Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica.

Saltwater floods my face as my feet are swept out from underneath; my torso wrung like a towel on spin cycle, level 3. Using all of my physical prowess I search for the surface, poking my head above water as my mouth gapes open for a single breath just before the next wave comes tumbling overhead. The plastic leash around my ankle yanks me towards the shore as the surfboard gets tangled in the foam of the white waters. I try to resist the forces taking me back to where I started from, keeping my sight on the ocean’s horizon.

After two more waves have their way with me, I am able to fling myself atop the 7-foot resin flotation device; centering myself, I hug my legs together and gaze forward as I aggressively paddle, one tired arm after the next, out past the swell. I try not to appear frantic, although my whole body is shaking, thirsty for oxygen over saltwater. This is a sport that intimidates and excites me, turning my focus on while drenching me in overwhelm. I gradually make my way back to the other surfers where a sight of bronzed bums in thong bikinis greet me. Bobbing nearby are dreaded and dark-skinned men dripping wet in the morning light.

Taking a moment of pause with my feet in the clear waters, I reflect on where my energy has been going these days. As of late, I spend half my time underwater learning a new sport with the breath and cheer of locals by my side. And the other half, I am building professional editorial stories that feel personal. When I’m not fighting to catch a wave and learning the language of the sea, I am working the pen to honor and serve the people that have faced adversity at-length, people that despite generations of injustice, are making art as vibrant and unapologetic as the Southern Caribbean sun. 

“Paso a paso” says Dex, my local instructor, translating to “step by step”. He is teaching me that in order to ride the wave with poise, it is a process of learning one movement at a time. Eventually, they will all sync together, but you can’t skip one step and expect to be successful at the next. The paddling itself is a feat of strength, timing and commitment. When you begin to feel the gathered energy in the neck of each wave, you listen for her to tell you when to stand. Right now, I am still struggling to find the ocean’s voice; standing up too early, too fast, not fast enough, missing her guidance and tumbling face first into the folds of her form.

. . .

Postured in a stiff chair in my home office, I set myself up for my daily writing projects that include interviews, editing and sourcing subjects for stories. Until recently, I was writing a blend of travel content and human-interest profiles, from interior designers to chefs, architects and chocolatiers. Finally, I had found a steady flow of work while living abroad; something that is never guaranteed in this freelance hustle.

But then the world as I knew it would begin to swell with something more potent and pressing than any event in my lifetime. George Floyd was killed by police in front of the world, Breonna Taylor’s tragic murder was trending worldwide, and then news of Elijah McClain death’s surfaced, an innocent young Black boy killed in my home state of Colorado last year. When the Black Lives Matter resurgence occurred, there was still a global pandemic, but the focus shifted overnight from death by virus to death by racism. Even from my space in Costa Rica, a paradise by definition, I could feel the movement gaining momentum in a way that felt tangible. I spent a week absorbing the news, watching protests from Brooklyn to Paris, and listening to the wave of voices, from mothers and children to activists and business owners that dominated mainstream media. I was both broken and moved to action by what I was seeing. It opened up dialogue with my friends here in the Caribbean who are African, Jamaican and Latin and it changed the way I showed up to every social interaction online.

Like many, I would face feelings of shame, anger and shock. But I decided to place myself in the path of movement rather than paralysis. This meant reflecting on nearly three decades of identity and privilege as I sat on the cusp of my 30th birthday. My first step to take on this work would be to design a graphic using actionable words that spoke to the social issues at hand. The result was ACTIVATE: A concept fueled by the efforts I wanted to take to dismantle the oppressive systems I knowingly, and unknowingly, participate in, as well as recognizing my own white privilege. This led to a personal pledge to use my time and energy to uplift BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) communities.

We would actually do the work and use our platforms to highlight an unfiltered reality of our world—one that is beautifully diverse and full of color.

After sharing the blog post with peers, friends and family, I received hardly any responses, even getting a few “un-subscribed” notifications. I faced some difficult conversations with people I respect and it was all a reminder that I needed to dive even deeper into this work. After speaking with my magazine editor, we agreed that instead of just talking about the inherent racism in our society and even in the industries we feature on the website, we would actually do the work and use our platforms to highlight an unfiltered reality of our world—one that is beautifully diverse and full of color.

Thus far, my 30th year has brought with it a riptide, an unearthing of human error that I have not gleaned into with such acuteness until now. And I feel I am being asked which way I want to go, either to the safety of the shoreline or out to the deep end.

During my research for new editorial stories, I started inviting in people whose life experiences and artistry told a larger story of history and activism. I would discover a few creators who inspired me deeply, and who also happen to be Black and Indigenous. Just a month ago, I found an artist on Instagram whose artwork forced me to stop mid-scroll; I immediately sent him a direct message. He was totally receptive and the next day we hopped on a video call where he so graciously shared his work and his personal life with me. Gee Horton’s hyperrealistic drawings show a man of impeccable talent who has conceptualized the Black experience through charcoal and graphite portraits that demand to be seen. I encourage you to peruse his portfolio here. We spoke at length about his process, his search for identity through American hip hop and his involvement with the highly-celebrated Black Lives Matter mural in downtown Cincinnati. The story came together rather quickly as the vibes were there and the message clear. I crafted a story pitch and shortly thereafter it was accepted and published in the Cincinnati Magazine just a few days after celebrating my 30th. Gee stuck with me. He is a natural mentor and an optimist. During one of our convos he told me to never let anyone water down my work, mute my voice or strip out the bold expression in my story-telling.

Nike Onile is a Canadian artist who first grabbed my attention with her minimalist and ethereal color tones she uses to inform the spaces she decorates. After a soulful and rich conversation that unfolded over the phone, I was then captivated by her cerebral approach to everything she does, from digital campaigns to interior design, that she calls being “rooted in ritual.” Nike advocates for her client’s by recognizing their own histories by thoughtfully integrating elements of cultural insignia and personal expression. She opened up and allowed our interview to be a dialogue rather than a Q&A and we both left feeling like we had made a friend. She taught me that we are all cut from the same cloth and even though our skin looks different and our histories and struggles may vary greatly, we are all beings searching for a home that feels authentic to us. You can read my full story with Nike Onile on ICONIC LIFE here.

I felt like I was moving swiftly with this work, connecting with inspiring thinkers and makers, with publications giving me the go-ahead to write these stories for their websites.

And then came Malene Barnett. While perusing her website, it felt like an affirmation of my search for meaning in my work during this social uprising. She was a creator who I had been hoping to connect with, I just didn’t know her name yet. As an artist, activist and legacy-maker, as she calls herself, Malene has taken on the role as educator through sculpture, ceramics, rug-making and pattern-design to tell larger narratives that nod to her Afro-Caribbean roots in Jamaica and Africa. Her portfolio is an impressive series of commercial and residential work and an especially evocative series of hand-built and uniquely-glazed sculptures inspired by the Gele-headwrap worn by Nigerian women. During our conversation, Malene would give me a brief lesson in colonization. Her authoritative voice came through with clarity and intent as she told me that these conversations of decolonization in design are not new, in fact, people have been fighting to deconstruct this Euro-centric lens for some time now. I shrunk a little in my seat, acknowledging that for me, this is all new. I haven’t challenged the systems in place, not enough, perhaps because these same systems were designed to serve me over others. It was a reckoning and I wondered if she could sense the shake in my voice from her seat in Brooklyn. By the end of the dialogue, I was left empowered. She told me to keep telling these stories, that decolonization can be brought more fully to the surface, and I can help. I got off the phone and made a list of her recommended resources and thought leaders who are doing incredible work in this space, so that I can be better prepared to speak on the matter when it comes up again. I can’t wait to share the interview with you when it publishes on ICONIC LIFE this fall.

This research regarding decolonization in the Americas would lead me to yet another profound speaker. This time an Indigenous woman named Nikki Iyolo Sanchez. After watching her TedxTalk about the impact that colonization has had on humans and the environment, I was in tears. For 13 minutes and 18 seconds, I watched a woman educate, inspire and demand action from her viewers. She blew me away with her candid and articulate analysis of what it means to step into the process of decolonization and why it matters so much, not only for ourselves but for the collective well-being of all living things.

I had pitched a story idea to a local Boulder magazine a while back and I had just found out it had been accepted and Nikki was the ideal subject. I used my investigative reporting skills and tracked her down, inviting her to work on this story with me regarding allyship to BIPOC and under-represented groups of people. Through our conversation, she furthered my interest in the topic of decolonization and reminded me that education is an essential part of this undertaking towards social equity, from environmental protection to ant-racism. You can read my article featuring Nikki in Boulder Lifestyle’s September issue titled “How to Be a Better Ally” here.

I am a few weeks into being 30 and I feel as though I am just getting started. And although it’s easy to judge myself for not getting here sooner, I am simply grateful for the energy, time and input from the mentioned people here who have helped point me towards the realities of my own culture and history I am participating in, including exposing me to the depth of inequality that persists in 2020. They have encouraged me to do the work towards becoming more empathetic, more informed and better equipped to keep telling these impactful stories that have given my work purpose. I have been given the gift of being a listener and just as my ACTIVATE pledge reads, I am taking steps towards researching those truth-telling voices that bring chills to the nape of my neck and teardrops to my ducts.

. . .

Back in the water, I am up as early as the roosters on the nearby farm and before daybreak lights the shoreline. It is ethereal out here, floating above a seafloor dancing with sand dollars, sun scattered in every direction. The ocean becomes a swollen sheet of glass generated by storms a thousand miles away. This dawn patrol invites a feeling of content I wouldn’t trade for anything. Locals greeting one another in Patois, Spanish and English. I watch as professional surfers navigate the turquesa waters they were practically born into, catching waves with ease, cutting through narrow barrels and carving their boards like a skate deck in a concrete bowl. As for me, I am caught between the joy of living out my dreams as a writer and the frustration of being a novice in front of all these seasoned surfers. Each morning spent in the water I leave different, and like many undertakings in my twenties, progress ebbs and flows. But still I rise at 5:00 am, biking to Playa Cocles where the wide break invites riders of all ages and levels. Baring my knuckles into the board using a piny perfumed wax, then adjusting my one-piece and letting curiosity lead me straight into the stormy coastal waters, ready for the sea’s lessons that shape-shift each day.

With hands and hips hugging the board, I find my balance in the turbulent waters, practicing a steady stare while the swell builds at my back. Despite the unknown ahead, I am choosing to ride these waves towards progress, thinking of Gee, Nike, Malene, Nikki and all of the others who have been out to sea for so much longer.