“I Made That.”

I’m sitting in this dentist chair, staring down at a bag I’ve carried for years—this iAffirm bag. One I made, maybe in 2020 or 2021. I’ve worn it plenty. But today? I’m seeing it for the first time.

It’s covered in affirmations. Beautiful ones. And as I’m reading them, something strange hits me—I can’t remember if I wrote them. I think I did. I hope I did. They sound like me. They feel like me. But I’m hesitant to take credit without checking, because it’s that beautiful.

And I get compliments on this bag. People notice it in whispers and full-on praise. And almost every time, I forget to tell them—I made this. I made this.

And that’s the weirdest part. The most familiar things I’ve touched, poured into, created—I forget they’re mine. Like they were born from a fog. Like I’m just the messenger, never the maker.

My husband sees it. All the time. I’ll be deep in a creative haze, piecing something together, and he’ll just say it gently:
“You’ve done so much.”

That little reminder always softens me. Because he’s right. I have.

But damn if I don’t struggle to own it.

Years ago, Miami Dade asked me to redesign a t-shirt and turn it into a banner. I didn’t make the original art—I was asked to remix it. I did. They printed it on shirts, hung it around the school, turned it into flyers.

Then one day, we’re at the airport. Just flying out somewhere. Nothing special. And there it is—my design. Big, bold, in the terminal. Just there.

My husband lit up:
“You did that.”

And I froze. Couldn’t be proud. Couldn’t take it in.
I said, “I didn’t really make it… I just redesigned it.”
He looked at me like I was speaking nonsense.
“But didn’t you decide where everything went? Didn’t you choose the font? The colors? That’s you.”

I had a shirt that said it. Flyers. The banner itself. Evidence everywhere. But I still had a hard time claiming it. And I don’t know why.

So here I am again. Looking at this bag. In this dentist office. Feeling something crack open.

Because the truth is—I did this.
The women on the front? I drew them.
The placement? Me.
The words? Me.
The font? Me.
All of it? Me.

And I have to ask myself: Why does it take a random still moment in a sterile chair for me to remember that I am not only creative, I am a creator?

If I died tomorrow, and folks went through my things—these bags, prints, sketches, notebooks—they’d see so much of me. And they’d probably ask:
“Why didn’t she ever…?”
“What was she holding on to?”

Authors Note: 

I wrote this entry in a moment of pause, sitting in a dentist’s office, staring at a bag I made years ago and realizing how unfamiliar my own work can feel when I’ve trained myself to move on too quickly.

This is not a confession. This is a conversation. One about presence. About taking ownership without shame or performance.

I’m not writing to explain why I hesitate. I’m writing to practice not hesitating. 

This piece was never about the bag alone—it’s about what happens when the things we create outlast our memory of their magic. I’ve spent years making, moving, creating, and forgetting. Not out of shame. Not out of doubt. Just… momentum. But this bag slowed me down. It asked me to look. Not to question, not to justify. Just to remember.

I don’t want to keep circling the same theme of “I struggle with ownership.” That’s not the story I’m writing anymore. I’m learning to make peace with pride. To find a place where acknowledgment doesn’t feel like ego—it feels like truth.