Although I was only able to attend for one day, that single day was filled with powerful insights and moments that deeply moved me. Hearing other young people share their stories and experiences opened my eyes to the challenges and successes across our neighboring islands. The impact of COVID-19 was felt by all, yet it also highlighted the strength and creativity of islanders who continued to push forward with hope and determination.

The choices we make to adapt our cities with empathy, to honour the layers of built heritage, to craft spaces where every voice feels at home will shape not only the skyline, but the soul of what comes next. And yet, in so many conversations around climate change on water scarcity, rising temperatures, and drafting policies I am struck by a persistent silence.

Some books find you when your spirit is ripe for them. The Girl With The Hazel Eyes by Callie Browning is one such gift — a quietly powerful novel that wrapped itself around

my heart like an heirloom shawl. I didn’t just read Susan and Lia’s story — I felt chosen to witness it.

I was tired of holding the shame of not being what I thought was the only way a Caribbean woman could be: strong, resilient, and able to face any situation completely unfazed. The shame was quite literally killing me.

Growing up in the UK in the 70s and 80s in a Caribbean household, I was surrounded by family photographs and constant affirmations of my dual heritage. Being born to Jamaican and St. Lucian parents was a source of pride—something special. But outside my home, the world minimized my existence. Schools, the media, and society reduced Black history to slavery, erasing the richness of our culture.

As time passed, my confidence grew, and three years in, I was promoted to an even greater leadership role. I felt empowered. I believed in my abilities. I was excited for the future.

Until, suddenly, I wasn’t.

Grief is a strange thing. It doesn’t follow a clear path, nor does it offer any warning signs. It creeps in at the most unexpected times and overwhelms you in ways you didn’t think were possible. But through it all, I’ve managed to show up for myself and for others—sometimes without even realizing I was doing it. I didn’t force myself to be “strong,” but somehow, I’ve been able to embody strength. I’ve had moments of vulnerability and tears, but in those moments, I’ve also had moments of clarity. It’s as if my soul has quietly held me, telling me that it’s okay to feel all the emotions, that I can still be graceful while grieving.