There are some titles that don’t just name a piece—they invite you into it.
Tell me something good is one of those titles.
It isn’t a demand. It’s a reaching. A soft request that assumes there is still good to be found, still something worth telling, still a note worth playing. And maybe that’s where this blog begins—with storytelling not as performance, but as offering.
I’ve always been drawn to personal stories. Not because I have something to prove, but because they allow me to be expressive in a way that feels honest. They give me room to share pieces of myself without the pressure of being fully explained. I am an ongoing introduction. A work still unfolding. And storytelling gives me permission to keep introducing myself—again and again—without having to arrive at a final version.
But let me be clear: this wasn’t easy.
Sharing personal stories is not comfortable territory for me. I’m a private person by nature. The experience was scary. Fearful. At times, intrusive. Not because I worried about what people might think—but because vulnerability has its own weight. Because truth, when spoken out loud, asks something of you. We don’t tend to share real personal details, not because we’re dishonest, but because some parts of us have learned to survive in quiet.
Still, I pushed through.
Not bravely. Not perfectly. Just honestly.
And what surprised me most was the joy I found in the process. Storytelling felt less like confessing and more like composing. It reminded me of music—of writing a note and trusting it to do its job. Some notes run. Some settle. Some quiver. Some hold. Each one has a purpose, even the ones that feel unfinished. And then there’s the whole note—the one that grounds everything, the one that gives the piece its solidness, its breath, its pause.
That’s what storytelling is to me.
Each story carries its own responsibility. No note is extra. No feeling is filler. Together, they form something fuller than explanation—a resonance. A rhythm. A way of saying this is me right now, without needing applause or permission.
This blog is not a declaration. It’s not a conclusion. It’s a continuation.
It’s me allowing my voice to be heard not as noise, but as music. Letting my experiences—fear and all—exist on the page as they are. Not smoothed over. Not justified. Just played.
So if you’re reading this, consider it an invitation, not just into my story, but into yours. Tell me something good. Tell me something real. Tell me in half-notes, in pauses, in runs that surprise you.
We’re all ongoing introductions.
And some of the most meaningful things we’ll ever share are still finding their tune.
ElondaFaith Matthews is a writer and storyteller who lets the work arrive before she names it. From Project SCARs to pieces like Mixtape on the Wind, After the Storm Lays Its Sword Down, He Sold Everything that was chosen for the journal and stories born mid‑reflection (She Came While I Was Answering), her creative work moves across story, poetry, and song—holding pain, warmth, and wisdom at the same time. She writes to gently challenge closed or conditioned ways of seeing, inviting others to lean in, recognize themselves within the story, and return to their own truth with clarity, courage, and breath.
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