#findingmyvoice

[ml-mokonyama]

It's My Destiny

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It was exactly a year ago when I finally came out to my family, my friends and some of my classmates knew or suspected I don’t know I never asked , I wasn’t hiding the fact that I am gay but I was also low key, being considerate to the family business and just avoiding being in the media.

But my family as usual never suspected anything until I called a meeting, It was before my prom night and I was planning to go with my then boyfriend so I had no choice but to come clean, being a son of a very wealthy man means everything and anything about you is a scoop.

My father’s reaction is something that tears me up and cracks me up all at the same time. He told me, I quote “Siphosethu Kevin Khumalo, stop following every trend you see in the media my son, just stop it. First you dye your hair with weird colours now you say you are gay, when will it end” to him my sexuality is a trend im following, something I can change like a hair style or hair colour, he doesn’t take it serious at all. Then he went on and blamed my mother for raising me wrong, for spoiling me too much and not letting me be a man, but then it’s a norm in this house when we are wrong or doing something against dearest daddy’s wishes we are our mothers child, but when we are getting trophies and awards we are true Khumalos.

As I look outside the window right after the pilot announced that we will be arriving at OR Tambo airport in 20 minutes I become more nervous, I know I should be excited to see my family after one whole year being apart from them, but I know If they cannot accept my decisions they might cut me off permanently and Imay not even see them ever again.

Let me give you a little intro of my family, the Khumalos own one of the biggest black owned law firms in south Africa, everyone in my family is an attorney or an advocate my grandparents are advocates, my great grandparents were also advocates, my dad,my mom,my aunts and uncles from my father’s side, and they all work for the family business, my sister just finished her articles and she’s a junior lawyer at the company too, and she’s married to a popular politician’s son, But that’s Lungile she enjoys this life and I am okay with it as long as she’s happy. In my family everything is a business transaction, you cannot marry random, it’s about power and status.

And here I am engaged to a graphic designer from the UK who just landed his first job in South Africa, and that’s not the only news I will be breaking to my family I got a scholarship to study fashion design at CTCFD ( Cape Town College of Fashion Design), the most prestigious school in the fashion industry, I am blessed right, a loving fiancé someone who decided to leave his home, his country of birth, just to be with me, a scholarship in one of the best schools in south Africa yet I’m not happy instead I wish this plane can just turn back I will continue living with my aunt and me and Harry can continue the way we were. Oh ya he’s white, just imagine the drama!My dad is going to kill me but Harry thinks he’s probably over the fact that I’m gay now and the only problem will be the fact that I don’t want to study law. He clearly doesn’t know my father, all he’s expecting is a straight son who’s ready to wear black gowns all his life trying to solve cases.

That is not me I want to work with the likes of David Tlale, and Gert Coetze, I want to dress people celebrities I’m all about the glitz and glamour, as we are about to land at OR Tambo, Harry squeezes my hand he can see the worry on my face.

To continue or not to continue??

[mama-first]

Nesting

“I feel threatened by her.” “She moved out February 21st, the day my daughter was born.” “She is the one who decided to end things.” I listened to all of these things, as I stared blankly at the table. With deep breaths, I reminded myself that an outburst would not be worth jeopardizing time with my daughter. Her father is still angry with me, and a distant part of me is flooded with relief.

As our time together lengthened, his ability-or willingness, I suppose- to show emotion withered away. One afternoon, after he had slithered back to work from his lunch break, I decided to break into unopen boxes of baby gear-screaming for me to assemble it. Anytime I had mentioned doing so, he shrugged it off-insisting that I wait until his days off so he can do it. Insisting that I don’t strain my life-bearing body doing it on my own. As per usual, his days off came and went, and the boxes were left untouched. Our house-his house, as I refer to it now-would be ready for our daughter’s arrival.

By the time he was home, her clothes had been washed, folded, and separated by size. The play pen had been assembled, and moved throughout the living room until I found the perfect place for it. I had fastened the carseat base into my car, after giving up a few times reading the instructions. Her stroller was even ready, and I was well on my way to finishing her swing.

He clambered in through the door, grumbling at the boxes around the living room. I sat on the floor, struggling to hold up 2 large pieces as I tried using a Phillips to fasten them together. Muttering under his breath, he took the screwdriver, and finished the swing for me. His son was in the shower, and his singing filled the awkward void between us-dulling the edge of his distain towards me.

I thanked him, my voice quiet and filled with apology-for what, I do not know. He pushed the swing into the empty spot I had cleared, and plopped himself on the couch. It took every bit of energy within me to get up off the floor, clinging to the arm rest of the couch. I, reluctantly, ask him for help with the boxes-knowing that I had already done too much, and the stairs to the basement would take a large toll on my body. My heart raced-as it always did when I knew I wouldn’t like his response-and I started to gather the trash that I had piled beside the large boxes.

His voice is quiet, yet defined. He never had a need to yell, he had the ability to make me feel small with the silence that often boomed around us. My heart dropped into my stomach as he spoke, telling me that he just wanted to relax and that I should have just waited until he was ready to put everything together. He kicked his shoes off, and reclined his seat as if to tell me his decision wasn’t up,for discussion. I inhaled deeply, shoving the trash into one of the smaller boxes, and ignoring a cramp in my hip. I hauled the boxes to the basement, and there was one thought that ran through my mind as I hiked back into the house.

“What are we showing our children by living this way?”

[mama-first]

A Choice To Be Made...

The silence is abnormal… Nothing but the whirring of a fan. I can finally get the dryer going, straighten up around the house; I almost don’t know what to do when I’m finished. And there it is…. The only sound that is a surefire way to attract my attention. My daughter is crying. I go to her crib, slip her pacifier into her mouth, pull her into my arms, and hum “You Are My Sunshine” to her as she slowly drifts back to sleep.

She has given me the most challenging, yet rewarding, 6 months of my life. I never expected motherhood to be easy-I knew better, as I have had the privilege of a beautiful 7 year old boy calling me mom, and accepting me into his life. I, however, had not anticipated doing any of this on my own.

Being a single mom is a choice, but it was undoubtedly the hardest decision I have ever had to make. My heart broke the moment I left my family behind. Yes, I was the one who left. Why? I was broken. I could no longer comfortably be myself.

My boyfriend and I were so estranged that I would be more comfortable changing in a high school locker room. I was afraid to speak-not because I was afraid of what he would say or do, but because I could not bear to put myself through the deafening silence that would ensue. Even worse? The boy I had accepted as my own, the one who taught me to embrace motherhood, had been taught to undermine me. The boy who dressed up like Harry Potter with me, asked me to tuck him in every night, and came to me before his dad (because he knew who was truly there for him), no longer respected me.

I had lost all dignity as a mother, woman, and human being. I didn’t know who I was anymore. All I knew was that I could not allow my daughter to grow up thinking that it would ever be acceptable to allow somebody to strip her of every layer that made her who she was.

So yes, I left. I left so I could have even the slightest chance of finding myself again. I left, 39 weeks deep into pregnancy, so I could become the mother that my daughter deserved. I left so that her father might possibly learn to be the father he should have been all along.

It was the hardest decision of my life. I find myself crying, 6 months later, because my family is now broken. And you know what? I don’t regret it one bit.

[callmenoona247]

A year in Space

Exactly a year ago today, I was laid off. April 8, 2025 my boss called me into a zoom meeting that I wasn’t surprised about. Especially since my boss’ boss had called a meeting in December warning us it may happen. She called to our attention that a whole department had been laid off and moved to India. That if anyone who likes to prepare to feel safe that getting your resume in order was a good…

[naomimoorewrites]

Oh, Hello There

Hello, I didn't see you there. What's your name? Oh that's an awesome name - it really suits you. You can call me Naomi Moore 🌿 You would like to know a little about me? I am so flattered

I'm 24-year-old artist, writer, and dreamer. My creative journey is all about exploring emotion, the nonsense we call living, and building a world better than the one I was born into. Here, you’ll find snippets of my literary voice as I discover it—short stories, musings, and moments rich with emotion and turmoil.

Stick around if you’re into storytelling, art as advocacy, or just want to feel something.

[mohawkhyena]

I want to share something meaningful with you all. Tumblr has been more than just a website for me—it's been a sanctuary, a place where I found solace amidst the turmoil. In those days, I'd lose myself in tattoo pictures, punk designs, and gothic aesthetics. It was my escape, especially during the darkest times when I was enduring abuse at home as a child.

Now, a decade later, I've come a long way. Despite the hardships, I've found my passion in tattooing. It's been a journey marked by struggles, but also by the support of my amazing girlfriend—who embodies the beauty and strength of the gothic Tumblr girls I admired back then.

I want to reach out to the world and to my younger self, the sixteen-year-old who made promises to herself amidst the chaos. I want her to know that I'm fulfilling those promises now. And as I find myself back on Tumblr, I want to showcase my work to the world and to that younger version of me, to make her proud of who I've become.

I've left my Instagram handle here for anyone interested in checking out my work and spreading some love. Thank you all for your support!

IG:@idiliotattootales

[therealstarrc]

Black Lives Matter. In finding my community, I've discovered strength, resilience, and a voice that refuses to be silenced. This movement is not just a call for equality; it's a declaration of our worth, a testament to our shared humanity. Together, we stand against injustice, amplifying our voices until they can no longer be ignored. I've found my community, and in doing so, I've found the power to make change.

[pmcguffin]

The women in the kitchen…

The Wednesday night Bible study was moved to Thursday nights. We boarded the “home-groups” train that was trending in those days, and we were grouped according to which Elder’s house was proximal to ours.  Logistics, naturally -the Elders were engineers.

I was impatient for that first meeting.  This Catholic girl gets a little unnerved by those Sunday services where the preacher reads a Bible verse, then fiercely expounds on it, sometimes with an intensity that yanks him out of his jacket in his frenzy over all that hellfire and damnation. Nope, all that fired-up hollering from the pulpit never edified my spirit.  I longed for a calm, contemplative study where exchanging ideas and perspectives would enrich our spirits and foster closer friendships among this earnest little band of Bible scholars.

Thursday came.  I stepped into a spacious living room, settled on a large floor pillow, and rested against an ottoman.  The atmosphere was casual and subdued; it felt pretty good.  After the initial prayer, we opened our Bibles to the chapter of focus in the study, and before I knew it, I was happily engaged in a lively discussion.  One deacon leaned my way as he spoke, inviting me into a dialogue. He was erudite and eloquent, with a keen intellect and a wonderful sense of humor -I genuinely liked him.  Never condescending, he offered his perspectives while validating mine as we looked to the practical applications of the scriptures at hand, and I appreciated his wisdom.  It was good, to feel connected and valid. The moment was short-lived.

Once the meeting was over, the women retreated to make coffee. The men remained. I stayed until I noticed a raised brow with a directional glance toward the kitchen. Oh. I got it. I stood and slipped through the door to find the Women in the Kitchen caught up in animated chatter about diaper rash ointment and -I kid you not- whether it is worth the effort to wash and reuse plastic sandwich baggies. It was made clear that my input was irrelevant when I was told that until I have a baby, I "can’t possibly understand..." anything apparently.  I understood this:  the Women in the Kitchen were not my tribe.

Easing back into the living room, I sidled onto the sofa armrest.  The men were discussing the current socio-political climate, the Church’s place in the world at large, practical ways we could best minister to our community, and whether to address our need for more space by expanding or moving... the big picture. 

Creative ideas, some lofty goals, and a good measure of healthy debate were happening in that living room full of men, with me precariously perched on an armrest -the only woman not in the kitchen.  They didn’t miss a beat.  No one noticed.  None of the men moved to make room for me on that sofa.  Not one.  Yet, there I sat like a glaring neon sign blinking in the face of their purposeful disregard.  Refusing to take the hint, I remained, invisible, silently swallowing swells of rage as those men planned our future and decided our places within it without any input from us -the Women in the Kitchen, and me.

On the drive home, I was confronted with my behavior.  Why couldn’t I sit quietly like the other wives, refrain from joining the discussion, and stay with the Women in the Kitchen where, I suppose, I belonged?  I wanted to scream, “Why aren’t the Women in the Kitchen invited to stay and encouraged to participate in the discussion?”  Instead, I tightened my jaw and muttered, “They weren’t talking about anything interesting, and since I’m not a mother, no one cares what I have to say.”  He asked me to try.  I bit my lip.

He doesn’t get it:  no one wants me, but the exclusion by the men is more than oppressive; it is insulting.  The Women in the Kitchen are their wives, the mothers of their children, and the ones who keep life going forward against all that would interfere.  They are the anchors in their homes, the very hearts of their families. It will be the Women in the Kitchen, without voices, bearing the burden of the men’s decisions.  Although the Women in the Kitchen are not seated at the table for discussion, they will be expected to strategize sacrifices from their household budgets to finance the men’s plans (imagine washing and reusing disposable sandwich baggies --do the men even know their wives do that?)  The Women in the Kitchen will be “holding down the fort” while the men devote their evenings away from their families to manage new and ongoing projects and church business.  After preparing breakfast to ignite the morning and ushering everyone to the day’s destinations, the Women in the Kitchen will be parenting solo until they get the children into bed.  Finally, once the men have returned home, these devoted wives (veiling their own weariness) shall cheerfully serve their husbands a carefully reheated dinner. 

Imagine.  Though they are the ones who create the very propulsion that provides the momentum to move the work forward, The Women in the Kitchen have no voices.

None, because the Women in the Kitchen are not invited to that table... except to serve it.