I’ve come to understand that vulnerability is a potent path to healing.Over the last five years, I’ve embarked on a journey to open up to others, a drastic shift from my past self. Painful experiences had once caused me to build walls around myself, intentionally making it difficult for people to connect with me. I held back from building relationships, fearing everyone would eventually hurt me.

Now, half a decade later, I take pride in the progress I’ve made. There’s still a long way to go, but the journey ahead excites me.

My writings often explore topics such as fashion, entertainment, spirituality, and personal growth. The moment I decided to pursue writing, I knew it would require another level of vulnerability from me. So, here goes.

Not long ago, I received a call from the prison where my brother, convicted of murder, was serving his sentence. A raspy voice on the other end informed me that my eldest brother was dead, killed in a fight. In that moment, I felt as if my existence had shattered, and the man’s words turned into an unintelligible murmur.

I spent four days alone with this news before sharing it. In the days that followed my brother’s supposed death, I not only recognized my negative perceptions of black men but also realized he was the root cause of this. He was an intimidating figure in my childhood, and despite relatives’ assurances to the contrary, my experiences painted a different picture.

My experiences with my brother felt like living the movie “Clockwork Orange”. His death triggered a cascade of realizations about my worldview, shaped by his torment and abuse. While mourning him, I grappled with unresolved pain, anger, and the guilt that came with these emotions.

After gathering the courage, I shared the news with my youngest brother. Our conversation was cut short by a work call. However, he called back moments later, saying that our eldest brother was alive, verified by a recent picture on the prison’s website.

I watched over Facetime as he relayed my experience to a prison official. She explained that it was a prison scam, typically involving three phone calls, the last of which would request money to ship his remains.

The relief washing over my youngest brother’s face when he found out the truth was palpable. But the harsh reality was that I had spent nearly two weeks believing my eldest brother was dead. This period exposed wounds from our shared past and my negative perceptions about black men, shaped by his abuse, which inevitably affected my self-image.

I recall a wise man saying: vivid clarity can either lead to profound self-understanding and healing or send you spiraling into despair. After introspecting over this surreal experience, I’m confronted with a choice: to cling onto the past or to forgive and move forward.

I’ve chosen to forgive and let go.