I was not born to beg for scraps from a table I helped build.
I was born to sit at that table—or flip it entirely.
I claim my right to abundance—not as a luxury, but as a necessity,
not for excess, but for balance, justice, and the dignity of my lineage.
I believe wealth is a tool.
A sharp one. A sacred one.
It can build hospitals or prisons, educate or erase,
uplift communities or bury them beneath concrete and debt.
I choose to wield it with intention,
guided not by greed, but by vision.
I reject the gospel of guilt.
I reject the voices that tell me wanting more is sinful,
that struggle is holy,
that poverty is proof of piety.
I am done romanticizing survival.
I choose ease—not because I am lazy, but because I am done with systems
that glorify burnout while hoarding power.
I do not serve money. It serves me.
It carries my dreams across borders, funds my resistance,
feeds my children and my people.
It amplifies my voice in rooms built to silence me.
I do not pursue wealth to dominate. I pursue it to disrupt.
To counterbalance the influence of those
who’ve used riches to poison the earth and police our bodies.
I build so I can give. I rise so I can reach back.
My prosperity is not an end. It is a beginning.
I choose ancestral alignment.
My wealth will not be built on the broken backs of others.
It will be rooted in reciprocity, repair, and remembering.
I carry the prayers of women who had nothing but gave everything.
I honor them by refusing to stay small.
This is not capitalism.
This is not charity.
This is reclamation.
My abundance is a quiet revolution.
And it begins with the radical belief
that I am worthy of more.