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Close your eyes for a moment and go back to your grandmother's kitchen. Maybe it was in Port-au-Prince. Maybe it was in Savannah. Maybe it was in a small apartment in Brooklyn that somehow always smelled like something good was on the stove. You walked in and she was already there, moving with a certainty that came not from a cookbook, but from decades of knowing. She did not measure. She did not hesitate. She just knew. And if you were lucky, if you were paying attention,

February 7, 1986. People poured into the streets of Port-au-Prince before dawn. Men wept. Women held their children toward the sky. Someone’s grandmother, who had never danced in public, danced. After 29 years of Duvalier terror, after 30,000 souls swallowed by darkness, after the systematic looting of our national dignity, we thought we were finally free.

January does not knock gently. It arrives with questions that penetrate the comfortable narratives we've constructed about ourselves. What will you carry forward? What must you finally release? Who will you choose to become when no one is watching?