Reflections on “Tell Me I’m Beautiful”: A Heart’s Homecoming-Oh, how this piece stirred and refreshed my soul anew—”Tell Me I’m Beautiful,” that raw outpouring from my fb readers,friends, passerbys, relatives and strangers feels less like a post and more like a living prayer, whispered into the void yet echoing back a thousandfold.
As I sit here on this crisp November morning in 2025, cup of tea steaming beside me, I reflect not as the founder and double CEO of Kenya Network of Women with AIDS – KENWA or Kacb Worldwork Alliance Canada -KAWAC, but as Asunta— me the the rejected nursing student , the single woman, the single mother – who once stared into mirrors cracked by self doubt if i was worth anything, wondering if the reflection held any light worth sharing. Me, who my mother once declared I have nothing to write home about after arriving home with a medical school rejection diploma-coloured with hiv and aids, worse than death sentence becuase this was to be a stigmatized death, not a clean death and i am still here and counting 37 years later blessed and overflowing, confirmed by strangers and fb friends- thank you, GOD. So Big Dad, you loved me this much- and I couldn’t see – I hear the Amazing Grace lyrics- I was lost, now found- was blind but now i see. It took so looooooong to see. Thanks to you, also, you made me see it this way- now I appreciate our paths were destined.
I read and reread it- it was like birthing a truth too tender to hold alone: we are all newborns in God’s gaze, fragile and fierce, craving the simple sacrament of being seen, not for perfection, but for the messy miracle of existence. The phrase—”a masterpiece of God,” is stamped with His thumbprint in my heart—is not only scripted; it is a culmination surged from nights when betrayal’s blade twisted deepest, reminding me that my heart isn’t just flesh and pulse. It is the divine signature, the breath of creation linking me to monks in silent meditation, to ancestors chanting under African skies.
Reflecting now, I see how it captures that Nigerian joy bubbling up unbidden—”good oooohhhh”—a rhythm from my roots that refuses to let despair dilute the divine. I didn’t want to write more, fearing it’d water down and dilute these sweet sweet vibes, but the comments… ah, they were manna. Strangers and sisters alike, pouring back affirmations like balm on wounds I didn’t know -my eyes watered with joy- so am this loved? it is good oooohhhh.
You have taught me: vulnerability isn’t vulnerability when met with echoes of “You are enough.” -It’s a revolution. Acknowledging, appreciating, and even correcting with love reminds us we are all one thread in the same tapestry, woven from the same eternal loom. Do it only when one is alive in this flesh.
Yet I risk crashing into some rigid religious doctrine here: if you’re “this” then to hell you go, and me, the “good one,” I ascend to heaven, where I’ll be singing and dancing while you burn eternally. Is this love, or sheer selfishness? A long story for another day, but one that begs: true divinity doesn’t divide; it draws us nearer, hearts syncing in humble harmony.
In a world that measures worth by likes and losses, this article became a mirror for the forgotten—reminding us that before parents’ arms or society’s scales, the Big Dad knew us, planned us, whispered, “Go, daughter; go, son—I am with you.” Forgetting that? It’s the great thief, but can it be reclaimed? Pure resurrection. This reflection draws me deeper into my work with KAWAC and KENWA: if I can find such grace for myself amid HIV’s shadows and the storms of advocacy, imagine what we can build together—resilient hearts, equitable tomorrows, where correction comes cloaked in compassion, not condemnation. It’s why I won’t wait to tell you: You are gorgeous, heroic, His. Touch your heart; feel the seal. What more do we need? The rest follows. Thank you, readers, for holding space. You’ve made me feel born anew. Let’s keep affirming—because in that exchange, we glimpse heaven, all one, undivided.
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