We Were Never Meant to Survive Alone
A Framework for Relational and Abolitionist Healing
This framework is part of my practice, my politics, and my offering to Black queer survival.
Before citing, sharing, or adapting, please read the values-aligned use statement.
💜 Welcome
You’ve been carrying this weight for a long time—the early-morning ache that settles in your chest, the tiredness that sleep can’t reach, the pressure to hold it all together in a world that refuses to see you whole. Maybe you’ve tried what they said would help: the wellness routines, the self-help lists, the therapy sessions that asked you to compress your story into bullet points. But none of it reached the root of the ache. None of it made room for your grief. None of it honoured your rage. None of it saw how much you’ve already survived just to be here.
This guide isn’t here to fix you. It’s here to reject the premise that you were ever broken. It’s built from what we’ve always known: the warmth of stories exchanged across kitchen tables, the quiet safety of chosen kin, the way care moves through a glance, a gesture, a soft “I’ve got you.” Here, you don’t have to explain why you’re tired. You don’t have to smile to be seen. You don’t have to shrink to belong. You don’t have to be whole to begin.
This is not a neutral document. It comes from a Black, queer, abolitionist lens—written by someone shaped by both institutional betrayal and the fierce beauty of community-based survival. The voice you’ll meet here is tender but unsparing, poetic but precise. This is not self-help. This is a framework for collective care born of refusal, forged in the heat of lived experience, and grounded in the deep conviction that healing is not a commodity.
It’s not about recovery as a straight line. It’s about building practices that honour your complexity, your contradictions, your survival. There are no quick answers here. But there are rituals, reminders, and space to feel—rage, grief, joy, and all the textures in between.
Think of this as a constellation. You don’t have to follow a path. Start wherever it feels possible. Move at your own pace. Take what you need, leave what you can’t yet carry. Come back when it calls you. Scribble your own truths in the margins. You deserve a life spacious enough to hold all of you—not just the parts that make others comfortable. And you don’t need to earn that life. You already carry the proof.
✨ What This Is (and Isn’t)
This document is not a manual for managerial wellness or a soothing balm meant to smooth over your edges. It is a rebel’s manifesto—a call to understand care as insurgent, sacred, and deeply political. It was written from a specific place: Black queer diasporic experience, abolitionist social work, and a refusal to assimilate into systems built to disappear us. That’s the soil this grows from. And that context matters.
Rooted in Afropessimist thought, abolitionist mutual aid, queer survival strategies, and Indigenous sovereignty traditions, this guide offers a constellation of practices for living, healing, and resisting in a world that was never meant for us.
Inside, you’ll find grief rituals that transform sorrow into solidarity, approaches to harm that centre repair without punishment, and embodied exercises that let your body speak what words cannot. You’ll find tools to map personal pain against systemic violence and creative prompts that turn clay, paint, rhythm, and movement into living archives of resistance. You will also find invitations to co-create new rituals grounded in ancestral memory and collective futurity.
This is not a set of quick fixes. It is not a curated list of pleasantries. It is a declaration that your life, in all its contradictions and beauty, cannot be reduced to a metric. It is a living document—meant to be marked up, rewritten, argued with, and made your own. It asks you to refuse erasure, to resist self-abandonment, and to commit to the hard, luminous work of communal flourishing.
Just as clearly, this is not a corporate “wellness program” meant to increase your productivity. It is not a clinical textbook that pathologizes dissent. It does not offer a universal blueprint for happiness. It is not a gentle suggestion to return to normal or to shrink your needs to fit the world’s narrow definitions of stability.
If you’re searching for tidy slogans or easy affirmations, you won’t find them here. But if you open your heart to what pulses beneath the noise, you may begin to discover that healing is not always calm. It is fire. It is noise. It is a riot. It is a symphony. It is the sacred labour of collective world-building.
🧭 How to Use This Guide
This isn’t a workbook or a step-by-step plan. It’s a constellation—meant to be entered wherever you are. Start with the section that calls to you. Skip what doesn’t. Come back as needed. Some pages are ritual. Others are strategy. All are written with care, for your return to yourself and to your people.
🧑🏾🤝🧑🏽 Who This Is For
This framework is for those who were taught that self-care is indulgent, that vulnerability is dangerous, and that their pain is something to carry alone. It is for the Black scholar who sat through tenure meetings explaining microaggressions to unlistening rooms, then went home and cried quietly, unseen. For the trans artist who turned their body into a living archive of defiance, only to be met with therapists who could not recognize chosen family as real. For the immigrant elder who lost their language in the fluorescent corridors of a hospital, whose generational wounds never found space in a chart. For the aunties and uncles who cooked for whole communities from almost nothing, who were everyone’s first call but never anyone’s soft place to land. For the student activist whose lungs still sting from tear gas, whose voice cracked from chanting demands no one in power intended to hear.
It is also for those who imagine more than survival. For those who dream of replacing police budgets with mutual aid, of building peer-led networks in place of institutional lock-up, of treating healing circles as civic infrastructure. It is for anyone who has ever asked, even quietly, what it might feel like to live in a world where rest is not something you earn but something you’re owed. If that question lives in you, you’re not alone. You’re already on the path.
🧶 Relational Healing
The myth of the isolated self cannot survive the truth of our histories. It collapses under the weight of genocide, slavery, colonialism, environmental collapse, and the relentless violences of transphobia, queerphobia, racial capitalism, and carcerality. What those forces try to erase—our entanglement with one another—becomes the very foundation of how we survive. Relational healing begins with the recognition that we are never just individuals managing our pain alone. We are always in relation. Even when it’s hard. Even when we’ve been taught otherwise. Every moment of trust, every act of witnessing, becomes a thread in the larger tapestry of community. We mend one another not through solutions, but through proximity—by staying when the world urges us to disappear.
Picture this: you and someone you trust sit by a window at midnight. The city hums low outside. You speak a single sentence about your day—one that trembles with exhaustion, maybe even fear. You don’t have words for all of it, but you offer what you can. They don’t try to fix it. They don’t shrink away. They stay. They listen. Their breath slows to meet yours. Their presence doesn’t demand anything of you. And in that quiet, something shifts. You are no longer alone. Not as a problem to be solved, but as someone worth holding. That is the seed of relational healing. Not performance. Not perfection. Just presence.
Relational healing invites us to build practices that make this presence sustainable. It asks us to hold each other not only in crisis but through the ordinary rhythms of life. One way to begin is through dyadic holding circles—simple, intentional spaces for mutual care. You sit with someone you trust. Maybe you light a candle. Maybe you don’t. You take a few breaths. Then one of you speaks for two minutes without interruption. No fixing. No commentary. Just your story. The listener reflects back the feeling—not the content, not the diagnosis, just the pulse of what they heard. Then you switch. Then you breathe. That’s it. And still, everything shifts. Over time, these circles become a form of embodied trust—a shared language of care that doesn’t rely on expertise, only presence.
But relational healing is never just personal. It scales. It spills outward into kitchens, group chats, clinics, courtyards, community fridges. We create kinship constellations—care networks built on intentional, reciprocal commitment. When someone falters, a web activates. Rides are offered. Meals are cooked. A message arrives: “I’ve got you.” These aren’t random acts of kindness. They are coordinated refusals to let anyone disappear beneath the weight of survival. They are care continuums. Living proof that no one needs to carry it alone.
This is how we last. Not by being invulnerable, but by spreading the load. Relational healing tells us the truth the world often hides: you were never meant to do this alone. And you don’t have to.
🎨 Creative and Embodied Practice
When language begins to fray, the body steps in to speak. Let it. Not all knowing begins in the mind. Some of it lives in the ache between your shoulder blades. Some of it hums under your breath when you’re not even trying. Wisdom doesn’t only arrive through theory or talk. It comes through movement. Through making. Through breath. Our bodies are living archives. They carry what textbooks can’t: inherited grief, ancestral gestures, the quiet survival knowledge passed down when words were too dangerous or lost. To trust creative and embodied knowing is to believe that your fingertips, your larynx, the soles of your feet can hold truth.
One way to meet this knowing is through grief cartography. Take a piece of paper larger than your body. Begin to map the emotional landscape you inhabit. Use colours like language—red for rage, blue for sorrow, yellow for unexpected joy. Draw rivers where your feelings flow. Mark mountains where pain has rooted itself. Place stars over the places you return to for warmth. Then choose a medium—paint, clay, dance, sound—and enter one region. Shape the peaks of your grief with your hands. Let your feet trace longing across the floor. Let your voice build a soundscape of survival. This is not about art. This is about finding a language when words fail.
Another practice: embodied prayer. Not institutional prayer, but prayer as gesture, as repetition, as sacred attention. You might kneel, or sway, or shake. Let your body write its own liturgy. A hand to your chest might mean remembrance. A slow circle of the hips might be mourning. A stillness might be defiance. When shared in community, these movements become ritual fires—gatherings where truth is spoken not through words, but through shared breath and mutual rhythm. Care moves through the group not by advice, but by presence.
But this kind of knowing isn’t just for sacred moments. It’s already living in the everyday. In how you stir soup the way your grandmother did. In the way your fingers fold a shirt like smoothing out grief. In the rhythm of braiding someone’s hair. In a quiet song while sweeping. These gestures hold memory. They hold resistance. They hold care. If you pay attention, they start to shimmer. They remind you that knowing doesn’t always knock—it waits.
To live this way is to honour the body as teacher, not burden. As prophet. As keeper of record. When you let the body lead—when you trust imagination to shape meaning beyond what can be said—you reclaim a way of knowing that was never lost, only buried. This is not indulgence. It is survival. It is memory. It is a refusal to let the world tell you what counts as knowledge. It is how we begin to build futures not from domination, but from rhythm, ritual, and the infinite possibility of creative care.
🌱 Joy and Pleasure as Resistance
To insist on joy in a world that profits from your exhaustion is an act of resistance. When the systems around you demand productivity over presence, suffering over softness, endurance over exuberance, joy becomes more than a fleeting emotion—it becomes strategy. A politics. A rhythm of rebellion. This joy doesn’t always have to be loud. Sometimes it’s the quiet kind: sunlight warming your cheek through the window, the scent of sage and sweetgrass from your traditional territory, a single sentence in a group chat that makes your whole body exhale. Other times it erupts: in dance, in laughter, in skin meeting skin. It is the sound of a room full of survivors, laughing not because they’ve forgotten the pain—but because they’re still here.
Practising joy doesn’t mean denying grief or rage. It means refusing to let them be the only story. It’s an act of balance: allowing delight to take root, even in the rubble. It’s a declaration that you are still a body capable of feeling, still worthy of softness, still allowed to seek pleasure without apology. When we gather—in basements, backyards, kiki balls, or sidewalks—to eat, to joke, to hold one another up, we do more than endure. We conjure another kind of world. One where joy is not indulgence, but instruction. Where pleasure is a way of knowing, of remembering, of reaching for the possible.
Build joy into your day like ritual. A dance break while cooking. A stretch that turns into a sway. A moment alone with your breath and a blooming plant. These are not small things. They are scaffolding. They train your nervous system to remember that feeling good is not betrayal—it is balance. That joy is not escape—it is a homecoming. Over time, these moments form a kind of muscle memory. A resilience that doesn’t rely on stoicism, but on sensation.
To feel deeply is not a distraction from the work: it is the work. And when we share that feeling, when we laugh in defiance, when we craft pleasure into our collective rhythm, we begin to move differently. We begin to resist not only with our analysis but with our aliveness. That is not just survival. That is revolution.
🔥 Abolitionist Praxis
If relational healing is the soil, abolitionist praxis is the seed. It asks: how do we build care at scale, not just in moments, but in systems? Abolition isn’t only about tearing something down—it’s about committing to the slow, collective labour of building something more honest, more alive, more rooted in care. It begins with a refusal: to believe that harm must be met with surveillance, confinement, or exile. Instead, it asks different questions. What if harm opened the door to collective reckoning instead of punishment? What if safety wasn’t a function of control, but of deep relationship? Abolitionist praxis challenges us to unlearn punishment as a default and ask instead: what structures can hold pain without replicating it? What kinds of justice could emerge if we let go of revenge?
That shift doesn’t start in policy papers or protest slogans. It starts close in. With our friends, our kin, our classrooms, our inboxes. The next time conflict arises—a rupture in trust, a moment of harm—what if you paused? What if you chose not to default to blame, silence, or exile? What if you declared a “restorative intermission”—a shared breath before speaking honestly about what happened? You might sit in circle, in DMs, on the floor of your kitchen. Each person offering what hurt, what they need, and what might make repair feel real. Not as a performance. Not to perform virtue. But to keep the possibility of future intact.
Abolition doesn’t stop at the interpersonal. It lives in the structural. It’s there in the work of community bail funds that free people not because they’re innocent, but because cages are inherently violent. It’s in student-run collectives that meet each other’s mental health needs when the university offers only waiting lists. It’s in re-entry programs that meet people released from prison with housing, food, and reconnection to the culture they were separated from. These are abolitionist infrastructures—not born of naïveté, but of clarity. They are built on the truth that safety does not come from punishment. Safety comes from presence, from interdependence, from shared dignity.
At its core, abolitionist praxis is not utopian. It is imaginative labour under pressure. It asks you to design care where you were taught to expect force. To trust people when the state told you to be afraid. To reject the lie that punishment keeps us safe. Abolition insists that we can build new forms of response: where the first person called in a crisis is someone trained to hold pain without escalating it; where neighbourhoods are held together by mutual trust, not surveillance; where justice means no one is left behind, no matter what they’ve done or survived.
Abolition is slow. It is imperfect. It is sacred. And it needs all of us. Each time you choose repair over exile, presence over avoidance, community over compliance—you are already practicing it. You are already building the world that carceral logic said would be impossible.
🎯 Political Clarity
Your body often knows long before your mind catches up. It flinches when power walks in without invitation. It braces itself under the weight of impossible choices. It remembers what institutions are designed to make you forget. Political clarity is not just about theory or debate—it’s the act of listening to the body’s alerts and following them back to the systems that shaped them. That tightness in your chest when the rent goes up? That’s not just anxiety. It’s the echo of housing injustice, of extraction, of generational displacement. When your voice shakes in a boardroom that only tolerates your presence, it’s not just insecurity. It’s the long reach of exclusion. It’s capitalism’s contempt for softness. It’s whiteness gatekeeping legitimacy.
To grow this clarity, begin with structural journaling. Each time you feel distress—burnout, fear, disorientation—write it down. Not as a sign of failure, but as information. Then ask: what systems are operating here? What structures are invisibly shaping this moment? Maybe your exhaustion lives alongside wage theft and ableism. Maybe your discomfort at the doctor’s office is braided with medical racism, settler-colonial diagnostics, and transphobia. Draw a line from the feeling to the structure. Begin to see your symptoms not as personal defects but as your body’s refusal to normalize harm. What felt like collapse may actually be resistance, misnamed. Your body has been trying to tell the truth all along.
This practice deepens in community. Try timeline testimonies. Gather with others and draw out your life not just through personal memories, but through shared histories. Place your first protest beside a wave of local police expansion. Note when you lost housing stability and link it to the timeline of gentrification in your city. Set the moment you stopped speaking your mother tongue beside the legislation or assimilation pressure that made it dangerous. These timelines create shared context. They expose how private grief is shaped by public policy, how internal struggle often mirrors external violence. They let us trace pain not back to ourselves, but to the forces that engineered it.
Political clarity offers a new kind of compass. It says: this ache isn’t yours alone. This grief has a genealogy. This fatigue is not a moral failing—it’s the weight of systems doing what they were built to do. But clarity doesn’t just name what’s wrong. It helps us imagine how to respond. It points us toward mutual aid. Toward reparations. Toward structural refusal. Clarity doesn’t mean things get easier—but it means we become more precise. And in that precision, we sharpen our tools. We name the harm. We reject the gaslight. And we gather each other to say: we were never imagining it. Now, we organize.
🤲🏽 Cultural and Spiritual Humility
Across every corner of the diaspora, people have carried songs through fire, prayers across oceans, and rituals through silence. These are not artifacts. They are living, breathing testaments to endurance. Cultural and spiritual humility asks us to approach these practices not as tourists or scavengers, but as future kin. It is a refusal to treat someone else’s tradition as content for personal growth. It is a discipline: listening before speaking, asking before acting, arriving with offerings instead of expectations.
Begin with your own roots. Ask: What did your people sing when they were in pain? What did they cook when someone was sick? What stories did your elders whisper at dusk that held more than meaning—they held survival? Choose one fragment that lives in your lineage, however faint. Tend to it. Learn its rhythms. Let it guide how you show up elsewhere.
Then, when you find yourself moved by a ritual that isn’t yours—whether a healing circle, a drumming ceremony, or a prayer in another tongue—pause. Don’t ask, How can I incorporate this? Ask instead, What can I offer? Begin a practice of lineage exchange. Not trading. Not blending. Just naming. Just witnessing. Share what lives in your line, and invite others to do the same. Not for performance, but for relationship.
In community, this practice becomes interwoven ceremony. Not fusion. Not flattening. But co-presence. Picture Palestinian poetry echoing beside Caribbean drumming. Picture Two-Spirit water ceremonies held alongside diasporic altar-building. Each tradition distinct. Each voice carrying its own cadence. Together, they form a kind of choreography—not aesthetic for its own sake, but a map of solidarity. A declaration that our survivals are linked.
Cultural and spiritual humility is not just about reverence. It’s about responsibility. To tend the sacred without stealing it. To honour difference without demanding access. To let healing travel across bloodlines, across borders, through tension and trust. And in doing so, we don’t just participate in restoration—we begin to shape ceremonies powerful enough to hold the future.
🌿 Care as Infrastructure
Before we design care at scale, let’s remember the smallest ways it already lives around us. Care refuses a single form. It shapeshifts—bending to meet the contours of need, curling into the places the world forgot to hold. Sometimes, it’s a friend showing up with ginger tea after your body breaks open. Sometimes, it’s infrastructure: a mutual-aid network organizing rides for elders, a community fridge filled by neighbours who give what they can. Sometimes, it’s subversive softness: an encrypted chat pairing strangers with peer responders, or a healing collective offering plant medicine and bodywork in a room stitched with quilts, candles, and history. Care can live in the quiet corners too—a bathroom stall poster explaining how to ask for help, a playlist titled for when it’s too much, passed hand to hand like medicine.
It is always more than kindness. It is architecture. It is refusal. It is the deliberate act of designing a world where fewer people fall through.
Start where you are. Notice the care already moving around you: the person who holds the door when your arms are full, the group chat that answers grief with memes, the neighbour who checks in just because. These gestures ripple. Write them down. Study their frequency, their weight, their softness. Ask: What makes them feel like care? What makes them last? Then ask again: How do I replicate this without turning it into performance? How do I give without needing to be thanked? How do I receive without apology?
Care is not a service. It is a choreography of interdependence. It asks us to be students of one another’s needs. To stay present even when we can’t fix it. To build systems that remember what it feels like to be dropped. And if we do it right, care stops being the exception. It becomes the rhythm of our daily lives. A pulse. A shared promise: I’ve got you. Let’s keep each other.
💭 If You’re Feeling Lost, Start Here
When the road disappears—when plans unravel, when your chest tightens without language, when everything you thought might hold you feels impossibly far away—pause. Don’t chase clarity. Reach for contact. Place your feet on the floor. Feel their weight. Inhale slowly, like you’re remembering something ancient and tender. Let your body remind you: you are still here, even in the fog.
Then ask gently, What is the smallest act of care I can offer myself right now? Not the best one. Not the most transformative. Just the smallest. A glass of water. A slow stretch. A breath with your hand on your heart. A song that steadies you. A message to someone who knows your name beneath the noise. Maybe it’s bookmarking this page. Maybe it’s closing your eyes for two minutes and remembering you’re made out of breath, not demands. Whatever it is, trust that it counts. Let that one gesture be the scaffolding—the first rung in a ladder you’re not required to climb all at once.
There is no singular path through disorientation. There is only rhythm: pause, notice, respond. When the horizon vanishes, ritual becomes compass. Repeat the gestures that tether you to the world. Touch the objects that carry your memory. Light a candle. Name one thing you love. These aren’t solutions. They’re invitations—to stay, to soften, to begin again from exactly where you are.
If you’re feeling lost, you’re not failing. You’re wandering. And even maps need margins—spaces for detours, forgetting, reorientation. Let this be one of them.
🪞 Reflection Prompts
In the quiet between waves, return to questions that don’t demand answers but offer openings. Let them sit beside you like trusted companions—nudging, witnessing, unfolding.
When was the first time you felt forgiveness instead of shame? Trace that moment gently. Who offered it? Who stayed long enough to see you as more than your mistakes? What gestures made you feel whole again? Consider how you might extend that same holding now—not as performance, but as practice.
Think of a political act you performed without knowing it at the time. Maybe it was wearing what makes you feel beautiful in a space that punished joy. Maybe it was choosing to rest when the world demanded grind. What did that refusal protect? What truth did it declare?
Imagine a future ceremony—one you will lead to honour survival. Not just your own, but that of your kin, your lineage, your people. What symbols will you gather? What words will you speak aloud, and which will live in the breath between them? Will there be song, stillness, movement? Let the vision come. Let it teach you what kind of world you’re building.
Reach back into your ancestry. Name one lineage of resistance—a person, a ritual, a story, a sound. Let its pulse guide you. What might you do today—in cooking, in writing, in care, in refusal—that honours that inheritance?
These aren’t tasks. They’re thresholds. Not destinations, but portals. Each one an invitation to deepen your intimacy with survival, to tend to the root systems that shaped you, and to write the next chapter of collective care with intention, reverence, and fire.
📚 Continuing Together
This framework is a threshold—an opening into a wider constellation of insurgent practices, each rooted in the truth that care is not a luxury, but a collective act of defiance.
If you’re holding something raw or unfinished, begin with a one-on-one session: a space to show up with your full self, no need to perform, no need to explain. Or maybe you’re drawn to a peer circle—a ritual-grounded space where stories reverberate, and solidarity becomes more than a concept. You might be ready to connect with mutual-aid networks that trade extraction for reciprocity, building infrastructures where needs are met without shame or gatekeeping. And if your hunger leans toward the intellectual, the spiritual, or the speculative, step into a reading circle—spaces where Afropessimist thought meets abolitionist praxis, where queer world-building is not a side note but a guiding map.
Whatever you choose, know this: you were never meant to do this alone. Your survival is not a solitary feat—it’s a thread in a larger tapestry of resistance. Every gesture toward connection, every act of showing up, is a spark in the fire we keep lit together.
If this guide resonated, consider sharing it, discussing it with a friend, or building a ritual of your own from its pages. This document is meant to live through use.
This is how we keep going. Fierce. Alive. Connected.
🌀 Return
You’ve made it to the edge of this guide, but not the edge of your becoming. Come back whenever you need to. Reread, rewrite, ritualize. This document lives because you do—because survival, when shared, becomes something larger than survival. It becomes practice. It becomes promise. You already carry the proof.
✍🏾 Author’s Note
This framework was not written from outside the storm. It was written in the thick of it—in the aftershocks of betrayal, in the quiet defiance of survival, in the longing for worlds that don’t yet exist. It comes from my life as a Black queer and trans person who has lived through the violences of family rupture, clinical harm, and institutional erasure—and who has also been held, healed, and made possible by the sacred, everyday work of community. I write this not from above or beyond, but from beside you.
It is important to me that this not be treated as content or curriculum without context. The words you are reading are rooted in relationships: relationships to land, to lineage, to Black queer and trans kin who have sustained me through unthinkable grief and breathtaking joy. They are informed by abolitionist praxis, Afropessimist theory, Black feminist thought, and the embodied traditions of the ballroom scene. They are shaped by years of being both a social worker and a survivor, of refusing systems that were never built for us, and of choosing again and again to build something freer in the margins.
This framework is not a neutral offering. It carries commitments. It insists on care that cannot be separated from justice, on healing that does not erase rage, and on love that is inseparable from refusal. It is written in the cadence of my communities, and it was never meant to be universal. If you find resonance here, I ask you to hold that resonance with integrity: cite it, name where it came from, and do not extract what doesn’t belong to you. If you use these ideas in your own work, do so with accountability—not as metaphor, not as branding, but as praxis.
There will be moments when this document contradicts itself. That’s not an oversight. That’s honest. The process of living, healing, and caring is never linear. We change. We forget and remember. We get it wrong. And still—we stay in it. This is a living document meant to grow with you, argue with you, fall apart and be pieced back together. You don’t have to agree with every word. You’re invited to bring your own.
Let this be a beginning, not a destination. Let it sit beside your own traditions, not over them. And let it be held in the same spirit it was written: not for extraction, but for survival. Not for perfection, but for possibility. If this speaks to you, bring it with you. Let it transform, let it be contested, but let it live.
With care,
Vincent Mousseau
🛡️ How to Share This Work With Integrity
This framework is shared under a values-aligned Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) license.
Before sharing, citing, teaching, or adapting this work—especially in institutional or professional contexts—please read the full use and licensing statement:
👉 Values-Aligned Use Statement
Care is not neutral. Neither is this work. Let it travel with intention.