I published THE NAMED WOMAN on January 24, 2026—my birthday—because I wanted the day I entered the world to also mark the day I stopped hiding in it.

The book is a memoir, but it's not about healing. It's about what happens when you stop performing the version of yourself that keeps everyone comfortable.

Bloodline is the oldest contract a woman inherits without signature. It arrives before memory, carried in gestures your grandmother made while cooking, in the silence your mother perfected around certain questions, in the way women in your family learned to make themselves small enough to survive.

I stopped translating myself. The dream that’s followed me since I was 7 is now behind a $40 door. If your chest is tight reading this, you know why.

I keep seeing her dying of thirst while everyone else drinks. If your chest hurts reading this, your body already knows the price of being “generous.”

I used to treat my chart like poetry. Then the sky burned the library and said: these are orders.

I swallowed the key. Everyone who loved the compliant queen turned and walked away. Good.

I stood in a field of tombstones titled “Rage Video #47,” “Album Too Raw,” “Dance Reel.” She was waiting at the edge, on fire and breathing.

Inbox full of thank-yous, rituals perfect, applause loud… and most nights your chest still hurts. This is what spiritual fragmentation actually feels like.

I looked in the mirror and saw two women: one in full costume, one burned to bone. Only one walked out alive