dear Self

She sat before the mirror, tilting her head to catch the afternoon light. Her mother's bangles clinked softly as she adjusted the jasmine flowers in her hair. Tonight, she would perform Bharatanatyam for the first time since returning home. The stage frightened her, yet something deeper called—generations of women moving through these same mudras, telling stories their bodies remembered. When she danced that evening, applause came, but the real reward bloomed within: recognition that her grandmother's legacy pulsed through her own hands. In that moment, she understood. We dance not for accolades, but to honor what flows through us, keeping our people's light alive.