A reflective, personal essay. A eulogy. A confession.

First thing in the morning, an emptiness greets me. The space where something essential once lived, breathed, and grew inside me, now sits abandoned and hollow. The vacant feeling leaves a dissatisfying taste in my mouth and a churning in my gut. I pray for clarity, for internal eyes strong enough to see what is no longer there. My cheeks flush with ignorance and shame as I realize that it’s my imagination — my creativity — that is gone. I can scarcely recall when my thoughts — once lucid, playful, and flowing — were diminished to the menial task of making me look “smart.”

I missed the moment it happened. When the final traces of fanciful thought slipped from my mind. A mind turning, too fast, from childhood delight to adulthood. I grew up quickly. Not because puberty found me early — which it did. Not because I took on a woman’s role in the midst of my blooming girlhood — even though that happened too. I grew up quickly because my childhood gave me no reason to linger. I longed for freedom from boredom, loneliness, stifling parents, and an endless cycle of schoolwork and chores. I couldn’t stand another moment of watching my mother struggle and suffer under the weight of cancer, trauma, marriage, motherhood, dashed hopes, and endless worries. Growing up wasn’t just the way of things, it was the way out.

My imagination died somewhere along the path to early adulthood. I was so busy dressing myself up with the growing responsibilities of getting older that I forgot the raw, electric power of daydreams, the decadence of creating stories; the unbridled joy of singing from my heart, or dancing to a rhythm vibrating from my soul. By the time I was 13, the dramatic plot lines I’d concocted, to be performed by an all female cast of Barbie dolls, seemed utterly foolish. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I ever finished a story past 7th grade. My poetry came in fits and bursts, my prose never saw the light of day.

I read voraciously throughout my life, admiring one author and then another. I was a lover of story, personal, poignant, passionate. I freaked at the precision in sentence structure, marveled at every turn of phrase. I read and read, worshiping the bravery of those mad enough to call themselves writers. The pioneers who sent their heart’s work out, into the world, immortalized in paper, ink, and glue. Reading, worshiping, and witnessing. Always watching from the sidelines as my own divine gift atrophied inside me.

I owe my sweet self an apology. Being “grown” was thrust upon me when I had little choice, but the rest of it I chose of my own free will. I chose to stop playing, to stop imagining. I chose to stop dreaming up worlds and characters, stories and possibilities. I chose to trade my authentic expression for the meager, momentary consolation of appearing smart, pretty, popular, and thin. I abandoned my creativity, forgot my voice, and stilled my dancing feet to plaster my face with makeup, flirty smiles, and feigned helplessness. The light slipped slowly from my yes, as the space inside me — once brimming with the energy of Source Creator — turned barren. I forgot myself entirely.

My imagination has died, and this is my confession. I killed it, slowly, over time. I neglected it, pushed it aside, and traded it for a few letters behind my name, shallow acquaintances, and a string of failed, codependent romances. As I write these words, something stirs inside me. Sunlight reflects through a window and catches my eye, almost blinding. The hollow space in me warms a bit and feels a little less gaping. I want to write something more — something about inviting those old, dejected parts of me home — but nothing witty or profound comes to mind. I guess I’ve said enough already. ❤

October 1, 2023 by Kimoré Reid, Ed.S, LPC, CPCS

Kimoré is a licensed counselor, supervisor, & writer. Her work is dedicated to the healing & liberation of Black & Afro-Caribbean Women, & Queer Women of Color. Interested in working with Kimoré? CLICK HERE!