Empowered on Purpose – by Mercedes Knight

There are some things you understand… and then there are things you feel.

For a long time, I understood generational trauma from a distance. I had been speaking about it since I was around 21 — recognising patterns, connecting stories shared by family members, piecing things together in my own way. But there was a moment when it stopped being something I could simply explain… and became something I felt.

I was in a personal healing session, having a conversation about my life and where I was emotionally. The person leading the session said something that landed so deeply within me, I couldn’t hold it in. I started crying — uncontrollably. It felt like something unlocked inside of me.

It was terrifying. Yes, I knew I carried generational trauma. But in that moment, I felt the full weight of it. And that’s a completely different experience.

Finding my voice through truth

In 2020, I started writing in the notes app on my phone.

At first, it was just fragments — poetic lines, thoughts, feelings. It felt good to let things flow, to find some kind of voice within myself. But as I continued, especially as I started confronting the shadow parts of my healing, that space became something much deeper.

It became a place of confession. A place where I could be honest about how my upbringing, my parents, and my experiences had shaped the way I showed up in relationships — not just with others, but with myself.

Healing wasn’t linear. I was failing, trying again, leaning into spiritual practices, then realising there is no perfect formula. I had to live through it. Make mistakes. Reroute. Try again.

The biggest thing I learned was grace. I had to give myself permission to be imperfect. To be flawed. To allow those parts of me to exist without shame — and even guide me.

Over time, my writing became more intentional. I wasn’t just expressing myself, I was telling the truth. That document I started in my notes app has now become a book — one I hope to release soon.

Letting my body speak

Writing is one part of my healing, but movement is another. I don’t let more than two or three days go by without moving my body.

Whether it’s dancing or just allowing myself to feel free, I know my body needs that release.

Dancing, especially, has become the home of my creativity. I grew up dancing, but never with this level of freedom. Now, it’s different. It doesn’t matter what I’m listening to — from Toni Braxton to India Arie, Soca, Reggae, Jazz, Pop — it all connects me back to myself.

Sometimes it’s about reconnecting with childhood. Letting the music from those moments wash over me. Letting myself play.

That’s where the healing is. It’s in the flow. In the freedom. In changing the narrative of fear through movement.

Allowing every emotion to exist

Not every part of healing is soft. Sometimes it’s gentle. Sometimes it’s reflective. And sometimes… it’s rage.

When I write, I allow whatever is present to come through. There are moments where I release something onto the page, and in that release, my perspective shifts. Not because I forced it, but because I finally hear myself clearly. Other times, the work is more direct.

I performed a piece called “This Rage”, which explores how religion and patriarchy have contributed to the oppression of women. That piece wasn’t about soothing anything — it was about confronting truth.

Healing doesn’t always look peaceful. Sometimes it looks like calling things out for what they are.

Growing up in silence

Being raised in the Caribbean shaped so much of how I understand trauma. As children, we experience things we don’t fully understand. We feel them, but we don’t always have the language for them. And culturally, there are things we don’t talk about.

There’s this unspoken rule — “we don’t discuss that” or “it never happened.”

That never sat right with me.

I saw how silence caused harm. I experienced it personally, especially around my parents’ divorce. The way I found out, the lack of softness in that moment — it stayed with me.

It shaped how I showed up in my relationships.

I became someone who encouraged people to use their voice. Because I knew what silence could do.

In the Caribbean, there hasn’t always been access to safe spaces or tools to process trauma. So, for a long time, I could recognise harmful patterns — but I didn’t know where they came from, or how to change them. Even things like the normalisation of physical punishment — at home and in schools — took time for me to fully understand. When I connected that to our history, to slavery, I began to see the deeper layers of harm.

And for years, I minimised my own experiences because of that normalisation.

Trusting my intuition

Intuition is at the centre of everything I create. It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s just a feeling — a quiet pull that tells me something needs to be expressed. It could be a memory that surfaces while I’m lying in bed. A moment that feels too strong to ignore.  When I follow that feeling, it becomes something electric. When I’m developing ideas, it feels like waves — constant, flowing, alive. And even in the editing process, intuition is there. Helping me refine, understand, and bring clarity to what I’m trying to say.

There are moments where I write something and don’t fully understand it until I sit with it. Until I speak it out loud. And then it clicks. Those are some of my favourite moments. Even in my comedic content, intuition leads. It’s rooted in my childhood, my culture, my everyday experiences. I trust what feels real, what feels familiar, what feels true.

Creating space for others

If there’s one thing I want people to take from my work, it’s this:

You are not your enemy.

I want people to see themselves in my vulnerability. To feel seen. To feel heard.

We all carry different versions of ourselves — our inner child, our past, our shadow. And those parts don’t need to be rejected.

They need to be acknowledged.

They need to be held with care. Give yourself grace within the process. Create space for all versions of you to exist.