Author: Harold Little

It happened in a kitchen in Walthamstow. A Tuesday in February. I was on the phone with my cousin, trying to describe something my grandmother used to do — the way she would wave her hand over a pot of…

I am from a place that no longer exists as I remember it, and I am becoming someone who carries that place like a second skin. This is the quiet, unglamorous work of diaspora: not just leaving, but learning to…

Vulnerability gets talked about like it’s a universal key—show up, be seen, let go of the outcome. It’s the emotional gamble of honesty, the choice to share the messy, hopeful, unfinished parts of yourself. For a lot of people, that’s…

I’ve been sitting with this word—vulnerability—for a while now. Not the polished, Instagram-quote version where someone posts a tear-streaked selfie and calls it “being real.” I mean the kind that lodges in your throat when you’re the only one in…

I remember the first time someone called me “so strong.” I was twenty-two, fresh out of college, and barely holding it together after a family crisis that had hollowed me out. The words were meant as a kindness, I’m sure….

I remember the first time someone called me “strong.” I was twelve, standing in my grandmother’s kitchen, fighting back tears after a classmate made a crack about my hair. My grandmother, a woman who’d crossed oceans and built a life…

I’ve been sitting with the word vulnerability for a while now. It’s one of those words that floats through self-help podcasts, late-night talks with friends, and the kind of Instagram posts where someone’s mid-sob or laughing so hard they can’t…

I’ve been sitting with this idea of vulnerability for a while now. Not the polished, shareable kind that looks good in a caption or a hashtag, but the messy, quiet kind that sits in your chest when you’re the only…

I keep coming back to a quiet moment in my car, engine off, after a dinner party. The conversation had drifted into tender territory—fears, failures, the stuff we usually keep locked up. I listened. I nodded. And when it was…

I remember the first time someone called me “strong.” I was twelve, standing in my grandmother’s kitchen, fighting back tears after a classmate made a crack about my hair. My aunt patted my shoulder and said, “You’re a strong Black…