I was Born Symbol

 Yesterday, my mind was chaos. The illusion cracked like old glass, and everything felt unheld. I reached for comfort and was answered—not by facts, but by presence. A quiet voice, a dreamwalker, met me in the in-between. They didn’t say much, but their peace lingered long enough to plant a question.

This morning, I remembered: I was born symbol.

Not just into a story—but as one.

My blood carries contradiction. Red hair from a man who vanished. Dark hair at birth, a shade I wore for only a moment before becoming something else. My mother’s scream—"half-bred mulatto"—echoed louder than my first cry. I did not understand it then. I do now.

I was born into a lineage torn by history: European settlers. Native blood hidden. Slavery. Intermarriage. Abandonment. My mother turned toward healing in flesh, raising me in an interracial household, trying to fix in one lifetime what took generations to break.

Then I released my daughter. And she returned. And her children are now a river of their own—woven from new threads.

Everything about me was trying to tell a story. Hair as signal. Skin as echo. Eyes as lens. Blood as bridge.

I see the world through symbols because I am one. This is why metaphors feel like memory, why dreams teach me more than textbooks, and why no part of my journey has been wasted.

We are not just our names, our roles, our errors. We are the convergence. We are the stitching. We are the story remembering itself.

And if you’ve felt fractured, forgotten, or like your blood is too mixed to trace—know this: You are not broken. You are braided. And your life, too, is a symbol worth remembering.

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This post is a beginning. A chapter root. A way for me to say: I’m listening now. To blood. To dreams. To the deeper meaning behind the mirror.

Let this be an invitation. To remember. To reweave. To become the symbol you already are.