Finding My Way Back to Myself (And to All of You)

“Man is a mystery. It needs to be unraveled, and if you spend your whole life unraveling it, don't say that you've wasted time.”

—Fyodor Dostoyevsky

I Ask a Lot of Questions

Anyone who knows me knows I’m full of questions. I ask a lot of them, whether people like it or not. I’ll shamelessly ask about people’s lives, their choices, their joy, and their grief in the middle of a party. I’m curious about the parts of others that don’t always get airtime. But the truth is, I rarely know how to answer many of those questions for myself.

I’ve always learned best through listening to other people. I feel through their stories. I’m a notorious mumbler, so I don’t always know how, nor do I want to try, to say things out loud. I’ve always been better at writing it out.

Excavating Myself

That’s exactly what happened when I started interviewing my team. Asking questions. Listening deeply. Telling their stories. But somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t just curating narratives. I was excavating my own. Each conversation cracked something open in me. Each person reflected a version of myself I hadn’t fully faced, or had maybe been too afraid to name.

They each showed me what life, growth, war, and peace look like through their eyes.

And every story was beautiful in its own way. Honest. Necessary.

The Pupa Stage

There’s a word I’ve been obsessed with lately: pupa.

It’s the stage between the caterpillar and the moth. That liminal, hidden phase. Quiet. Still. Waiting. It doesn’t look like growth from the outside. But everything is changing inside. It’s not glamorous. It’s not loud. But it’s transformation in its truest form. That’s where I’ve been. In the cocoon.

For some, that phase might look like stillness or gentle reflection. As some of you probably have seen, for me, it’s been more chaotic than quiet. At times, it’s felt like tearing things apart just to figure out what’s worth keeping. Like breaking down armor I didn’t even know I was wearing. Softening has felt like survival. Letting go has felt like grief.

But I’ve stayed in it. I’ve stayed with myself, for better or for worse.

Because somewhere in all the unraveling, I’ve started to believe I can emerge as someone more whole. More true. More me.

The Floor is Where You’ll Find Me

I’ve had moments, more than I’d like to admit, where people I loved (often still love) sat across from me and told me their truth about myself. Told me that the way I disappeared hurt. That my silence created confusion. That I made them feel disposable, even if I didn’t mean to. And, sometimes, that I could go to f*ck myself.

And the worst part? I believed them. I always did.

I’d nod. I’d say something vague like, “There’s a lot going on.” Which was true. But with no context, how could they know? What could they do?

Each time, I’d find myself sitting on the floor afterward. That’s always where I end up after those conversations. Sitting on the floor, holding onto the echo of someone else’s honesty. My therapist says those are the moments where the growth happens. Where you choose vulnerability over escape. Where you let people in, even when your instinct is to run.

I used to think community was something you found, or that found you. But I’ve learned that’s just the first step. The deeper part, the real part, is letting yourself be seen once it’s found you. Letting people love the version of you who doesn’t have it all figured out. Who says the wrong thing. Who disappears sometimes. And chooses to stay. Choosing to be known anyway.

That’s what I’ve struggled with the most.

Because for so long, the foundations of my identity were built on toothpicks and sticky tac (we can dive into that some other time). I didn’t believe I had a right to stay if I wasn’t perfect. I would shape-shift, then vanish the moment the performance got too heavy.

Then comes the “Temi, what the hell” moment. Someone would rightfully call me out. Others would chime in. And I would retreat into the corner again. When they started to run with their own narratives about me, ones that weren’t always true but felt believable enough, I wouldn’t correct them. I let them. Not out of pride or indifference, but because deep down, I believed that’s what I deserved.

It hurts. But in a strange way, it gives me permission. Permission to disappear. To say that person, or that community, was a bridge burned, even if it wasn’t. Even if a conversation could have saved it. It became my excuse to retreat further into myself. To turn the page. To hope that the next person would let me start anew.

What They Taught Me

Lex reminded me of the radical power of listening. She sees people in ways that feel rare, without judgment or agenda. Watching her learn to celebrate her own life helped me reflect on how hard I can be on myself. I want to hold space for myself the way she does for others. To find joy in the small things. To remember that connection doesn’t have to be performative. It can be quiet and still and real.

Richard showed me that belonging is not about geography. It’s about intention. He’s moved between worlds his whole life and has built community wherever he lands. It made me think about all the times I convinced myself I didn’t need connection because it felt too risky. But the truth is, I do need it. I just need it to feel real. To be mutual. Richard reminded me that we don’t have to wait for a place to make us feel at home. We can create it.

Donovan taught me that we don’t have to fear who we’re becoming. She’s lived many versions of herself and holds them all with grace. She reminds me that change doesn’t mean losing yourself. It means meeting yourself over and over again. I want to be someone who evolves loudly and lovingly. Someone who lets go of who they were without shame, and welcomes who they’re becoming with open arms.

Yuvan gave me permission to say the quiet things. That I’ve felt alone. That I’ve played the role of the independent one while silently wishing someone would see through it. His reflections on presence shook something loose in me. I don’t want to keep performing wellness. I want to actually feel well. To slow down. To savor. To need people, and let myself be needed in return. To accept people, and let myself be accepted in return.

What I Want Now

Through them, I’ve learned that community isn’t just proximity.

It’s presence. It’s being seen and seeing back. It’s building relationships that don’t just orbit around you, but root you.

And that’s what I want. For myself. For all of us.

That’s what MOTH is, too. MOTH isn’t just a project or a company. It’s a philosophy. A hope. A hand reaching out.

Becoming Someone Who Stays

MOTH is my way of building the kind of world I wish I had access to as I was lost.

A world where belonging isn’t earned, it’s remembered.

Where identity isn’t flattened, it’s celebrated.

Where connection isn’t content, it’s the infrastructure of our lives.

In the quiet of these interviews, I found the courage to imagine that kind of world. And in the quiet of my own heart, I’ve started to believe I deserve to live in it.

So if you’ve known me before this moment and felt me pull away, I hope you know it might not have been about you. It's simply me trying to find my way back to myself.

And if you’re just meeting me now, know that I’m still in that process.

Still learning. Still softening. Still shedding.

But I’m here.

Hoping to be more present. More honest.

Trying to commit to presence, love, community, and kindness.

I’m not done becoming. I don’t think any of us ever are.

But I’m learning not to fear the in-between.

The pupa stage. The tender middle.

Because that’s where the real work happens.

And if you ask me, there’s no better place to begin.

—Temi

You belong here.