Execute the Life

I used to think

life was a courtroom—

every year a verdict,

every birthday

a quiet whisper asking:

Did you fail?

But failure, I learned,

is often just a dream

left sitting politely

on a shelf,

while fear pours tea

for doubt.

Most people

do not fail.

They hesitate.

They circle their calling

like a hawk

that forgot

it was born

with wings.

Listen.

If you want to own a company,

do not debate destiny

at the dinner table.

Sit down with your pen

like a woman

building a house,

and draft the blueprint

of your belief.

If you want a partner,

do not wander lonely streets

complaining love

has poor timing.

Close your eyes.

See the laughter

in your future kitchen.

See the patience

in their voice.

Then walk boldly

into rooms

where that kind

of love lives.

If you want to sing—

write the song.

Let the truth

in your chest

find rhythm

on paper.

Carry your trembling courage

into a studio.

If you want to dance—

baby, join the troupe.

Let your feet remember

what joy sounds like

on a wooden floor.

Because we are not

the things we imagine

while scrolling past

someone else’s courage.

We are not

the criticism

we place

on the backs

of dreamers.

No.

We are what we execute.

The prayer you wrote.

The step you took.

The door you knocked on

with faith in your hand

and your grandmother’s spirit

in your spine.

I am a Black woman

who learned this late—

and learned it well.

Dreams do not bloom

from conversation.

They bloom

from movement,

from conviction,

from the holy audacity

to live the life

your soul

already signed

its name to.