Post-Colonial Dreams of a NRI

Did you watch the episode about the Indian elections by Hasan Minaj on Netflix’s Patriot Act last week? What did you think?

I’m not going to lie, I cringed when Hasan first announced he was going to do this episode. He’s born in the US, and while he’s a cultured Desi, I always worry that someone who hasn’t grown up with all of the nuances will oversimplify what is happening in India, which is why I’m so happy to say that this episode was clearly well researched. I was waiting for him to give a one-sided tunnel vision viewpoint, but I’m pleased to say, he never did! He unpacked the issues surrounding the elections and described both Rahul Gandhi and Narendra Modi with an impartial sense of humor while providing a global context, which I can only imagine is extremely difficult to do given the time constraint. Hasan hit the nail on the head though when he said “Na dude, the British won.” My only critique of the episode is that I wish he unpacked that brilliant statement a little more.

That little dose of brilliance is why I’m writing this post today. The origins of so many of the world’s problems today can be traced back to colonization. Whether we’re talking about the creation of Israel after colonization of Palestine or dividing territory to create India and Pakistan, we begin to see the ramifications of colonization quite clearly. India gained it’s independence from the British in 1947, but we’ve carried that Master mentality originally imposed upon us well into the new century. The British stole India’s wealth certainly, but it also took something that still harms us to this day, our civility. Identity politics was essentially a mandate throughout the British Raj. They were known for socially engineering division within a country and fostering religious warfare within the society to retain power, so it should come as no surprise that the British favored the Partition. Divide and conquer is how they accrued all of their power.

The British envisioned Pakistan as a strategic vantage point against the Russians. It is easier to dominate over divided factions than a united adversary. All leaders involved during the Independence and the bloody Partition that followed handled the whole situation terribly. The incoming prime minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, was not the strong leader that India needed to bridge the divisions. The first governor-general of Pakistan, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, didn’t want the Muslims of India to be a minority, so he curried favor with the British and pushed for the partition to create a homeland for Muslims. Interestingly, he actually wanted a secular nation initially. The worst of all, however, was Lord Mountbatten, a naval officer rightly nicknamed the “master of disaster.” He was told by the British prime minister, Clement Attlee, in March 1947 to negotiate an exit deal with Indian leaders by October; if he could not, Britain would leave India with no deal by June 1948. Brexit has been creating problems long before it was a trending hashtag.

I’m assuming you know the background regarding the disputed territory of Kashmir, because I want to ask you to imagine if history had played out a little differently. What if Sardar Patel, the first Home Minister, was able to ensure Pakistan remained a part of the Republic like he did with Hyderabad. Hyderabad wanted to establish itself as an independent Islamic nation like Pakistan, but Sardar Patel stood his ground and persuaded them to join the Republic after an armed confrontation. The party that wanted to establish a Muslim Nation State is still a part of the makeup of the Indian democratic system today.

Imagine if the colossal rift between Jinnah and Gandhi never occurred, and instead they were able to negotiate a solution that was inclusive. Imagine if we had a leader that was able to transcend identity politics. This would spare the billions of rupees that both countries spend on guarding borders on one of the most hostile terrains. When I was growing up as a Hindu girl in India, I hated Pakistan and firmly believed Kashmir belonged to India. Honestly, it wasn’t until we moved to the U.S. and I developed meaningful relationships with my Pakistani friends that I was able to think critically about why I held those views. How could I hate an entire country without personally knowing anyone from there? My Pakistani American friends had a very similar upbringing to mine, I understood Urdu for the most part since it’s so similar to Hindi, they cooked with the same spices, and I felt naturally inclined to call the parents of those friends “Uncle” and “Auntie.”

In Ahmedabad, it seemed like everyone we knew had a story about someone they knew who had been wronged by a Muslim person. I know many stories about incidents that led to the reinforcement of stereotypes and painting of communities with a broad brush. I was surrounded by adults who did not see any nuance regarding Kashmir, so I didn’t see any grey area either. If you ask my mom today, she’ll tell you that she feels a sense of kinship running into a Pakistani person in the U.S. because the identities (religion) that prevented her from reaching out before, take a back seat to the challenges we collectively face in the U.S.

There are nearly insurmountable obstacles that stand in the way and I know the idea of reunification seems far-fetched, but perhaps we can develop another type agreement for peace instead. I am talking about the reunification of our minds more so than actual border lines. Until we see that our divisions were engineered and that our similarities far outweigh our differences, we’ll continue to dehumanize one another and waste resources on fueling the flame of hatred that was fanned by the British. This fire continues to be maintained by our corrupt governments to consolidate their own power, and until we find a real resolution to overcome our instincts to retreat into our own corner, we’ll continue to fulfill the objectives of the colonizers. Division is what they sought, so let’s stop giving it to them and chart our own path to peace.

The Truth about Identity

Identity.

It’s a loaded word when you think about what it entails; there are so many layers to it. Your personal identity includes the way you see yourself, and it’s intertwined with your self-image. It is important to each of us because it affects the way we feel about ourselves and how we behave in challenging situations. I’m writing this post because I’ve been thinking about my identity a lot, especially in the context of my husband, Mat’s, over the past few months. Mat requested I get him the African Ancestry genetic test for Christmas when I asked what he wanted a few months ago. He knows his parents moved here from Jamaica when they were young, but he doesn’t know where his forefathers came from.

I’ve thought about identity a lot ever since I met him because I was falling in love with someone who wasn’t Indian. I was worried that marrying someone who wasn’t Indian would make me lose my culture. Instead, I’ve noticed that it makes me want to understand the traditions at a deeper level so that I can explain it in a way that he and later, Ayaan, can understand and appreciate. I know it sounds somewhat counter-intuitive, but ever since my family moved to the U.S. from India, I always feel like I’m struggling to keep up with Indian culture, especially pop culture. When we first arrived at the suburbs of Pennsylvania, the other kids in my 5th-grade class made fun of my accent and imitated me when I turned my back to them. The British brought English with them when they colonized India so I, like most other kids in our social circles, attended an “English-medium” School before coming here. I knew the words, I just said them a little differently.

After being one of the popular kids in my class in India, I told myself they were teasing, and that they were my friends. I didn’t fully realize I was being ridiculed until another kid from India transferred to my school, and I saw how they treated him. I remember going home and repeating what I heard on TV until my accent sounded more like the kids I saw on there. Slowly, not only my accent but my language started fading. It wasn’t an active effort on my part since we always spoke Gujarati in the house. I know I should learn Gujarati beyond the 4th-grade level I was at when I left India, but I haven’t. I can still communicate with all of my family and to be honest, I’ve been rather lazy about it. All I know is that my Gujarati instantaneously improves as soon as I step off the plane in Ahmadabad, but I haven’t gone back in 7-years this January.

When it comes to traditions, I pick and choose what I want to celebrate. I love celebrating Diwali most of all the holidays. I remember we used to light firecrackers in the streets, on the terrace, pretty much EVERYWHERE, and it was AWESOME! I don’t get to do that over here, but I still like to celebrate. It’s the festival of lights, so I love putting lights up in some way, even if it’s just the flameless candles lighting up the stairs to our home and ordering Indian food to the house that night like we did this year.

Now, after Ayaan has come along, I love celebrating Janmashtami too. Dressing him up as baby Krishna is something I look forward to all year long. Lord Krishna was the human incarnation of Lord Vishnu, the preserver or sustainer aspect of God in Hinduism’s triumvirate. He fulfilled the premonition that said the 8th child born to Devaki, who was the sister of the wicked King Kansa, would possess divine powers and defeat him.

When I was in India, I loved celebrating Navratri (9 days of dancing late into the night) and Uttrayan (Kite festival) as well, but it’s just not the same celebrating here in the US in my opinion. Mat thinks that I’m more American than Indian just like he’s more American than Jamaican, but what he doesn’t realize is that I have more in common with his parents regarding our immigrant experience then I do with him. His dad and I were laughing and bonding over how excited we were when the more advanced toilet flushes came to our respective homelands during Christmas. Knowing the stories of my ancestors makes my identity that much richer. I have the blood of revolutionary leaders, progressive thinkers, teachers, innovators, loyal supporters, and most importantly, strong women, flowing through my veins. The caste or community I come from were originally the teachers or wise men whose quest it was to understand the true meaning of the Hindu scriptures and teach others. What I like the most is they were all different, but they were essentially good people whose primary objective was to ensure their basic necessities were met and to keep their family together.

I think these are the types of questions that Mat deliberates. We’ve had lengthy conversations about why he wants to know more about his roots. It frustrates him that the people who enslaved his ancestors are still able to rob him of his identity today. The consequences of robbing his predecessors of their identity generations ago impact him in a psychosomatic manner today. I can empathize with this because even though I know my roots, it still bothers me that the British robbed India of much of its wealth and showcased our jewels in their museums as treasures from their conquests. They were also the masters of the “divide and conquer” strategy; they socially engineered the cruel enforcement of the caste system with the inception of the “untouchables” as well as the divisive division between Hindus and Muslims. It’s not that these issues didn’t exist at all before, but the British weaponized it all in the quest for more money and power. I remember Mat telling me once that knowing his story only as far back as moving from Jamaica makes him feel like he only knows the small branches of his deep-rooted tree. He often fantasizes about being a descendant of Queen Nanny of the Maroons from Jamaica who valiantly led the forces in opposition to the British in the 18th century.

I hope these test results coupled with visits to the areas where Mat’s forefathers were robbed of their identities will help him make some peace with what transpired after that. While he can’t change the past, I firmly believe that knowing the root of his family’s fortitude and resilience may inspire him to unlock his potential further. “Because of them, We can.” His ancestors’ strength and sacrifice brought him and his family into this world; that’s a story worth knowing in my opinion. It’s not about the detailed content of the story as much as it is about how it’s told. I know I can’t wait to take Ayaan to India and help him develop a love for the beauty and imperfections of my culture and motherland. In the same vein, I want Mat to be able to explain the rich history of his people to Ayaan, the good and the bad.

One of the first things I want to do when we get to India is taking Ayaan to my maternal grandfather’s statue in Khambhat, the town where I was born. I never had the opportunity to meet my grandfather, but I think we would share a strong bond in our desire to work toward creating a more equal and just society. We wouldn’t agree on everything because I know he preferred the measured approach whereas I want to work to manifest the future we wish to see today. “If the eventual goal is the same, then what’s the holdup? Let’s tackle the obstacle and keep it moving,” I imagine myself saying to him. I can also imagine Mat and Ayaan traveling together to Jamaica and wherever else to fill in the gaps of their shared history once he’s a little older. These are all just fantasies as of now, but what I know I don’t want for Ayaan is to feel like he has to choose between being African American or Indian American. Both cultures are rich and a part of his identity. I want him to love and appreciate both.

There is also a dark underbelly to the concept of identity that we don’t talk or hear about too often, but it’s something worth noting and contemplating. The drive to protect your identity can be overpowering. Sometimes we can get so caught up in this that we neglect other important things: like being open-minded, truth-seeking, and kind to others. It’s hard to think clearly and objectively about something that you identify strongly with, and I think this is the driving force behind a lot of conflict in the world. Sometimes people take labels and end up confusing them with their identity. Democrat, Republican, White, Black, and the list goes on and on. I’ve personally been struggling with keeping an open mind when it comes to identity and politics as of late. The perfect example of this darkness is bringing religion into an online forum or conversation. It can quickly degenerate into a religious war because it taps into the other person’s identity. It is an enlightening moment when you understand that your identity is who you are at your core before the world has its way with you and cloaks you with labels.

I am currently in the process of uncloaking myself of the labels that hold me back. It can be painful yet empowering to do so. Writing my previous post about my MS was a part of my uncloaking. What are some labels that hold you up from being your true self? Share them in the comments below.✌🏽🙏🏽

Living with Chronic Pain

This post is about a highly sensitive topic for me. It’s sensitive because I don’t like to dwell on it for too long. It’s as much a part of my life now as the air that I breathe. For a long time, I became very emotional anytime someone brought it up. It’s true what they say, when you’re diagnosed with an illness that you will be battling for the rest of your life, you go through the five stages of grief. A part of me was left behind atthat moment in time. When I was 25, I felt like I was going to live forever. I never contemplated my mortality until all of this began. I’d mourned the loss of my grandmother who became paralyzed after a fall, but this was different, I was mourning my innocence. Now, after having reached the stage of acceptance and also because my current medication, Tysabri, suits me exceptionally well, I can say with humility and gratitude, that I would not alter my diagnosis. I say this with certainty because the diagnosis set off a chain of events that enabled me to grow into the person that I am today, and I truly like today.

I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) in the summer of 2012. It took me a long time to accept this diagnosis because I tested positive for Lyme simultaneously. My symptoms started with vertigo and dizziness on my flight to visit my best friend in Milwaukee. I enjoyed hiking and camping quite a bit at that time, so Lyme just seemed to be a more appropriate fit. Today, I’m much more hesitant to go camping after everything that’s happened, but breathing fresh,unadulterated air and looking upon the beauty of nature will always feel magical to me.

Diagnostic confusion associated with MS is relatively common. Multiple Sclerosis literally means“scar tissues in multiple areas.” In other words, I have multiple lesions in my brain. The areas where there is no myelin or a lack of myelin are called plaques or lesions. The label does not provide any additional context about the root cause for these lesions. My neurologist agreed that we needed to go through the proper course of treatment for Lyme, but he sensed this was something more. Infused antibiotics alone were not going to address what was going on with my body.

The MRI showed inflammation in my brain and in spite of being treated for Lyme, I had a relapse. I believe this is why they say everyone’s MS is different. Everyone’s root cause is slightly different, so the manifestations are as well. This whole process has helped me learn to accept that which I cannot control. I’m still learning that I won’t always have clear answers to all my questions in life, and that’s okay. This is an important lesson for everyone living with chronic pain because our only other option is to fixate on the unknown and stress about it, but that can only worsen the situation since stress is the biggest trigger for flare-ups.

My first relapse has been the worst one to date. My neurologist wanted to start me on corticosteroids to address my symptoms of imbalance, muscle weakness, numbness, and tingling in my extremities, but I’d gone to Chicago to meet with two of my aunt’s colleagues to make sure I was given the proper diagnosis before I started the course of treatment. My family operates like a well-oiled machine when it comes to providing support, especially medical support since there are so many doctors among us. At one point, humbled by the love and level of support, I mapped out our family tree with everyone’s strengths and concludedthat together, with our networks, we could address not only issues that arise in our family, but the world at large.

As soon as I started having symptoms and told my mom, she immediately called her older sister, an anesthesiologist, who subsequently phoned up her colleagues to get me appointments with renowned specialists in Chicago at no charge. These doctors looked at my scans, did some tests, and agreed with my neurologist in DC after speaking with me about my symptoms at length. The whole family was a lot more comfortable with the diagnosis now. However, the delay in treatment worsened my symptoms to the point where I could no longer feel my right leg or arm and had a lot of difficulty walking.

I was rolled onto and off the flight back to DC in a wheelchair, an experience that left a lasting impression on me. It was the first time I looked at people who didn’t see me; they only saw my disability. It’s not that anyone was rude, it was more about how they interacted with me. No one spoke with me unless it was necessary because I think the wheelchair made them uncomfortable and when they did, they spoke to me like I was a child with a look of pity in their eyes as if the wheelchair lowered my IQ. I made a promise to myself to never look at anyone in this manner and to learn their story instead of imposing my own fears into how I interacted with them.

The thing about firsts is that you don’t fully know what to expect, so you start imagining the worst-case scenarios. Now that I had a diagnosis, the Googling began. The internet is a mirror in many ways. It reflects what you bring with you, so it can be a dangerous wormhole that will provide you with a lot of scary results you should probably avoid with a vague diagnosis like MS just as easily as it can provide you with stories of hope and perseverance depending on your state of mind. My doctor told me to do what I could to avoid stress during and post recovery. My glass half full personality was about to be put to the ultimate test. I didn’t know how I was going to avoid stress when the federal contract funding my job was coming to an end and the drama from my previous relationship was still ongoing. I was on short-term medical leave from work and felt like the walls were crumbling around me.

The two-week course of steroid infusions I was prescribedsent me on the wildest roller coaster ride of emotions. This ride was coupled with insomnia and a consistent metallic taste in my mouth to make matters worse. My parents and my sister were walking on eggshells around me because anything could set me off like the time, I threw all of the food my mom cooked for me out simply because she asked me what I ate earlier that day and made a comment about me needing to eat healthier now. I knew I needed to change my eating habits, but I could not stand to hear anything negative even if it was true. I took staying positive as a mandate that needed to be protected with rage and aggression. I did not have any filter for the time being; it was like I had no control over what I said.

I remember purposefully picking up telemarketing calls so I could listen to someone talk about mundane things that had nothing to do with MS like the weather or whatever they were selling. I had long conversations with them only to tell them I wasn’t interested in purchasing their product at the end of our call. My family banded together and turned me into their all-hands-on-deck mission. I insisted on maintaining my independence and continuing to live by myself in my studio apartment in Dupont Circle which meant they were all taking turns to come to take care of me. The highs on steroids made me feel like I’d taken ecstasy and discovered the meaning of life while the lows had me feeling like my existence had no purpose, and I found myself holding my breath underwater in the tub while deliberating whether it was worth going up for air. The only thing that calmed me during that time was pouring all of my energy into and focusing on drawing or painting. It’s difficult to keep ruminating on your problems when you’re focused on creating, and if your problems stay with you, you can incorporate them into your creations. I believe this is why I loved drawing images of Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, at this time. It helped me to be completely engaged to the point of being in a near-meditative state.

The neurologist tapered me off with oral steroids after the infusions ended. I was able to walk now, but the mood disturbances that I experienced with the infusions began to spiral downward into a depression. I was warned this might occur by my doctor, but I was still caught by surprise when it started because it’s not like the symptoms were vastly different from what I was already experiencing. It pained me to get out of bed and I had insomnia before as well, but the emotional breakdowns and crying spells were new. I was so focused on curbing my rage after the steroid infusions ended that I didn’t pay attention tomy deteriorating mental state. I became so accustomed to putting on an act for everyone’s benefit that I could barely tell what was real at that point. I knew that my parents and sister were always worried about me, so I did my best to assure them I was doing okay. It was a consistent internal battle. I just wanted to run away and be in solitude, so I wouldn’t have to worry about interacting with anyone. What I failed to realize is that my family was going through all of this with me too. I was making it worse for them by not opening up to them, especially my Mom.

Friends and family, near and far, visited and flooded my inbox with messages of love, concern, and hope when they heard about what was going on. I had tremendous levels of support; I could not have asked for anything more. I didn’t want to make it public knowledge by posting to my social media because I was still feeling so much that I didn’t know how to put any of it into words and I didn’t want anyone’s pity. I had friends of all faiths praying for my well-being, so I figured I was covered as far as God was concerned. I consider myself to be a spiritual person; I started practicing meditation during this time to calm myself during my manic or depressive states. I believe all religions have something I can learn from, and it’s not a competition. Even though I was raised a Hindu, I relished in the opportunity to understand a religion that is not my own a little better. Worship and religion are cultural from my point of view. Practicing faith and believing in a better tomorrow is a choice we make every single day so whatever you do to make that choice is your prerogative.

Legacy is not something you think about too much at 25, but I was becoming obsessed. How was I going to be remembered? I wanted to take the time during my medical leave to figure out what I was meant to do here on earth. I read E.F. Schumacher’s “Small is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered” and felt inspired to do something to address the “casino capitalism” that plagued our planet. I’m an Economist by study, but I never wanted to work as a traditional economist because I think the underlying assumption that humans are rational is inherently flawed. Emotions drive my decisions much more than rational thought.

I reached out to my friend that I met in DC who started an NGO working with youth internationally to train them in Entrepreneurship and my cousin who had been inspired to start a company to help organizations monetize their carbon credits to curb carbon emissions. I asked them if I could help them with their respective missions because I wanted my legacy to be about developing communities of stakeholders to progress toward a more sustainable future. It was important to me to keep my mind occupied and inspired. I was desperately trying to find something that made life worth living and what better way to do that then to help others. Both of them knew what was going on and wanted to keep me engaged in their endeavors so they started sending me material to read over and asked for my input throughout the remainder of my medical leave.

The next item on the list of to-dos for MS was to find a medication that suited me. I tried Copaxone followed by Rebif for a few months, which are both injections you have to self-administer. I had mild flare-upswith both; I experienced imbalance and numbness in my extremities again. The follow-up MRI showed the inflammation was spreading, so my doctor recommended I try a new pill that was on the market, Tecfidera. It came with a lot of hype and fanfare in the MS world. I was pleased to hear about it since it meant I would no longer have to inject myself. He was also able to confirm that the type of MS I have is called Relapsing-Remitting MS (RRMS), which happens to be the most manageable type of MS affecting 80% of all MS patients. My depression was ongoing, but I was on medication for it. It made it easier to get out of bed, but I didn’t feel like anything was fixed. All it did was numb me to my emotional pain. I was merely going through the motions of life. I was still spending time with family and friends, but I wasn’t fully present.

One day in early December of 2012, I decided to take a break from my pity party to attend my friend, Ricky’s birthday party. He loved to have a good time and I knew dancing at Napoleon’s late night was his favorite, which was exactly what I was looking for that night. I wanted a night off from thinking about my problems. I will celebrate this day for the rest of my life now because this night was also the beginning of the rest of my life in some ways; I met my husband, Mat, that night.

I told Mat I had MS toward the end of our first official date a week later because I didn’t want to mislead him. He lived in Baltimore, andI knew I wasn’t going to travel up there too often with everything going on in my life, so I wanted to be honest and leave it up to him. He didn’t have any overt reactionwhen I told him; he just responded by saying he doesn’t know much about it buthas an aunt that has it and that he would look into it further. He also asked me what the worst that could happen is and I told him if it becomes progressive, then I could become paralyzed. He responded with a smirk saying “So you’re saying you’d finally start moving as fast as me since I’d be pushing you around in your wheelchair?” I started laughing because I remembered I was complaining that he was walking too fast the night we first met and that he needed to be more considerate of my short legs and that I was wearing heels. I didn’t know what type of reaction I was expecting, but this was the best kind. I didn’t know if this would turn into anything serious then, but I knew I wanted him in my life. He was a wonderful listener; I loved his temperament and his passion for his work. Our relationship still has its ups and downs today like any other couple, but the MS is not the focal point. It’s become a part of his life too, and he has to work at living with it just like I do.

I’d gone back to work a few weeks before the birthday party and was trying to stay positive while things were wrapping up. I didn’t have anything lined up following the end of the contract. I was monitoring the debate about the Affordable Care Act in Congress closely because I didn’t want to force myself to join the corporate world. I wanted to work with my friends who started the NGO or my cousin who started the company, but they didn’t have sufficient health insurance options, and I knew I needed good health insurance now. I started looking at places I might want to apply to, but I didn’t know if the MS was something I should tell future employers about or not. The large consulting firms ask if you have a disability in their online application and list MS as one of the examples of disabilities. They provide “I do not wish to answer” as an option, but isn’t that the same as saying yes? Even though they clarify that my response will not be a factor that is taken into consideration when they’re reviewing my application, then why do they ask? I had MS, but I wasn’t disabled.

I found myself having difficulty concentrating at work. One day, I started seeing spots in front of my eyes and had to lay my head down because I was so fatigued. I booked an appointment with my neurologist for the following day where he told me Tecfidera was clearly not as effective as he’d hoped since I was having additional symptoms that I didn’t previously have. He told me about another medication, Tysabri, that was proven to be very effective, but it came with a higher risk, so he liked to use it as a last resort. This medication increases your risk of getting a rare brain infection called progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy (PML) that usually leads to death or severe disability. I tested negative for the precursor of PML, JCV-virus, so I was given the green light to begin. It’s an infusion that I receive every 28 days.

As I look back on my MS journey, I see it filled with blessings along the way. ACA ended up getting signed into law, and I was able to pursue the path I wanted to create for myself. I was able to get affordable insurance that covered my pre-existing condition through the open market and work on the projects that inspired me. I met my husband who loves me unconditionally and helped me create my son, the little person who lights up my day every single day. I was able to cultivate a more honest relationship with my parents, and my family is closer than ever. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I know that I have all of my ingredients necessary to face it.

I didn’t write this to say everything is perfect. I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. I’m still searching for my mission. At my last infusion, one of the nurses accidentally told me I was JCV positive which meant the chances of me contracting PML were significantly higher. Even though it was an accident and she clarified that she read it wrong just a few minutes later, it was a wake-up call that scared me so much that I’m going to meet with my doctor to discuss alternative options for treatment. I’m tested for the virus regularly, but now I have a son, and I don’t want to take any risks. I’d rather deal with the symptoms than leave his life too early.

Image may contain: 3 people, including Matthew Oral, people smiling

I wanted to share all of this because I know there are many others out there who are struggling with chronic pain and don’t see an end in sight. I wanted to let you know that you are not alone and that your pain makes you stronger mentally and emotionally. We have the unique ability to empathize with everyone around us fully. It’s not easy, especially because the darkness of depression makes it difficult to stay positive when life by society’s measure seems so gloomy, but we don’t need to live by anyone else’s measure. You know your limits. Don’t feel like you have to conquer every challenge. It can be tough sometimes to get through what others without chronic pain deem to be simple tasks.

Most importantly, don’t suffer in silence. You don’t have to be superhuman; it’s difficult enough to be ourselves. We can create our own measures of success in life. For me, success is just living and not allowing my illness to define me.

Bearing Witness to ‘Bloom’

This post, my first post, is about a divine messenger of strength, authenticity, and peace. This messenger also happens to be my husband, father to our almost 2 yr — old, and musician known as Mateyo. I have been privy to witness not only the inception and creation of ‘Bloom,’ but also the blooming of Mat as an artist in his own right. One day, on our drive down to Virginia Beach, Mat told me to open the Notes app on my phone because we were going to write a song together. With no experience in songwriting, he played the beat and asked me how it made me feel. He asked me to elaborate or summarize what I said and provided me with guidance on how to make my thoughts fit with the beat. I’ll never forget that ride down to the beach because we wrote ‘Optix’ together that day. To know Mateyo is to see the embodiment of all dreams coming together in the end if you work hard, practice patience, and trust the process.

Mat started playing drums at his church in New Rochelle, NY when he was only 9. His mom has shared multiple photos and stories about how he’d always be banging on some surface with his hands, utensils or anything else that remotely resembled drumsticks. I’m thinking it was because his synesthesia showed him the colors of the sounds he was making. Throughout his 20-year musical journey, he’s done everything from play in his high school jazz and marching bands to pit bands for Toby’s dinner theatre and ArtsCentric to local Baltimore rock/indie bands. Without any formal education in Music, he not only taught himself how to read and write it, but would stay up into the night teaching himself how to compose beats using recording software because he knew he wanted to go beyond mastering drums and emulate artists that inspired him like Quincy Jones and Pharrell. He’s been making beats since the days of Myspace but his desire to be more than “the drummer” led him to start producing for all types of genres.

After pursuing music for more than 20 years, it takes a genuinely passionate person like Mat to continue giving it his all given the unstable nature of the industry. He’s not impervious to the fact that his quest is not a guarantee. One thing that always stands out to me and reaffirms that he is following his true calling is that it doesn’t matter if it’s a 30-minute DJ set or an entire night’s entertainment, he practices as diligently and methodically for each. He works at it until he can ensure it’s up to his standards which tend to go far beyond accepted norms.

Mat tried to tell me that he wasn’t as interested in taking on the role of the artist as he was in helping others realize their vision while configuring sounds behind the scenes for a while. I didn’t buy it for a second because to know Mat is also to know he stands firm in his authentic truth. He’ll work with and listen to input from others, but in the end, he separates himself from those who don’t inspire him to push his art to the next level. I’ve seen this happen time and time again throughout the six years that we have been together. I know he will never be able to walk away from his true calling.

Take some time to listen to the full album because all of the tracks flow together like a river. My favorite from this album is obviously ‘Panda.’ When he first let me hear the song and probably 30 times after, my eyes welled up with tears of happiness. Like I tell my husband, I am a good gauge of the average consumer of music. I want to feel and be moved by the music, but I don’t want to spend time trying to understand the intricacies nor do I want to learn to appreciate it eventually. One play and I either vibe with it or don’t. Bloom is just that. It gives you All the feels. It is the perfect soundtrack for any drive or any commute really because you get lost in the music and stop counting the minutes till you reach your destination. Bloom is Mat’s reflective journey while beckoning the listener to contemplate their own and leaves just enough space to engage in dialogue.

You can listen to it using all streaming services including Spotify and Apple Music. You can also follow Mat on Instagram @producedbymateyo. Let me know what you think of it below!