I didn’t grow up in Jamaica, but Jamaica grew up in me.

I immigrated to the U.S. as a child, but the island never left my soul. I carry it in the rhythms that find my feet when music plays, in the way I season my food “from memory,” and in the quiet knowing that community is everything and home is not just a place. It’s people.

Some of my earliest memories are woven together like a tapestry of the senses: reggae rhythms floating through afternoon air, the warm laughter of my mom and aunties chatting in the kitchen, cousins running in the yard, my dad and uncles slapping dominos on the table, sweet mango juice sliding down my chin and fingers, waterfalls rushing over rocks as if in a hurry to meet the clear rivers rippling into the vibrant turquoise sea.

I remember the scent of my mom’s black cake baking, the simmering of ackee and saltfish in my grandmother’s open kitchen, the windows always welcoming in breeze, music, voices from neighbors, and the soothing sounds of nature. I remember my “granny” roasting breadfruit in smoky banana leaves in the yard and making sure I was sleeping under a mosquito net. And I remember her laughter and comforting voice. She passed almost thirty years ago now, yet her words are still with me. When I cried or felt hurt, she would hold me close and whisper in patois:

“Hush mi baby, nuh mine, darlin’.”
Be still. You’re safe. Let your heart rest.

That tenderness shaped me.

Recently, while assembling care packages with Jamaican friends in response to the hurricane, I slipped into patois without even thinking. The words just came. The rhythm felt natural. My heritage rose to the surface, not as something I reached for, but as something that has always lived inside me.

Belonging remembers itself.

And while watching the heartbreaking news reports of Hurricane Melissa sweeping across the Caribbean, I felt that same remembering. Storms have a way of revealing what we carry, what has been passed down, protected, repeated, and survived.

In many Jamaican families—including my own—resilience is inherited.
We learn to be strong early.
We learn to endure.
We learn to fix our face and carry on, even when we feel like giving up.

But as I write about in my new book, Blockbuster Love Part 2: Reality—in the chapter called It’s a Family Affair—the same strength that helps us survive the storm can sometimes make it difficult to let others in. We board our emotional windows. We reinforce our walls. We sometimes tell ourselves we can carry everything alone.

But we were never meant to.

Because the other inheritance in our culture is just as strong:
Laughter.
Warmth.
Shared meals.
Hands that comfort.
Music that heals.
The understanding that community is where the heart breathes freely.

Or as we say: one love.
Meaning: we are in this life together. We take care of each other here.

When I think of my grandmother’s “Hush mi baby,” I realize she was teaching me something essential:
Strength is not just endurance.
Strength is soothing.
Strength is tenderness.
Strength is knowing when to soften.

If you come from a family or culture shaped by storms—literal or emotional—you may still carry those winds in your chest. You may love with caution. You may protect more quickly than you connect.

But healing does not mean abandoning where we come from.
It means choosing what to carry forward.

We keep the rhythm, the laughter, the community, the joy.
And we learn new ways to love that allow safety, softness, and emotional support.

So today, I invite you to pause and ask yourself:
What have I inherited that protects me?
And what have I inherited that I am ready to release?

Remember, what is rooted in love can bend with the wind and still remain whole.

If this reflection resonates, I’d love for you to join my community.
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We heal best together. One love