was looking for an audience and support. I wanted to be seen, to affirm to myself and all else that I am a writer. Thank you for watching my writing blossom and bloom; I can’t wait for us to walk through whatever transformations and transitions lie ahead.
I’m far from fully formed, but I’m forming. I can see it, I can feel it.
Go ahead; finish the rest of your beverage and gaze fondly at the gorgeous sky above you. Take deep breaths and drown your lungs in the citrussy scent and smoke. Lay on the carpet if you like— at ease, and listen to the music fade out in the background of your mind.
Thank you for sitting with me, thank you for believing in me, thank you for seeing the vision.
Your words have taken me places. Reading your work is like immersing deep into your inner world and I’m grateful you’ve been vulnerable enough to share your gift with us. You’re an amazing writer and I’m looking forward to engage in more of your artwork ! 🤎
Oh my goodness😭❤️❤️I’ve no words. Proud of you for being here