the power of presence - taobap 00
you can’t shine a light without first embracing the darkness
For a very long time, I felt too broken to be seen.
I would uselessly wish that my thoughts and medical reports could be plastered onto a wall for everybody to see and understand why I went into intense isolation and why I did not deserve a community. But despite wishing on every star, all I have is this Substack to share my thoughts.
Lesson#1: nobody is ever too broken for love. There is no such thing; everybody deserves to love and be loved. And it took me working at a bakery one day a week to realize the power of presence.
Out of hundreds of applications, the bakery was the only one that called me. Although I only worked one day a week, it was my day to do something I've loved since childhood. Even on my worst days, I showed up at 5 AM (sometimes even earlier) and gave it my all. I baked over 400+ pastries by 7am and helped my coworkers be ready for the next day. In return, they shared the weekly tea and together, we created an atmosphere of joy amidst milk bread and matcha lattes. An atmosphere of joy and teamwork that I missed and longed for.
I know all good things must come to an end. But this is one of the only times in my life where the ending was different. It wasn’t an Irish exit or a traumatic ending like graduating at the height of a pandemic. It was many thank-you’s, some tears, and an abundance of hugs and “good luck.”
It almost went over my head that despite managing a depression large enough to consume my identity, maybe I still had some light to share. And maybe, the people I love had felt it.
For years, I would just lay there in the ashes of what was, mourning what could have been. I felt like nothing I did mattered and joy was for others, not people like me. When I experienced joy, I was hyper-vigilant and anxious, fearing that somebody would see me as I felt inside after my injury - broken.
Despite many attempts to get up, it felt like I could never escape the sadness and shame of failed loves, friendships, and career endeavors.
But like I said: this time, it feels different.
My faith, in conjunction with my experiences, has taught me that there has to be some kind of death for there to be a rebirth.
Today, I was let go from the only “real” job I’ve been able to hold since a traumatic brain injury in 2020 and being laid off in 2022.
Even before my injury, I would write to understand myself and to heal. I always told myself I’d collate it into a book, with the publish date somewhere far into the future.
However, working one day a week at a bakery helped me relearn that it doesn’t matter where you are on this cycle of life, nor how insignificant you erroneously think you are:
your voice, your presence, and your light matter.
I write because I know now that I am not the only person who has had to put themselves back together after losing it all.
My name, Aderemi, is Yoruba for “crown soothes my sorrow.”
Even if it's just a flicker, maybe I still have some light. By writing, I hope that it grows and touches somebody that needs to see it and be reminded of their own.
As I embrace all that was and all that is to come, this brings me to the beginning of this Substack:
The Art of Being a Phoenix.
This is an exploration of radical self-love, transformation, and rising through the ashes. If you’ve read this far, I hope you’ll continue with me on the journey and take something wherever you may be on this cycle of life. I hope you’ll continue to write and be reminded that your voice and your words matter here too.