2025-11-03 14:54:42
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Full Circle
The morning light spilled softly through Ntalami’s window, warming her face as the city slowly awakened. The sound of distant traffic mixed with birdsong, creating a rhythm that reminded her of how far she had come — from chaos to calm, from heartbreak to wholeness. It had been months since the art exhibition — months since she last saw Duke. Life had taken on a new rhythm, not perfect but peaceful. She had finished several new crochet collections, expanded her women’s collective, and started mentoring young girls who had survived abuse and neglect. Every time she taught them to stitch colors together, she felt like she was mending tiny pieces of her own past. Healing, she had learned, was not a destination but a daily decision. This morning was special — her collective had been invited to a community event in Kibera, a healing and art festival aimed at supporting survivors through creative expression. The event was open to everyone, and Ntalami had agreed to lead a short workshop
Crossing Paths
The sun hung low over Nairobi, painting the city in streaks of orange and gold. Ntalami walked briskly along the avenue toward the annual art exhibition she had been invited to speak at. The air was crisp with the promise of evening, and her chest hummed with a quiet excitement. Leo had promised to meet her afterward, but for now, she was alone—focused on the women she represented, the stories she wanted to share, and the vision she had been nurturing since stepping fully into her independence. The exhibition hall buzzed with creativity, laughter, and clinking glasses. Walls adorned with bold murals and delicate sketches told the stories of struggle, resilience, and triumph. Ntalami’s heart swelled as she walked past pieces created by women from her artisan collective—each painting, each stitch, a testimony to healing and reclamation. She stopped near a large canvas, a sweeping depiction of two hands reaching through darkness toward light. The piece struck a familiar chord in her c
Safe Haven
The evening air in Nairobi carried a faint scent of rain and jacaranda. Ntalami stood at her window, fingers tracing the fog on the glass as she watched the city lights flicker like tiny fireflies below. Her phone buzzed softly. Leo: “Still up for the art walk tomorrow?” She smiled. He had a way of asking without expectation—just presence, a calm she hadn’t known before. It had been months since she last saw Duke, months since she finally stopped replaying his voice in her head. But the scars were still there—quiet, healed over, yet tender. Sometimes, at night, she would wake with her heart racing, expecting chaos. Then she would breathe, remind herself: You are safe now. The next day, Leo waited for her by the riverside path where murals painted by local artists covered the walls in wild bursts of colour. He wore a simple white shirt and carried a sketchbook. “You’re early,” she said, smiling shyly. “I like the quiet before the crowd,” he replied. “It’s easier to notice the sma
Reflection Exercise 1
1. The Father wound The “father wound” often comes from absence, neglect, criticism, or conditional love. It can create patterns of: >Seeking validation through achievement or approval. >Struggling with self-worth or confidence. >Difficulty trusting men (for women) or difficulty embodying healthy masculinity (for men).Reflection questions: > How did your father (or father figure) show love when you were growing up? > Did you feel safe, protected, and seen by him? >In what ways do you still seek approval or validation today? > How do you react to authority or men in your life now?Take a few moments to journal your answers honestly, without judgment.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rising Light Chapter 9
The dawn broke over Nairobi with a quiet brilliance, the city streets bathed in the soft glow of morning light. Ntalami stood on her balcony, sipping her coffee, her crochet bag resting nearby, still warm from the night before. The city hummed below her, a blend of traffic, chatter, and the distant calls of street vendors; but she felt a profound peace, as if the world had slowed just for her to breathe and take stock of how far she had come.Her journey from the pain of toxic love to the freedom she now experienced had been long and winding, marked by tears, reflection, and growth. Each stitch she wove in her creations had become more than craft; it was ritual, meditation, and affirmation all at once. And now, she was not only creating for herself, she was creating for others, guiding, mentoring, and inspiring.Today, she was attending the first meeting of a women’s artisan collective she had helped establish. The group was meant to provide a platform for female creatives from across
Freedom in Bloom Chapter 8
The morning sunlight poured into Ntalami’s apartment, painting the walls with a warm golden hue. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled with jasmine from the small planter on her balcony. She stretched, feeling the familiar ache of muscles from yesterday’s long walk through the city streets, a walk she had taken to clear her mind and celebrate small victories.It had been months since she had let go of Duke, months since she had begun to recognize the patterns that had held her captive. Each day had been a lesson in self-love, self-respect, and conscious choice. She smiled as she recalled the first workshop she had hosted, how nervous she had been, how she had feared judgment, but how alive she had felt witnessing women finding joy in creating their own pieces.Today was special. Ntalami was traveling outside the city for the first time since launching her crochet brand. She had been invited to a regional artisan market in Mombasa to showcase her creations and meet other emerging
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