our obstacles are intergenerational

one month ago, on the evening of my 27th birthday, my father passed away.

his name is winfield noel williams, and yes, my first name is derived from his middle name. when i asked about its origin, my parents told me that the additional la foretold my passion for music. i assumed that they made this up to prove their delusion that i was a musical prodigy. i mean…i did participate in several sonatas and recitals during my seven-year span of piano lessons from first to seventh grade (and placed in top three at a few of the performances!!). now, a dj spending sleepless nights in brooklyn’s party scene, i see that my parents were right. i’m passionate about music.

although i rarely agreed with my parents and questioned their traditional and dated form of parenting, they led me with the best of their ability.

born in belmont, port of spain in trinidad and tobago, winfield was born with a congenital heart defect and wasn’t expected to surpass infancy. after an operation at the massachusetts general hospital and the support of his parents, seven brothers and sister, 14-year-old winfield exceeded his life expectancy and grew up in boston’s dorchester neighborhood. during his 70 years of life, he had four children and ten grandchildren.

i always knew of my father’s fragile heart. my childhood was riddled with vague warnings to not cause additional stress to his life or unexplainable adventures for his medical procedures, such as an overnight stay at new england’s ronald mcdonald house. i yearned to be a perfect daughter, doing whatever i could to relieve his pain without actually relieving any symptoms.

i reluctantly attended every church service on sunday morning. i abstained from doing anything he deemed disrespectful—admiring secular musicians, asking any questions about sex and sexuality, or asking to style bold hair colors. i enrolled in my high school’s medical program to be just like my older sister, a successful registered nurse.

things changed when i became a teenager, and at the ripe age of 19, i entered 2018 as an agnostic bisexual that sought a journalism degree at my community college. i was sporting all of adore’s vibrant semi-permanent dyes on my recently-shaved buzz cut, and i was listening to all of the beyoncé my heart desired, regardless of her provocative lyrics.

my angst and curiosity in a future outside of florida’s bible belt was misunderstood as combative behavior, and my dad viewed my rebellion only curable by anointing oil and prayer. in reality, my oily forehead didn’t stop my undesired backtalk that questioned religion and his strict behavior.

“it’s hard to be a daughter,” my loved one said to me as she wrapped her arm around my shoulder. i let out a deep sigh to relieve the tightness in my throat, and tears followed. minutes later, his walnut cherry casket—delicately adorned with flowers by his grandchildren—was lowered into the ground.

the last twenty-four hours felt like the countdown to a hurricane’s landfall—anxiety entrenched in the unknown impact of the next hour, day, or week. i took on the role of delivering the eulogy, one of my most difficult writing tasks. my siblings assured that i’d be the best for this, and i agreed, but the confidence and copious amounts of thc and cbd gummies to mellow my worries didn’t outweigh the concern.

“what if i cry?” well, that’s normal. this is my dad’s funeral, and my family is scattered in front of this funeral home, also crying.

“is this speech good enough?” yes, the four minute speech was enough, even though it was written merely hours before my first alarm for the early morning service.

in hindsight, my nerves were a result of many things: an hour-long phone call with the funeral director and my siblings to arrange the service, my brother’s roaring household to fit our family’s three-day stay, and the funeral room’s colorful emerald and indigo floors that somehow complemented the flatness of the open casket.

an original version of this birthday post applauded my 26th year on earth for teaching me resilience. i’m notorious for referring to patience as one of my favorite traits from 25, so i latched onto resilience to coast me through all of the moments i was extra patient. according to the american psychological association, it’s described as “the process and outcome of successfully adapting to difficult or challenging life experiences, especially through mental, emotional, and behavioral flexibility and adjustment to external and internal demands.” additionally, “a number of factors contribute to how well people adapt to adversities, predominant among them (a) the ways in which individuals view and engage with the world, (b) the availability and quality of social resources, and (c) specific coping strategies.”

my path of resilience in 2025 was paved by revolutionary optimism, visits to florida, fulfilling friendships, indica pre-rolls, and amc a-list. before the resilience is activated, a choked-up feeling in my throat creates an obstacle, both mentally and emotionally. “this feeling is familiar,” i told myself. it reappeared in stressful moments, like the time i was ambushed at work with a performance improvement plan or the day i received my fibroid diagnosis.

this feeling returned last april, as i recovered from a surgery that successfully removed a gigantic ovarian cyst. the operation left me with two less organs and endometriosis, and i understood how the body keeps score.

the first two weeks of recovery were quite awful. i had sleepless nights in my living room staring at my microwave’s clock until it reached something remotely close to sunrise. i answered several phone calls in tears, as it hurt to talk, laugh, swallow, or do anything besides sit and stare. my friends and roommates had an abundance of food prepared, only for my appetite to kindly tell them to fuck off. and on top of it all, it was hard to walk and squat, which i quickly realized i do a lot of both.

thanks to my loved ones, and the incoming theatrical release of sinners, i made it through the worst two weeks of my life. i was resilient. three months after my surgery, i was laid off from the job that i tirelessly devoted nine months to. i stayed resilient.

i refrain from questioning why all of these life-altering moments are happening to me, saying something along the lines of “well, life could be worse.” i could be incarcerated, the victim of a heinous circumstance, subjected to an unwanted pregnancy in an escapable state with a total abortion ban, or in a walnut cherry casket, too. comparing is useless, because there are always going to be worse things.

this invalidation of my lived experiences arrives at a time when the government is actively trying to kill us—especially us that are marginalized and predisposed to encounter police violence, environmental racism, or health disparities—in addition to the suppression of education through book bans, the removal of women and gender studies, or anti-protest bills that deem students and active community members as terrorists. how are we expected to make it to 27, let alone 70 during a time like this?

perhaps mortality is just always on my mind. i think about the 27 club and how 27 is such a young age to cease life, and i recall the hardships my friends in a close age group are facing. my mind flutters to the summer of 2020, where i participated in grassroots organizing in tallahassee, florida’s capitol. protesting against our elected officials in the beaming sun, occasionally catching the glance of an armed officer from the tallahassee police department on the roof of a building parallel to where we stand. i think about the young lives lost like tortuguita and toyin.

the act of continuing despite loss, heartbreak, and doubt is necessary to make it through hardships. i could credit this to the endless elementary school bible classes with fables of the old and new testament’s woeful heroes, maybe my perseverance fits more alongside the hours of fanfiction i read that reimagines tragedies into testimonies.

this year marks the ten year anniversary of solange’s a seat at the table. i love writing anniversary pieces, so i’ve been listening to this album incessantly, but that’s also been the case since it was released. now, i find myself able to relate to it more as i approach my saturn return.

from its opening track, solange instructs the listener to “fall in your ways, so you can crumble // fall in your ways, so you can sleep at night // fall in your ways, so you can wake up and rise,” and i recall repetition as one of my strongest safety nets that whisked me through my toughest moments in the last two years. heralded as a self- empowerment album, listening to a seat at the table truly manifests the best parts of one’s self. this is something master p introduced in the “the glory is in you interlude,” and it’s further explored in solange’s when i get home.

“cranes in the sky,” arguably solange’s magnum opus, is impossible to forget, as you truly get a better understanding of solange’s stance on how credit card debt, sex, love, and more won’t wash painful feelings away. in an interview with beyoncé for interview mag, she says something about the creation of this song that really stood out to me.

“you see the world through the lens of how you identify and have been identified at that time. so i really had to take a look at myself, outside of being a mother and a wife, and internalize all of these emotions that i had been feeling through that transition. i was working through a lot of challenges at every angle of my life, and a lot of self-doubt, a lot of pity-partying. and i think every woman in her twenties has been there—where it feels like no matter what you are doing to fight through the thing that is holding you back, nothing can fill that void.”

one of my friends shared that overcoming obstacles is in my dna, and those words have echoed through my mind. this series of life-altering moments in my twenties is inevitable, and i don’t know what grieving will evolve into. i hope mornings begin to feel less dull. i wish for my brain fog to disappear, just like the days of march that followed my birthday.

through these trials and tribulations—one of many biblical phrases my parents shared with me at a young age—i hold a paragraph from his obituary close: “despite the obstacles he faced, winfield grew into a man defined not by hardship, but by perseverance, humility, and grace. he lived each day with pride and courage, meeting life’s challenges with a steady spirit and a heart anchored in faith.”

my intuition anticipated my dad’s death during a significant event, whether it was my campus tour for lux, appearance at emerald city comic con, or birthday. when the first two came and went, i spent my birthday weekend with my loved ones to cushion the incoming blow—dancing across the floor of a packed bar, snuggling on my couch to watch sinners’ special live performance at the oscars, huddling in circles to smoke and giggle—just like i wanted to bring in the new year.

through the tears and exhaustion, there’s something waiting for me on the other side of this. maybe it’s just 28. maybe it’s an award or long awaited recognition for something credited to my five years in journalism that have shown me a skill that is only beginning to blossom. if you’re unaware, i’m writing a book that has taken me to three comic cons, and it’s been eye opening to meet tons of black fangirls who validate my experiences in fandom. outside of the book, i organized a multi-state campus tour for lux magazine to bring conversations about feminism, gender, and politics to oppressed college students. i just celebrated my third year in new york city. i’m living and achieving my goals and dreams, and it’s only the start. that’s the thing about resilience—it truly reveals itself when it’s needed.

today’s newsletter is inspired by the books i’m currently reading. this includes all about love by bell hooks, crying in h-mart by michelle zauner, self-care for grief by nneka m. okona, anywhere else by rachel knox, and alligator tears by edgar gomez. i admire these authors for sharing their vulnerable moments and internal monologues with the readers and for filling the silence in my mind over the last month. it encourages me to turn posts like this into memoir chapters. i’m grateful for my friends that supported me with thoughtful texts, calls, gifts, and visits. this difficult moment wouldn’t be tolerable if it weren’t for my family, especially my nieces and nephews and their parents. and of course, this is dedicated to my father. i’m convinced all of our bickering led to my path in journalism and expressing my feelings through words.

Share screaming into the void, but in lowercase