001. Renewal

Written By Danica Samuel

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here are two emails and one pinnacle moment in my early Journalism career that really sucked the joy out of my passion. I like to call them placebo pills. I swallowed them, and they did nothing but pave the way to depression, procrastination and forfeit.

In 2013 I received the last of many emails from my boss who treated my articles like garbage. Rather than addressing how great my work performed on her platform, she scolded my mistakes. Additionally, she gave special treatment to her favourite writers who didn’t turn around work on time...or at all.

For a bit of background here. I was writing a review for Wiz Khalifa’s Under the Influencer Tour. The platform I worked for gave me general admission tickets with seats so far back I couldn’t see the stage. The other writers who weren’t assigned coverage got media pit access, and backstage passes to meet performers. Anyways, long story less long, I was well aware that Capital Steez Capital Steez
Capital Steez, was an American rapper and songwriter from Brooklyn, New York. He was the founder of the Brooklyn-based rap collective Pro Era, along with childhood best friend Joey Bada$$. On December 23, 2012, Capital Steez made his way to the rooftop of the Cinematic Music Group headquarters in Manhattan, where he texted his closest friends that he loved them. At 11:59 p.m. EST, he posted a tweet saying, "The end." He committed suicide by jumping off the rooftop of the Cinematic Music Group building later that night. died. While writing my article, when I was mentioning the songs performed on stage for his tribute, I listed all the artists on the track and forgot to remove his name. I copied and pasted. I can admit, early in my career, attention to detail was lacking. But, it was a complete oversight and an honest mistake.

In 2015, I was working for a company that completely abused my hard work and skills in the name of “prove yourself.” I was young, trying to establish a solid resume, and felt I should be magnanimous to any business that could influence future opportunities for me. But three narcissistic supervisors later, I threw that formula out the window. I was continuously belittled in front of senior executives and told I was not good enough. These remarks were all thrown at me while demanding my creative work. I remember being told that everything I did must be approved by superiors because it’s not about me.

As a junior, I was told that I must earn my stripes by making other team members look good. I tried to quit once and was manipulated into staying with talks about my future as a Black Woman. I was worn out, travelling halfway across the city every day to have 3 different roles dumped on me. Eventually, I almost lost my life on the job, but that’s a story for another day. When I finally left for the second and final time, I asked for the reference letter that was promised to me… I received this email instead.

The third major setback for me was during my time at one of Toronto’s biggest music festivals. I remember working vigorously with the new tv department researching guests, artists and developing content ideas. As an enthusiastic volunteer, I spoke about how much this opportunity meant for me and building my reel. I was exploring broadcast journalism and had fresh experience coming out of university.

They used my research, and my ideas for on camera, but handed it to a prettier host. I was told I couldn’t conduct the interviews, and it was insinuated that I didn’t fit the part. What burned, even more, was the host they chose wasn’t passionate about the work at all. She was always late and knew nothing about her interviewees. The videographers would pull me aside, telling me about her cringey on-camera presence. So, I was re-assigned to interviewing crowd members at the festival. I made the most of it with my crew. We had a lot of fun…but that footage never made it online.

All three of these instances and many more like them, cut deep because the words and actions of leaders around me made me feel invisible and insignificant.

Eventually, my passion crumbled.

But encounters like those two emails and missed broadcast opportunity rang bells in my subconscious. I drifted further away from expressing myself. I silenced my passion because I began to take on the negativity surrounding me that echoed the sentiments of not being good enough. I can’t stress how awful it is to undergo a transition of dimming your own light. I wish self-sabotage on no one.

About 2 and a half years in from post-graduation, I was muting my creativity and checking in with the micro-managing bosses who chipped away at my craft. I became accustomed to only expressing myself unless it was pitch email, an argument over text, or wishing someone happy birthday. I was miserable and yearning for an outlet. But I couldn’t bring myself to pick up a pen and paper.

A few years ago, I developed a podcast called Ybility. It was about the culture and climate of Generation Y. While it was great in theory, it was a forced passion. Kinda like some of the platforms that are rising from Covid-19 -forced productivity in a time of uncertainty to appease our insecurities with superficiality. Basically, putting out content because we can and know it will receive a reaction, not because it’s from the heart…even if we try to convince each other otherwise on Instagram.

I was depressed, and I was devoting energy and time to things that I was simply not passionate about. I was looking for my passion in all the wrong places because the pain of rejection I previously felt was so daunting. I couldn’t risk experiencing that again. I convinced myself and everyone around me that - I am no longer a writer, I am not into journalism, and that chapter in my life was closed.

So with that, I deleted everything reminiscent of writing and storytelling.

F

ast forward to 2019. I had a hot girl summer with sad girl nights. I was wrapped in a covert narcissistic relationship but met a new set of pure-hearted friends. Off the heels of a successful event in partnership with WeWork and Freshbooks that summer, I felt incomplete. It was so weird, the joy and wins of accomplishing something great fell flat. The issue was, I was using my skillset but not my God-given talent. Every night after basking in the sun, looking cute on patios and cheering on the Raptors, Toronto Raptors
The Toronto Raptors won the 2019 NBA Championships. I lay in my bed sad and incomplete.

Towards the end of November, leading into December, those same friends surprised me with an early birthday dinner before I flew out to Ghana for work. They put together a care package that included a five-minute journal, chapstick, condoms, candy, Palo Santo wood and a mini-notebook they handcrafted to help me through my anxiety. The third page read, “go play Mario – Braid my Hair,” - our song of the summer. It was so thoughtful, and the first time I had any friends do something like that for me.

At the table, through tears, I finally confessed how unhappy I was all summer long while hanging out with them. How, for the first time ever, I was afraid to leave for work.

My anxiety was sky-rocketing to an all-time high.

A week later, I hugged and cried with my parents at the airport for an hour. My dad prayed, my mom prayed, I prayed. I’ve said goodbye to them many times before, but this one felt so different. It was my third time going to Ghana. Before that moment, I was recalling the previous years that were filled with triggering work relationships and predicaments. I wanted this time to be different. I wanted to finally feel the essence of the place that made me complete, without any disruptions.

I kept saying to my parents that I didn’t want to leave them behind. Whiles that was true…really it was my ancestors telling me SOMETHING was being left behind. Something that made me comfortable. (For reference, I believe my intuition, gut and instincts are direct signals from my ancestors).


What was happening to me was a disruption from the pretentious life I was living. Pretending that I had other passions, and all the business ventures I took on was my calling. Pretending to be something you’re not will stop you from becoming all that you are. The uncertainty I was feeling was blocking me from my purpose.

When I left for Ghana, the only sense of comfort I had, was that I was returning to Ghana. Each year I went out of the country for work, there was a glow about me. Everyone noticed. There’s something about leaving a concrete jungle to the stillness of nature that brings forth a spiritual connection and alignment.
On the plane, I did a self-care check.

Five-minute journal… check

My therapist on speed dial… thank god

Clarissa Pinkola’s book … perfect

Friend’s curated notebook… great

Deepak’s 21 days of meditation … will get to that later, cool.

On December 21st, 6 days before my birthday, I watched the cows strut down the roads in Yilo Krobo on my way back to Accra from the Boti falls. As I admired their different patterns, I thought how happy I was to get out of the city and prioritize time to reflect on my life.

I wish I could tell you that my time in Accra, up until that point was stress-free from the triggers of past work traumas. But I can’t.

The only difference was that I forced myself to find a happy place and find compassion, as my therapist would say. All the elements that kept me sane, I tapped into. Nature, friends, my adopted family...

When I looked at my loved ones in Ghana, they lived a life so boldly because they walked in their truth. When I returned as my miserable self, they couldn’t believe I was back for a 3rd time on this same inauthentic spirit living for other people. One night, our way to Bloombar, Bloombar Ghana
A popular Cocktail bar in Accra, Ghana. They are known for their fishbowl drinks and popsicle proseco cocktails. Bloombar is very popular during December. my best friends Kofi and Jermaine decided to rip me a new one in the back of our Uber ride. They were tired.

At that point, I had all the tools around me to shake myself out of this funk. Ghana was my place of renewal, and I needed to embrace that. Kofi was right, I needed to give up the weight and people that made me believe I can’t, or I’m not good enough.

As I leaned my head out the car window back in Yilo Krobo. I was taking in the countryside breeze and citrus sky that wore the indigo colour of dusk. My Nigerian friend, Tricia, who sat in the seat next to me said: “look at all the wives preparing the fufu before their husbands come home from work.”

My mind started whirling into a deep reflection. I started thinking about all of the life experiences that led me to exactly where I was. It was an overwhelming feeling of synchronicity. I was back in Ghana for the third year in a row, working for one of the biggest festivals Afrochella Festival
An annual festival in Ghana designed to highlight and elevate millennial talent from Africa and the African Diaspora. in Africa. yet, here I was looking to rediscover a piece of me that was missing.

Then all of a sudden, amidst my pondering and reflection, a euphoric desire to write hit me. The sensation I felt was like your skin being caressed before making out with the person you’ve been secretly crushing on.

While observing the aunties, admiring the cows, birds, and tall green trees, I had my aha moment.

Right there, I knew the first thing I wanted to do when I got back to my house in Accra was to open up my Moleskin and write. And I knew for sure that this time it wasn’t going to be work-related content. I finally understood right there what it means when people say you can’t change what you refuse to confront. I established a rhythm of dispelling my talent and drowning in work that did not benefit me. I was running across the globe as a digital nomad thinking it would give me some sort of wholistic balance wrapped in money and peacefulness. I would take on projects and activations like they were my passion when it was merely a game of performance Olympics.

Whenever I took on something that was not true to me, I would return home, feeling unripe. Like the yams in the mortar before it takes a beating.

It was time to start making an effort to pound the fufu in my life.

My epiphany along that bumpy road back to Accra was that life has continuously given me yams.

It’s time to take the rod into my own hands and begin pounding.

As we continued on the route and the sun began to set. I started smiling and turned over to Tricia,

“Isn’t life like Pounding Fufu?”

Danica Samuel

Founder and Editor-in-Chief

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002. Popsicle Mansions