Inspired by the Sacred Frequencies of Yako Ipeleng Porcia Segalo Jackson
There was a time I could not speak the names of where I came from. Not because I forgot—but because the memory arrived too loud for words. Ancestry is not just blood. It is a current that sings, and sometimes, screams. These reflections are shaped by the silence that raised me. A silence that held stories like seeds. Some have bloomed. Others remain underground, humming.
I once thought learning was a thing that happened in books, between pages. Then I remembered that rhythm came before language. That I could trust the pace of my heartbeat over the pressure of my calendar. These teachings are not theories. They are frequencies. And they come when I move.
Grief didn’t come to take. It came to initiate. It dragged me to the ground, tore off my roles, and asked me to start again. In its ache, I found the shape of my voice. These writings are soft landings for hard truths. We don’t heal in spite of loss. We heal through it.
There is a woman I meet in my own stillness. She doesn’t offer advice—she asks better questions. We speak in mirrors, in sighs, in phrases that never reach the surface. These are glimpses of our conversations. Unfinished. Unhurried.
When I lost track of time, I began to notice the sky. The moon did not demand attention. She simply showed up—waxing, waning, retreating, returning. I started marking my work, my rituals, and my questions against her rhythm. Now, I follow her. These are notes on what she’s whispered.
I do not hold space. I become it. I learned this by watching women with backbones like kraals—quiet, curved, containing more than they speak. These writings are invitations to step into archetypes that are not theoretical—they’re lived, danced, worn like fabric.
Every time I sing, I return. Every time I wrap my head, I remember. Every time I speak the old names, something holy arrives in the room. These are not performances. They are portals. And I walk through them barefoot, bold, and never alone.
These reflections are offerings. Some come from dreams.
Some from pain. Some from spirit. All come with permission—mine.