8

Young, Gifted, and Black​

     Father, do you know who Nina Simone is? I discovered her after watching a mesmerizing documentary titled What Happened, Miss Simone? Nina was a dark-skinned Black woman and an exceptionally talented musician. She attended Juilliard, studying classical piano, before venturing into the world of blues and jazz clubs. What makes Nina Simone truly significant is her refusal to compromise her integrity and self-worth to meet others' expectations. She was willing to burn bridges and risk her popularity in America by refusing to cater to wealthy white audiences, who contributed to most of her record sales. During the racially turbulent 1960s and 1970s, Nina instilled a sense of purpose, value, dignity, and self-worth in young Black people, prioritizing these ideals over financial gain. Her choices ultimately impacted her music career in the United States. I am deeply grateful for her courage, and I am not exaggerating when I say there is a good chance I would not be here if it were not for Nina's music. I would have succumbed to my own demons and taken my own life, or given up and remained a junkie. But no, at 28 I cleaned myself up and turned my life around. And now I am 35, and I have not looked back. To this day, I listen to Nina Simone's song "To Be Young, Gifted, and Black" for encouragement, especially when I am feeling low. I also listen to Aretha Franklin's version of "Young, Gifted, and black,"  when I feel like going to church, and I need confirmation that I should appreciate the black face staring back at me in the mirror. 

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At 24, I moved to New York after completing graduate school. I earned my bachelor's degree from Dartmouth College and later obtained my master's degree at the American Conservatory Theater. Now I understand why people encourage students to take a gap year between undergraduate and graduate studies; it makes a significant difference to have lived a little before going to graduate school. While I was book-smart, I realized I lacked life experience. After moving to New York, I maintained connections with friends from my undergraduate days. When you are black and you have attended an Ivy League or similarly elite college, you quickly learn that "Young Gifted and Black" is a rarity in the United States.  It's easy to remember names from the black community and put faces to people who are black and making strides, even if they did not attend the same school as you.  Because the black community is small in our nation. We tend to pay attention to what others are doing.

 

The prolific author and poet Maya Angelou once spoke about the importance of being a "rainbow in someone's cloud." She mentioned how she carries the memories of those who believed in her as she steps into new spaces. I am incredibly thankful to God for the rainbows in my life. I know I would not have received my education or the opportunities I’ve had without those who uplifted me. In high school, I was fortunate to receive several prestigious scholarships that empowered Black students to attend college and make a difference in the world. These included the Ron Brown Scholarship—a true blessing that has supported so many Black men and women—and the Gates Millennium, Coca-Cola, and NAACP scholarships. These experiences immersed me in a new world, surrounded by gifted and brilliant peers who continue to inspire me. To this day, I remain humbled by the extraordinary talent and intelligence of those around me.

 

Soon, I found myself immersed in a vibrant new world, surrounded by remarkably gifted peers who constantly humbled and inspired me with their brilliance. To this day, I reflect on the extraordinary intelligence of my classmates and peers, particularly the black men and women who have overcome complex and often harsh backgrounds to earn degrees from prestigious institutions like Yale, Harvard, MIT, Stanford, Princeton, Brown, Cornell, Oxford, and Cambridge. They were on their way to becoming politicians, lawyers, doctors, professors, judges, scientists, directors, and influential leaders. Looking back now, at the age of 35, I realize how naive I was. If only I had understood then what I know now about how systemically and intentionally our nation oppresses black people, robbing them of their sense of self-worth and value. I would have taken the time to appreciate the blessing of being young, gifted, and black. I would have made more of an effort to connect with my peers. While I had casual interactions and attended regional gatherings, I regret not investing more time in getting to know them better. Today, many of them are married with children and thriving in dynamic, impactful careers. Yet, they remain a rare and beautiful presence in a society that too often clings to stereotypes and racism. I am continually in awe of these exceptional individuals, many of whom also identify as queer.

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When I moved to New York at 24, I was fortunate enough to find a room in a central West Harlem apartment through a friend from graduate school. The apartment's owner was Orlando, a 31-year-old gay black man from the South. He was relatively successful for his age, working as an assistant director for a Broadway production. Orlando embodied the essence of being young, gifted, and Black—and he had that Southern charm.

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I was shocked when I arrived in Harlem because I had never seen so many attractive gay black men. Openly gay, extremely attractive, just walking the streets like it was nothing. And the first thing I did was reach out to a few of my peers who had been living in New York for several years to see if they had suggestions for things to do, part-time jobs, and where to live. I attended a few regional meetings, and there I naturally met friends through people who had been living there. That's how I met my friend Derick. Derick was also gay, and he was from the south, but he had been living in New York for a year and working as a middle school music teacher at a prestigious private school. Outside of work, he was preparing to apply to Columbia's Graduate School of Education for a graduate degree. Derick was very sociable and welcoming. He had southern hospitality but was well-suited to city life because of his unique flair. He'd often call everyone 'honey' or 'baby' and was quick to make friends and meet new people. Derick also had an incredible singing voice.  I made friends through Derick, the social butterfly who was good at connecting people. Not surprisingly, many of his friends could sing as well. I remember one evening, before we all went dancing at gay clubs, we went to a popular venue with karaoke, and I watched in awe as Derick and his friends sang. I wanted to throw a shoe at Derick. I was too embarrassed to sing because I was the one in our group who went to school and earned a graduate degree in performance. Still, they were the ones doing vocal acrobatics, even though they worked as teachers and had no interest in performance as a career. That's how it was in New York. I was usually surrounded by highly talented and gifted black men and women who made me feel small. Yes, small. 

 

One evening, Derick invited me to a friend’s birthday party. It was a gathering of black intellectuals and creatives, and that’s where I met Amir, a handsome black man who immediately caught my attention. When I walked into the party, I noticed him right away. He was impeccably dressed and mingling effortlessly with everyone around him, including a woman who seemed to flirt with him as if he were straight. Assuming he wouldn’t be interested in me, I decided to play it cool and avoid him. Instead, I made my way over to Derick, who sat comfortably on a couch in the living room, deep in a colorful conversation with a group of women. Each time I glanced around, I caught Amir's gaze lingering on me. He had a masculine presence, soft facial features, and milk-chocolate skin that glowed under the warm lighting. A few tattoos decorated his arms, adding to his allure. As I tried to contribute to the group conversation, my words felt forced, and even Derick shot me a few concerned looks. Feeling out of place, I excused myself and headed to the kitchen to grab some punch.

 

      The kitchen was bustling with beautiful gay black men, all gathered around the punch bowl, serving drinks to a growing line. As I waited, Amir entered the kitchen and strolled over to me. “So you’re just going to walk in here, get a drink without saying happy birthday?” he teased. I felt a wave of shock and embarrassment wash over me. “Oh, it’s your birthday?” I asked, surprised. He nodded with a smile. “Yeah.” He replied. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! My friend Derick invited me and mentioned it was a birthday party, but he didn’t say whose. I feel so rude! Happy birthday!” I said. He laughed, giving my shoulder a friendly pat. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t know half the people here anyway. I was just teasing you because I noticed you when you walked in.” He replied.  I chuckled, “I noticed you too. If you don’t mind me asking, are you gay?” I asked. “Yeah.” He answered. “Oh, I thought you were straight because you were chatting with that girl when I walked in,” I said.  “That doesn’t mean anything,” he replied casually. “True,” I acknowledged. “Is this your apartment?” I asked. “No, it’s my sister’s,” he said, and there was a brief pause. “I’m Amir,” he introduced himself. “Hi Amir, I’m Ryan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” We shook hands and stared into each other's eyes. I wanted him, and he wanted me. We spent the rest of the evening talking, during our conversation I learned that he used to serve in the army, and as the night came to a close, we exchanged numbers and shared a kiss. “I want to see you again,” Amir said, and I smiled back, feeling butterflies in my stomach. His friends watched from a distance, clearly hinting that the night was supposed to end with birthday sex. But I was new to New York, and I didn’t want to come off as easy. I wanted Amir to see me as someone worth dating. We kissed once more before I left and returned to my apartment, still buzzing from the night.

 

 It was remarkable to meet such a beautiful black man in person, rather than through a hookup app. The next morning, Amir texted me, “What are you doing tomorrow night?” I felt the need to sound busy and intriguing. Although I juggled three separate jobs as an arts teacher and waiter for an events company, I had no true plans. “Just going to the gym and working on audition material,” I replied. “Great! Come over to my place. I want to cook you dinner.” “Really?” I was surprised. It was a first for me—no one had ever invited me over for a cooked dinner before. For the first time, I felt like one of the Disney princesses from my childhood movies.

 

On the night of the dinner, Amir picked me up in his own car. I was surprised because owning a car is rare in New York at that age. I approached the car to see him smiling through the open window, and I couldn't help but chuckle like a schoolgirl. “Hello, birthday boy! Good to see you.” I said. “Good to see you too,” Amir said with a wide grin on his face. As I got into the car, Amir placed his hand on my left knee, which sent a rush of warmth through me. When we arrived at his apartment, I was struck by how organized and clean it was—just what you would expect from someone who had been in the military. “Let me take your jacket,” he offered, and I could sense a different side of him—more vulnerable, and I realized he was a bit nervous. This made me feel at ease, knowing he was feeling something special too. “Have a seat at the table,” he told me while I watched him prepare dinner. He cooked pasta with chicken and steamed vegetables, and opened a bottle of red wine. As we sat down to eat, the conversation flowed easily. Amir shared stories from his time in the military. “Was it weird being gay in the military?” I asked. “No, it’s different now,” he replied. “There are other gay people in the military.” “I have to admit, I’m surprised this is happening,” I confessed. "Why do you say that?" Amir asked. “I mean, you’re sexy—like a Chris Brown or Michael B. Jordan type. I didn’t think we’d end up together. There were so many gorgeous black men at your birthday who seemed more like your type,” I said. “You know my type?” he questioned with intrigue. “A good-looking man is a good-looking man. Type doesn’t matter,” I said with a smile. “Well, you’re a classic beauty. You look royal,” he complimented, and we shared a moment of silence, staring into each other’s eyes.  We stared into each other's eyes. "Thank you. No one has ever told me that.” I responded. Internally, I still struggled with low self-esteem and did not really believe Amir when he said those words, but it was nice to hear that gorgeous man say that.

 

       When we finished our meal, we went to his room, and there we made love, but slowly. It was not quick and rushed; we took our time with each other. As I placed my hands against that black man's chest, I could feel his heart beating. The pounding of his chest felt like waves crashing against the shore. Amir was black, black, black. He was so hard and tough and rough on the outside, but on the inside, he was soft, soft, baby, soft. Inside, he was the very thing the world wanted to murder. Black. He was love, sweet like honey, rich like chocolate. He was home. I wanted to know his dreams, his fears, what inspired him. I wanted Amir. But I was afraid. Afraid of being loved. Fearful of being seen. I knew Amir would figure me out. Of course, he would. One day, he would find out that I was not as cool and collected as I present myself to be. One day, he would figure out that I am awkward and a bit of a nerd. One day, I would say or do something weird, and he would leave. And so I pushed him away. I did the work myself and pushed him away. 

 

Instead of embracing Amir's love, I found myself trading affection and intimacy for the thrill of the chase. I chased after men who didn't make time for me. It felt like it was my responsibility to prove my value, rather than to receive love and discover my worth through someone else's eyes. After I pushed Amir away, I shifted my focus to pursuing men who were cold and distant.

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9​

10 Minutes With Freddie​​​

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Several months after my last encounter with Amir. I moved to East Harlem, also known as Spanish Harlem. One afternoon, I found myself resting on my bed scrolling through Grindr, a gay dating and hookup app. A message from a faceless profile was sent to my inbox. "Are you looking to meet?" Read the message. "Yeah, but I would have to see a photo of your face. I'm not into anonymous meetups," I responded.  He followed up by sending several pictures. He was white and dark with dark features. I could sense he was Italian. I immediately noticed that his pictures were not candid shots; they were promotional marketing pictures. The kind of promotional, staged, costumed marketing pictures adult film stars use. I figured he must have been a porn star because the photos were too hot. "What do you do?" I asked him. "I used to be a dancer, a stripper, but now I am in school to become a nurse," "Cool," I replied.  I was self-conscious because, as you know, I have always been self-aware of my body, and I had low self-esteem. "What's your culture?" he asked me. "I'm black," I said. "Half African and Half African American". He replied with the heart-eyed emoji.  "And what are you? I asked him. I could tell he was white, but I wanted to know if my instincts were right about him being Italian. He replied, "Italian," "nice, I figured," I said. I don't know, Dad. What can I say? Badabing Badaboom, I liked Italian men. Ever since I was a child, I remember my mother watching Italian gangster films, so from a young age, I found myself drawn to Ray Liotta and a young Robert De Niro. The thought of hooking up with this hot Italian guy who used to be a stripper was exciting. 

 

“You want to meet up?” he asked, and without much thought, I replied, “Sure.” At the time, I was living near a busy train station in East Harlem, and we agreed to meet at that corner. I left my apartment and made my way to the station, feeling a bit nervous. As I waited, I spotted a medium-sized, dark-haired Italian guy across the street waving at me. He wore all black—a jacket and sweatpants. I was dressed more formally in dress pants and shoes paired with a jean jacket. “Hello, I’m Freddy,” he said as he approached. “Hi Freddy, I’m Ryan. Nice to meet you. I don’t normally meet people in the middle of the day on the street, but I liked your pictures and think you’re hot.” I said enthusiastically. “I think you’re hot too,” he replied. For a moment, I was surprised. Freddy’s temperament surprised me; it didn’t match the arrogant, cocky demeanor I expected when viewing his promotional photos. Instead, he had a playful quality that put me at ease. “So where do you want to go?” I asked, realizing we hadn’t discussed where we would end up. “I can’t host. I have too many housemates,” he said. “Don’t worry,” he continued, “we’ll go to my apartment.” “Okay,” I agreed, and we set off down several blocks, traversing the cold, gritty streets of East Harlem.

 

When we arrived at a brownstone, he whispered, “We have to be quick,” which struck me as odd since it was "his apartment" and I was more focused on the thrill of the moment than the circumstances. Freddy opened the door and led me up the stairs to the second floor. The apartment was a small one-bedroom studio, with a kitchen smack in the middle. The instant he closed the door behind us, we began kissing as if we were mad dogs in heat. Yet, as incredible as it felt, the encounter was quick, cheap, and shallow. We hooked up right there on the kitchen floor for what felt like no more than ten minutes before Freddy pulled away and said, “I’m out of time; you have to go.” “Okay,” I replied, feeling a pang of disappointment despite how hasty and shallow the experience had been. I hoped maybe, just maybe, I’d get to see him again.   

 

My blind attraction to Freddy was unusual.  I often thought about the beautiful black Amir and how he treated me. Amir had welcomed me into his home, cooked me dinner, and offered me a place to stay, yet I felt unworthy of his kindness. Instead, I found myself pursuing Freddy, a white man who seemed cold and distant. Excited to meet again, I would text Freddy. Texts that would take weeks to get a response, and when he finally did, his replies were frustratingly short—a simple “Hi” or a one-word confirmation. In my naiveté, I found myself blinded by physical attraction and sex. That fleeting ten-minute encounter with Freddy had cast a spell over me, making me overlook the genuine connection I could have had with someone like Amir.

 

Once we’d crossed paths, I couldn’t help but get excited every time I spotted Freddy at the gym, which was very popular for that part of Harlem. It was a gym that a lot of gay men frequented, so it was normal to recognize people you met from outside, at a bar on the street, anywhere.  I would always get excited and giddy like a little schoolgirl whenever I would see Freddy at the gym, but I noticed he never walked up to me. He never initiated contact.  I figured I had annoyed him because he never responded to any of my texts, so when I ran into him at the gym, our encounters were somewhat awkward. Usually, I would approach him and say, "Hey Freddy," hoping he would want to meet again. But he would just say "Hi." And that's it. Several months passed after our first meetup. Then, randomly, one day after seeing Freddy in the gym, he texted me and asked if I wanted to meet up in the evening. "Yes," I replied. I was so excited; I felt like I'd won the lotto. It did not matter that Freddy ignored me and my texts for about two months. It did not matter that Freddy was most likely sleeping with other men. What mattered was that he reached out to me and wanted to hook up again, and I wanted it, I wanted it so bad. Because I was trying so hard to figure out why I was not good enough the first time. 

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The second time we met was at his place again. It was closer to the evening. "This is my friend's apartment," He said. "I'm just staying here while I'm in school to become a nurse," Freddy revealed. "Cool," I replied. "She's gone for the weekend, so I have more time this time." He said. "OK," I replied. We immediately began kissing again, and we made it to the bed and had sex. It was different this time. It was not on a kitchen floor but on a bed. As we had sex, I remember Freddy looking straight into my eyes, and he said, "I love you," when he said those words. "I love you." I was no longer grounded in reality. The fat, gay, bulimic, queer boy, with low self-esteem, who danced for hours in the basement to Madonna after watching Flashdance, in me, was excited to hear this white Italian man say that he loved me. I did not question the circumstances: the fact that Freddy ignored me for nearly two months, never approached me in public, used to be a stripper, and was most likely having sex with other men as months passed by. I did not question the circumstances because I wanted the word "I love you" to mean something. Again, I wanted to feel like one of the Disney princesses in the films I watched as a child.  I took those words, his words, to heart and kept them with me. I longed for “I love you” to mean something profound, something magical—like Disney princess movies of my childhood. In that instance, I clung fiercely to those words, believing I had finally captured a glimpse of the love I had always dreamed of experiencing. I tucked them away in my heart, convinced they would redefine my worth. 

 

When we finished having sex, I nestled my head on his hairy chest and asked, “What do you like to eat?” “Why?” he replied. “Because I am going to cook for you,” I said. “Pasta,” he answered, and that was the only item on his menu. “You don’t like anything else?” I probed. “Like chicken, fish, beef, vegetables, or dessert?” “No, I like pasta.” “Okay,” I said, “I’ll make you some pasta. When are you free?” “I should be free next Thursday night,” he replied. “Great,” I said, getting dressed and leaving for my place. That encounter lasted about 45 minutes.

 

      I was ecstatic. For the first time in my life, I might have a boyfriend, and I was about to cook for him. Little did I know Amir probably felt a similar wave of excitement when he invited me over to his place and cooked for me. As the day drew closer, I thought constantly about my upcoming date with Freddy. I watched numerous YouTube videos on how to make pasta dishes, determined to prepare an authentic meal. I went to Whole Foods to buy high-quality ingredients and splurged on an expensive bottle of wine. I even got a small chocolate cake for dessert. Since Freddy was Italian, I didn’t want him to complain about the dish being prepared incorrectly. I also asked my housemates if I could use the kitchen and living room for a movie night, and they were thrilled to meet Freddy, who I had talked about for so long. Thursday night arrived, and I began to cook. One of my housemates, Ethan, wandered into the kitchen, his nose twitching at the delicious aromas. “Wow, you really went all out on this one,” he remarked. I prepared a Cornish hen alongside pasta with vodka sauce, asparagus, and Brussels sprouts. By around 7:00 PM, everything was ready. Freddy was supposed to arrive by 7:30, so I texted him around 7 to let him know I’d finished cooking. But there was no response.

 

I waited. And waited. Soon, it was 10:00 PM, and my housemates returned from an outing to see a play. They noticed I was sitting alone in the living room, with untouched food sitting on the table before me. They knew Freddy was white and Italian, and after hearing me talk about him for a week, they were probably skeptical about whether he even existed. The disappointment on their faces mirrored my own as they walked in and realized something was off. I tried to play it cool and asked, “How was the show?” “It was good,” said Sharice. “Yeah, it was good,” Ethan chimed in. “Did Freddy not come by?” asked Sharice. “No, but he still may be on his way,” I replied, holding on to hope. But with each passing minute, my optimism faded. By 10:00 PM, I decided to retreat to my room.

 

     It was 2015, and Netflix had just released a critically acclaimed documentary titled What Happened, Miss Simone? My friends, all gifted and talented, had been raving about it, and I figured it could help pass the time as I waited for Freddy. Deep down, though, I felt a knot in my stomach; I knew he wasn’t coming. But I clung to the hope that all my efforts hadn’t been in vain. As I started watching the documentary, I knew of Nina Simone but wasn’t familiar with the specifics of her life or music. Yet, I was captivated by the tale of this extraordinarily talented, dark-skinned black woman who fiercely advocated for black empowerment through her music, even when it meant stepping on toes and burning bridges. Miss Simone was unapologetically herself, focused not on pandering to white audiences but on instilling value and self-worth into young black people during the racist turbulence of the 1960s and 1970s. I lost track of time as I watched, and at around 11:45 PM, a powerful moment in the film struck me deeply: Nina Simone visiting a college and singing “Young, Gifted, and Black” to a predominantly black audience. My eyes filled with tears as I watched her, dressed in all black, singing to a sea of young black faces:

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“To be young, gifted, and black, oh what a lovely, precious thing. When you’re feeling really low, there’s a great truth that you should know…”

 

Those words resonated deeply within me. It felt like I was witnessing something extraordinary in that moment, even as I grappled with the disappointment of waiting for someone who never showed up. I kept crying, feeling the weight of my emotions as I reflected on everything I had poured into that night. As the character Celie says in Alice Walker's "The Color Purple," "It was like black seeing black for the first time." Watching Nina Simone, dressed in all black, sing to a sea of young Black faces, I was deeply moved by her lyrics:

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“To be young, gifted, and black, oh, what a lovely precious thing. When you're feeling really low, there's a great truth you should know. When you're young, gifted, and black, your soul is intact.”

 

I was moved by Nina's words, especially since I was feeling incredibly low at that moment. I kept crying, overwhelmed with confusion over why I had wasted so much time and energy trying to please Freddy, a white Italian man, without recognizing my own worth. Around 12:30 am, I received a brief text from Freddy: "Sorry, something came up. I won't be able to make it." Still trapped in a cycle of low self-esteem, I responded, “No problem, I can cook again. Can you reschedule?” I didn't just ask; I begged. When Freddy didn’t reply, disgust washed over me. I felt ashamed for giving my body to him, for allowing myself to believe his words, “he loved me,” And to be emotionally discarded. In that moment, I felt like a pile of burning black trash. Burning, black, nigger, trash—exploited, worthless, invisible, and unappreciated. Father, I use the word "nigger" here because it's a term that has haunted me; some of my most painful racist encounters were with white Italians in New York. We all can be racist at times.

 

That was the last I heard from Freddy. It was in 2015, the same year the documentary "What Happened, Miss Simone?" was released, and now it's 2026—eleven years of silence from Freddy, who is white. After sending him that text, I waited up, hoping he would respond and want to reschedule. It was as if I hadn’t just heard Miss Simone’s empowering words reminding me that I am young, gifted, and black. I stayed up until about 1:45 am, and when I realized he wasn't going to reply, I went to the kitchen, packed up all the food I had prepared, and threw it away. I returned to my room, heartbroken and grieving, filled with disgust for having ignored the red flags—the signs of his indifference and avoidant behavior, even in public spaces like the gym. At around 2:00 am, I took a shower, got dressed, and decided to go to a gay sauna in Chelsea. It's astounding what low self-esteem, desperation for intimacy, and a lack of self-worth can drive someone to do.

 

Even though I identify as a woman now, I take full responsibility for my actions during that time in my life as a man. God has given everyone, including myself, free will. Freddy possessed free will to dance professionally as a stripper at a fully nude male gay strip club. I had free will to take drugs and have illicit sex with men. 
In that moment, after being ignored by Freddy, as I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I felt like I was nothing more than discarded black trash, used up, exploited, good only for a quick and cheap hook up on an icy cold kitchen floor in East Harlem. So that evening, after cooking an Italian meal for Freddy, I chose to seek intimacy at a gay sauna with a man who had the time for me. 

 

Following that night, I made more reckless decisions, choices driven by my feelings of inadequacy, which I will address later. For now, I want to remain focused on Freddy and our connection. As I stated at the beginning of this letter, when I was 28 years old, I cleaned myself up and turned my life around. I haven’t looked back since. I haven’t done any of the things I used to do since then. At the age of 29, I managed to start a Christian ministry for young black queer people who may have struggled with the same issues. Even so, I could not shake the fact that deep down inside, I was not aware of my worth. It's pathetic. It's alarming. Over the eleven years since I last heard from Freddy, I moved back to New York twice, hoping to reconnect. Each time, I was met with silence. Yes, Father, your Black daughter had such low self-esteem that she bought a ticket, sold all her valuables in California, and flew to New York, not once but twice, in the hopes of rekindling something with a white man who never acknowledged her existence. Eleven years is a long time to fight for someone who doesn't talk to you. Eleven years is a long time to pursue a white man who had free will to have sex with other black bodies.

 

For eleven years, I struggled with low self-esteem, constantly trying to prove my worth and chasing an elusive idea of what it means to “make it.” During that time, I learned something crucial: God has given each of us free will. We have the ability to love ourselves and to recognize the beauty in what God has created. Music has been a powerful influence in my journey. I often find strength and inspiration in Nina Simone's words, whose voice reminds me to embrace my own light. Ultimately, what matters most is being that light for others. 

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With love, 
Your daughter,

Ryan​

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