Soft rebellion does not always begin with walking away, burning everything down, or announcing a new life. Sometimes it begins quietly, with noticing what hurts, questioning what we have normalized, and peeling back the identities we created to survive.

This book, this book, this book.

Do you feel the exasperation in my words?

I have cried more over this book than I cried after breaking up with my first love in middle school. And yes, I wrote that boy a letter quoting Karyn White’s “Superwoman.” Apparently, twelve-year-old me already believed heartbreak required a soundtrack, a thesis statement, and supporting evidence.

He took the letter, read it and shrugged.

Two days later, I saw him with a girl from the class next door and decided I would never cry over him again.

This book, however, has refused to leave me alone.

My book is forcing me to confront the identities I have relied on to survive. It is asking me to slow down, stop reshaping the story every time I become uncomfortable, trust my thoughts and stand ten toes down on what I actually want to create.

Perhaps that is why I keep returning to Aguzani Ekalam, the mother of my main character, Nkechi.

Aguzani is a fierce director of the CDAT Terraforming Division, a woman with a mysterious history rooted in memory, warfare, and survival. To keep her family safe, she has learned to maintain a carefully controlled facade. She watches what she says, measures what she reveals, and carries her truth beneath layers of duty, authority, and protection. She trusts herself, a feat not easily achieved in a bureaucratic technocracy.

But the problem with a facade is that even the most intuitive person can lose sight of what lies beneath it. After wearing it long enough, it can become difficult to remember where the performance ends and the person begins.

I understand that more than I would like to admit.

Like Aguzani, I know what it means to become the capable one, the accommodating one, the problem-solver, the person who keeps moving even when she is tired. Those identities served a purpose. They helped me survive.

But this book, my book, keeps asking me whether the version of myself that got me here is also the version capable of carrying me forward.

Apparently, the planets have decided to ask the same question.

Because while I am sitting here wrestling with my book, my characters, and every identity I have ever used as emotional scaffolding, the cosmos is peeling back layers of its own.

Take a few minutes and imagine that every version of you is hanging in a closet.

There is the responsible one.

The strong one.

The peacemaker.

The fixer.

The overachiever.

The one who never asks for help.

The one who keeps everyone comfortable.

The one who says, “I’m fine,” while internally setting the building on fire.

Choose one identity you have worn for a long time and write its name at the top of the page.

Then ask:

Now write a short note to that version of yourself.

Thank them for what they helped you survive.

Tell them what you no longer need them to carry.

And decide whether this identity belongs in your current wardrobe, needs to be altered, or can finally be donated to the ancestors.

Finish with this sentence:

I am allowed to outgrow the version of me that once kept me safe.

I honor every version of myself that helped me survive. I release the roles that no longer allow me to live fully.