Tag: Christmas reflection

Charting a journey of personal sovereignty through ancestral healing, Otis Redding, and the ritual of self-care.

I’ve just spent a day reflecting on my ancestry. My task was to clean and declutter six months of build-up—items I had been ignoring whilst building my business seven days a week, all whilst working a day job to keep the wolves from the door.

I woke to clear the clutter and found CDs left by my dad. He passed away many years ago now; my aunt had given me this box of CDs and a few videos before I attended his funeral, along with a profile photo as my keepsake. A man who didn’t have much to do with me as I was raised by my mother—who mostly raised me on her own—he left more to me in death than in life, beyond the ethereal. Among them was a box set of CDs by Otis Redding. I asked myself whether to keep it, as it wasn’t something I would have personally chosen, and given the “sour” mood I was in, I was in full clutter-clearing mode. Yet something told me to clean it off and put it back in its place.

As I cleaned, Christmas Day approached by the hour. I have spent many Christmases on my own over the years, but this one felt slightly different. Due to events earlier in the year, I wasn’t even going to pretend to do anything “Christmas-like.” In fact, this one felt a little sour.

In 2020, I hosted my mother for Christmas Day—the height of the pandemic—when we had to choose who to spend time with. I invited her; she had helped me move into my new home, and I was excited. I created a great spread and reflected that it was the very first time she had spent so much time with me at such an important event. In 2025, in exchange for getting a loan from her, I opened the door for her to tell me exactly what she thought of me. It was not complimentary at all and included a comment that she would never return to my home. I podcasted about it at the time and, in truth, didn’t think much of it after I let it out. But something about it being a few hours before Christmas Day had me reflecting on all the other narratives of my life that I used to waste decades on. Decades gone, based on the opinions of others, half-truths and lies.

Late, not long before midnight, I showered and did my hair. Tears finally flowed about my interaction with my mother. Months ago, I had sent her a letter via WhatsApp—a brave move following having to humble myself to her previously for a much-needed loan to keep a roof over my head. It was my 50th-year (now 51) reminder to build my life up so I am never in that position again. Writing the letter back then was freeing, though I reflected on Christmas Eve that I had perhaps created a “Ross and Rachel” moment—getting what I had to say off my chest, but with no acknowledgement or any form of understanding from her.

I checked my phone before my shower to find an earlier email from Amazon Music letting me know I now had free access. I chose a Mary J. Blige playlist and, just as I got into the shower with a treatment on my hair, the first track to play was Try a Little Tenderness by Otis Redding. It was as if the day was meant to reflect on my parents and the narrative I was carrying—my dad was talking to me through music. He was a singer and live performer in his time on earth. I thought it a fluke until tears flowed much harder a good twenty minutes later; my hair had gone through its treatment and I was braiding it, only to hear the same track by Otis Redding on replay. Mary J. Blige played in between, singing Beautiful.

Early on Christmas morning, around 09:00, I finally took a look. It was translucent, and when I removed it, my face felt plump and hydrated. The lines looked less pronounced, but maybe that was my imagination. However, it is now Boxing Day and I woke feeling smooth skin. I am now prompted to look online to see how I can make this face mask part of my regular routine, finances permitting.

Lita, Goddess of Growth