Decolonizing Craft, an Interview with Maureen Medina

Maureen P. Medina is a writer, healing practitioner, and facilitator of safe, generative spaces. Author of My Fears Out Loud, she hosts open mics and generative writing workshops that incorporate somatic practices, and provides mental health trainings with a focus on anti-carceral resources. Her movement is informed by her belief that all oppression - and therefore, all liberation - is connected. She invites us to bear witness to ourselves and the world at large to heal individually and collectively.

—

On Becoming a Witness to Herself

LR: Can you describe your personal background, your experience as a writer, mental health advocate, and activist? 

MM: It's interesting. After reading my bio again, I feel like it doesn't quite fit me. I would no longer call myself a healer or healing practitioner but, instead, a witness. And I no longer dare to say that I hold safe spaces, simply because safety is different for everyone. There's a constant evolution in the behavior, language, and identities I grow in and out of. And through. We all experience this on some level. I think that this newfound—or maybe heightened—self-attunement speaks to the intimacy I've developed within myself. 

A few years ago, I found some of my journals from my tweens and teens. There were reflections I wrote about that I realized I never shared with anyone. There was so much I carried alone. I think that part of me didn't want to burden others with my load, and another part didn't even realize what I was carrying or that I needed help. My survival instinct was to write, so I did.

I still write because I have to, only now I can attest to the power of sharing and being witnessed by others. There's something about creating that makes your lived experience both unique and universal. There's something so human about being visible on your own terms and helping others do the same. That’s important to me in all my work.

When I decided to stop consuming animals ten years ago, I got angry. In fact, I'm still raging. The more I (un)learn, the more rage I feel. If we are not angry about the manufactured polycrisis in this overwhelming anthropocentric, patriarchal, and white supremacist world, we are not paying attention.

Understanding that my rage is what makes me human has helped me to hold space for others to explore the full breadth of their humanity. Writing and witnessing my own creations are tools I wield to help me hold my emotions. I reject the notion of emotions being positive or negative. They are all useful. They are all mirrors that reveal our sense of morality.

This sense of agency has taken years to develop and is still ongoing. Once I realized that taking ownership of my thoughts and deeds was a key to liberating myself, I rushed to share this knowing with others.

When I provide mental health trainings or facilitate creative workshops, I try to encourage participants to bear witness to their own lived experience and receive their emotions as information. I encourage them to parse through their conditioning to discern which thoughts and values belong to them, and which don't. Claiming what belongs to me and disowning what was forced upon me have altered the way I perceive and relate to the world. Safety, informed consent, and agency are sacred, non-negotiable elements that I try to honor in every space I hold.

There are so many forms of activism that I have engaged in, outgrown, and have yet to pursue, but I want to start here: liberating ourselves as a form of resistance.

Poetry as Resistance and Everyday Practice

LR: I feel like the importance of visibility you mention is something that is extremely important to creatives, especially those belonging to marginalized communities, even though stepping into the role of being seen can be difficult for a lot of writers. So much of your work is not just about writing and teaching, but also activism around collective liberation and food sovereignty. Can you talk to me a bit about how your work as an activist and a poet comes together?

MM: For me, poetry is a lifeline, a balm, and a saving grace that I indulge in and share generously with others. Remembering, knowing, naming, and challenging through poetry and beyond are meaningful forms of resistance. 

Exploring poetry was a sort of introduction to actively stripping back all the layers of indoctrination that I refuse to carry. I am applying the wisdom I acquire through it in every part of my life: the food I eat, the clothes I wear, how I inhabit my body, the companies I patronize and boycott, the language I use, etc. 

I have been increasingly integrating abolitionist, community-led language, approaches, and resources into my mental health trainings with the goal of decentering and dismantling carceral systems.

A recurring theme I hope readers will recognize in the work I do is exploring ways to embrace sovereignty: understanding what safety means, what it feels and looks like; discerning between spaces that offer the sense of safety we need and spaces that perpetuate harm; recognizing how we receive the world in our body (somatic experiencing); embodying our multitudes; being intentional rather than reactive; and registering our knowledge of self, which defies punitive, carceral, colonial, and capitalist systems.

Essentially, I have been accessing poetry and other pathways to remind the communities I serve of their (shared) humanity, which is the very thing that colonialism tries to erase.

LR: Yes, it’s so important to redefine our ideas of what is “valuable” outside of the colonial, patriarchal, and capitalist systems that influence our creative work and sense of self. When thinking about somatic practices and their importance in creative practice, do you feel like there’s ever pushback from the creative community or fellow writers? Or maybe skepticism as to why these practices are not only effective but as important as learning what is traditionally thought of as “craft,” or how to write in specific poetic forms, for instance?

MM: As an activist who finds ways to talk about colonization, imperialism, sovereignty, safety, and consent in every space I inhabit, I've always believed that my poetry has come from a cognitive place. Actually, it's my body, my interoception (my attunement of the sensations in my body), neuroception (my understanding of safety and threat), and perception (my interpretation of my sensations) that inform my art and activism.

For example, when I feel heartbroken or creative, I feel pressure in my chest. I've often written poems with the feeling that my chest would burst. It's taken time for me to recognize that when I ache, it feels like my chest will implode, and when I'm inspired, it feels like my chest will explode. I've only recently been able to distinguish the difference in pressure and sensations.

Finetuning my understanding of my somatic experience has communicated to me what outlets I need to access in order to acknowledge my emotions and relieve that pressure. This is the kind of discernment —self-attunement—that I try to share with others, not just in poetry, but also and especially within the mental health industrial complex (MHIC). 

In the MHIC, people are pathologized, criminalized, infantilized, and robbed of dignity and consent because they are not given space or tools to safely process their experiences.

Fortunately, I can't remember any pushback when I've incorporated somatic practices in the spaces I hold. When creatives have talked about their resistance to stillness, for example, or their discomfort with self-touch, it's usually because of the lack of access, vocabulary, or permission to engage in these practices in their life.

More often than not, the creatives I engage with in these practices leave surprised and grateful. In this capitalist world, where our lifestyles are dictated to us and resources are gatekept, we are removed from our own values and somatic experiences. When we give ourselves permission to have our own undivided attention, we are surprised by what we discover. We're surprised by how we are simultaneously well acquainted and foreign to ourselves.

It has been my experience that, upon giving themselves permission to be gentle, curious, and receptive to messages from their body, creatives have become curious to delve deeper into their somatic experience.

Decolonizing Craft in Creative Spaces

LR: As other immigrant writers have pointed out—Matthew Sallesses comes to mind—craft is a matter of culture and power. And foregoing certain culturally acceptable forms of writing often leads to “experimental” work that mirrors resistance movements. How do you tend to define decolonization in your own work, both as a writer and as an educator?

MM: I have participated in so many spaces where art was squandered on ego, awards, academia, and contests; where art or artists were conflated with morality (that is, when genius trumps harm, or impact excuses intention, etc.). I've witnessed celebrity culture among artists reinforcing harmful narratives, systems, and hierarchies, especially with cis-het-white men. 

I believe that poetry, and any art form, can be activism: art created with purpose, art that amplifies silenced voices, experiences, and realities, art that serves as a catalyst for change or action, art that demands boycotts and resistance, art that builds, art that nourishes, art that brings pleasure, art that defies, art that persists, art that means something, art created by artists whose existence is criminalized. 

In my own artistry, I value authenticity over craft. I would rather be honest than structured. As a confessional poet who often writes in prose and free verse, I seek out raw, confrontational content that ignites action rather than a finessed sonnet about nothing. I prefer accessibility and simplicity over formality and aesthetics.

I've found that whenever I have created or shared myself with the intent of being impressive, I've felt a sense of shame and unease. Whenever I create or share with urgency,I feel empowered, validated, held, and like a true artist.

Something really special that has come from this pursuit of authenticity has led me to co-found YELLOW, a sacred space for Asian artists and change makers. I noticed in the spaces I attended that there were so many white faces and voices, and my co-founder, Keith Mar, and I ached for the presence of fellow Asians. We began as an open mic in September 2024, but have expanded our space to include all art modalities and other forms of activism that are either created, led by, or centered on Asians. We have had wholesome conversations about colonization, internalized racism, orientalism, systemic oppression, the fetishization of Asians, living in the diaspora, inequity, disability, queerness, mental health, the patriarchy, and the list goes on. Our art and dialogue have reminded us that our lived experience is, at once, unique and universal.

Our next gathering is on Sunday, January 25th, 9:30am PT/12:30pm ET (Check worldtimebuddy.com for your time zone). Stay updated about all things YELLOW.

Bear Witness: Bringing Embodiment Back to Our Writing

LR: You’ll be teaching the Bear Witness: Bringing Embodiment Back to our Writing Practice workshop at our April 2026 Entrelinhas retreat. Can you tell us a little bit about that?

MM: Speaking of bearing witness, in YELLOW and in every space I perform, I have yet to invite my family to witness me. I have written about them—the generational trauma and resilience I've inherited—mental health, social (in)justice, and my lived experience and disdain of being an American settler. I have yet to feel safe enough to welcome them into my heart. It is a distance that I nurture, which helps me stay close to my self.

A respected friend and mentor of mine, PJ Samuels from Speak the Word, has said that distance is the key to colonization: Distance from ourselves and distance from each other. Deep, unapologetic knowing of who you are, who you want to be, how you want to show up in the world, holding what belongs to you, and then embodying that knowledge with care and intention in every facet of your life and artistry—this is resistance, this is decolonization. That's what I hope you'll glean from the Bear Witness workshop.

On Children, Freedom, and Imagination

LR: We’re so looking forward to it! And last but not least, could you tell us something you’ve read recently that made you feel inspired? Or maybe hopeful about the future?

MM: On November 30th, I attended a Christmas bazaar organized by Parents for Peace Portugal in honor of the International Day of Solidarity with Palestine on November 29th. I led a workshop with children, encouraging them to write about freedom and what it means to them. They leaned into their own knowing of what freedom looks and feels like, and then sent wishes into the universe that the children of Palestine could enjoy the same freedoms and, of course, their own sense of freedom. Coupled with arts and crafts, the kids created beautiful booklets, cards, bracelets, and illustrations with achingly simple wishes like "I wish you could be with your family." There was no confusion, complication, or hoarding of freedom, only an innate wish that everyone could have it.

In that same bazaar, I bought a book for my young nephew,though I might keep it for myself. The book is called Filas de Sonhos (“Lines of Dreams”) by Rita Sineiro and Laia Domenech. The premise was much like Roberto Benigni's film, Life is Beautiful, where a father used humor, creativity, and imagination to make living in a concentration camp during the Jewish holocaust less scary for his son. Filas de Sonhos is a story about displacement from the eyes of a kid, whose father is doing everything he can to minimize his son's fear and protect his innocence.

I drew a parallel in the achingly simple messages in the children's freedom wishes and Filas de Sonhos. They were written simply, from the heart, and from the perspective of a child. The simplicity of these texts, for me, is more accessible intellectually, creatively, and morally, and the kid—whether they are the creator, witness, or both—is given tools to imagine, observe, receive, and be curious. The experience I had with the kids and then, within a few hours, reading Filas de Sonhos, gave me hope that some children are still allowed to embody play, art, and creativity. I hope their spark will be held and nurtured so that they continue to embody play, art, and creativity as adults.

As the late but ever present Assata Shakur said, "We need to be weapons of mass construction, weapons of mass love. It's not enough just to change the system. We need to change ourselves."

I hope that all of you who are reading this are finding your way back to your imagination, your body, your breath, your knowing. I hope that you are embracing yourself, playing, making mistakes, and doing whatever you need and deserve to nourish your sovereignty. I look forward to meeting and witnessing everyone but, mostly, I look forward to you bearing witness to yourself.

Thank you, Lu, Olivia, and Entrelinhas Retreat! I wish you all ease and meaning as you transition into this new year!

If Maureen’s approach resonates with you, explore our upcoming retreat and workshops.