“When it rains, it pours” ; words my grandmother spoke in Patois that I once thought meant bad luck. Now, I hear them as ancestral wisdom. This reflection is a prayer from the middle of the storm, about calling, exhaustion, faith, and the holy work of becoming. It’s not written from the other side of healing, but from the downpour itself, with rain still in my hair and grace still finding me.

Each day, we speak to the God of our understanding through rituals, prayer, tradition, and breath. In a world shaped by diverse observances—Ramadan, Easter, Akwasidae, Ridván, and beyond—I reflect on how our sacred practices often call us toward mercy, justice, and love. Yet, I still sit with hard questions: How can such divine love coexist with rejection and suffering? This reflection holds my commitment—to honor my ancestors, seek healing, and stand with BIPOC Trans and Queer people cast out for simply existing.