There is pain in insight and peace in knowing.

From the moment I was born until I turned seven, my father was a force of nature—strong, funny, endlessly energetic. Everyone loved him. He had a magnetic charm, countless friends, and the skill to fix anything. My parents, together since the eighth grade, felt like a storybook love. I felt fortunate, as if I lived in the light of something special.

Then, on March 13th, 1993, everything changed. A head-on collision left my father with a traumatic brain injury so severe it bound him to a wheelchair, dependent on constant care. He would never walk me to my dorm room, never stand at my sister’s wedding to give her away. The small, everyday freedoms we overlook—mowing the lawn, cooking a meal, or even using a phone—were stolen from him.

But the cruelest loss was his memory. Most of it was gone, lost in a way none of us could reach or repair. I prayed for him to wake up, to return as the man I had always known. But that man was gone. I was furious with God. What could possibly be the purpose of this? Why keep him here in such a diminished form?

In time, I learned to accept the new version of my father. And with that acceptance came a deeper truth: at his core, he hadn’t changed at all.

Though his job, his independence, his mind, and body had been stripped away, the essence of who he was remained untouched. He was still kind, still funny, still playful. He radiated joy and light, even in the midst of his suffering, a reminder that the most important parts of him had not been taken.

When everything falls away, what’s left? These pieces of art explore that question.

The figures, bare and exposed, represent my father, stripped of his abilities. The handstands symbolize his unshakable spirit—the playful, resilient energy that persisted, no matter the circumstances. Through these forms, I hope to express the beauty that remains when life forces us to our most essential selves. 

Have Tears Sometimes

They say, “Slavery is over... just forget about it.” But how can we erase the echoes of a past that shapes our very essence?

The world is a canvas of frustration and rage, and that’s perfectly human. Allow yourself to melt down—scream, weep, let it all flow. But don’t linger in that space. Embrace your tears, and then gently refocus on the horizon before us. Where are we headed? Let that vision guide us forward. 

"How To Respond to Tear Gas"

The best way to describe this piece is via the words of Mumu Fresh from the song "Practice" by August Greene.

"...How much do I owe you for what's already mine?

I earned it. I work hard for every damn dime. 

Only concerned with my money being brought on time.

The revolution poppin off I'm on front line.

Sometimes being a woman is like being black twice.

I gotta scream FIRE instead of RAPE and you tell me to "act nice."

Look pretty, stay slim, don't talk loud. Don't think, don't feel, don't act proud.

But if I'm at my lowest how are you at 100 percent?

God made woman and man for the balance of it."