SAM Frida

Healing doesn’t mean forgetting — it means honoring the pain, breaking the silence, and choosing a new narrative. Generational trauma may echo through bloodlines, but so can love, strength, and renewal. The story doesn’t have to end how it began — we get to rewrite...

I do not know what war is called, I only know my tummy growls, A sound that’s louder in the night, Than all the bombs that fall like owls. I do not know why Mama cries, Her hands shake when she hides the bread, She tells me, “Sleep, it’s almost dawn,” But I can’t...

They didn’t choose where they were born. Yet somehow, the world decided what they are worth. In Palestine, and in so many forgotten corners of the earth, entire communities are treated as if they are less—less deserving of peace, of dignity, of investment, of life....

There are no words that can soften the truth. Children are being killed. Again and again. We call the killers monsters— But what do we call ourselves when we watch it happen and carry on with dinner plans? With holiday bookings? With silence? Amanda Gorman said it...

(Make sense of this as you wish) You're a setting sunEver on the runAnd there's thing's you've doneThat won't leave you aloneThe weight you've grownSolid as stoneHas put down belowEveryone you know But you know the nightWhere've your days goneKept you out aloneWhere...

You can’t control the heart. As much as you try—logic it away, box it in, delay it—it pulses on its own timeline. It whispers go anyway even when nothing makes sense. And honestly? I don’t know how anyone lives a full life without following their heart. But here’s...

We say we want a better world. We want clean air, kind neighbors, safe streets, good schools, a peaceful future for our kids. But then… we keep running. Consuming. Reacting. Upgrading. Reposting. Chasing. Prompting. Now AI—ChatGPT included—is the latest thing...

We glorify individuality. We preach that every human is unique. That no two people are alike. So why the hell do we keep building boxes for people to fit into? Why do we shove those whose minds move like jazz—fluid, unpredictable, expansive—into square molds built for...