I Don’t Follow Hustle Time. I Follow Berry Season

There’s a clock inside me that don’t tick like the ones in boardrooms and apps.
It’s not set to deadlines or deliverables. It doesn’t worship grind culture or capitalistic calendars. I move by moonlight, by fruit ripening, by ancestral rhythm. And lately, that rhythm has been whispering: slow down, soften, listen.

It’s the Strawberry Moon—and my blood knows it before my brain does.

I’m Ojibwe.
My people didn’t need alarm clocks.
We knew what time it was by watching the sky and tasting the earth.

When the wild strawberries began to ripen, that was the sign.
It was time to gather, to give thanks, to forgive softly.
Not because we were told to, but because the land showed us how.

The Heart Berry Taught Me Timing

Strawberries are called ode’imin in Anishinaabemowin. It literally means heart berry.

They grow close to the ground, fragile and sweet, just like some truths I carry in my chest.
They don’t rush to ripen. They take their time, and when they’re ready, you don’t have to force anything. You just receive.

This is how I’m learning to live again.
Not by hustling. Not by performing. But by listening to the Earth’s gentle cues.

I don’t keep track of my growth by how many hours I grind, but by the softness I let return to my life.
Washing fruit slowly.
Preparing food with intention.
Singing when no one’s listening.
And maybe even one day, sitting with women in the dark, under a fat moon,
talking like our grandmothers used to.

This Isn’t Just a Vibe—It’s Blood Memory

I used to think I was lazy for not being able to keep up with hustle culture.
But the truth is: I’m just remembering a deeper rhythm.

The Gregorian calendar? That’s not my ancestor.
Capitalism doesn’t feed my spirit.
But berry season does.
Full moons do.
The sound of wild water and the hush of a field at dusk—that’s my clock.

Forgiveness Doesn’t Mean I Forgot

The Strawberry Moon in Ojibwe tradition is also a time for forgiveness, but not that performative forgiveness that makes you small.

I’ve learned that I can release bitterness without letting people back in.
I can make peace and still hold my boundary like a sacred perimeter.
I can forgive without shrinking.
I can love without tolerating disrespect.

That’s heart wisdom, not ego.
And the heart berry reminds me—every damn year.

I Choose Soft Rituals, Not Hard Hustles

So when I write, when I share, when I show up online or in my body, it’s not from pressure.
It’s from a returning.
To myself.
To my matriarchs.
To my bloodline’s original tempo.

The womb is the only altar I acknowledge.
It holds memory, magic, and rhythm that no system can replicate.

The world might not understand it.
But every time I follow what softens me, what nourishes me, what aligns me with the natural world, I feel myself come home.

Not to a place, but to a frequency.

This Strawberry Moon, I’m choosing to move like the land moves—slow, sweet, intentional.
I don’t owe anyone urgency.
I owe my ancestors remembrance.
And I owe myself peace.

You can keep your grind.
I’ll be out here ripening.