THE REGAL EDIT

👑 HELLO, REGAL ONES Welcome to The Regal Edit™, your curated digest for living and leading in full alignment. Each edition distills five essentials in business, health, spirituality, lifestyle, and social impact — designed to elevate how you think, feel, and move through the world.

When I was little, Saturdays had a soundtrack.

The smell of Bustelo coffee would curl through our Nueva York apartment before dawn—that dark, earthy aroma that could wake the dead. By mid-morning, vinyl crackled on the record player: El Gran Combo de Puerto Rico's timbales cutting through the kitchen clatter, José Feliciano's voice smooth as rum, Héctor Lavoe singing about life in el barrio with that ache only he could carry. And always, always, Motown because our living room held space for both the Supremes and salsa, for Marvin Gaye and Tito Nieves, for all the music of displacement and belonging.

My grandmother Eloise—my father's mother, our matriarch—presided over these gatherings like a benevolent general. Her kitchen was command central, and her food was non-negotiable. You came. You ate. You danced. On Christmas Eve, three generations would crowd into her living room, and it didn't matter if you were five or seventy-five—you danced salsa. Family legend holds that my grandfather, after one too many coquitos, once grabbed a broom as his partner and didn't miss a beat.

This was our inheritance: the music, the movement, the insistence on joy even when—especially when—the world wanted to erase us.

My parents were both born in Puerto Rico, a place many Americans didn't even know was a U.S. colony until recently. That ignorance isn't accidental. Colonization depends on erasure. When the United States seized the island in 1898 after the Spanish-American War, they tried to overwrite our language, our customs, our very names. But you cannot erase what lives in the body.

The island my parents knew—Borikén, as our Taíno ancestors called it, meaning "Great Land of the Valiant Lord"—carries centuries of resistance in its bones. There is Bomba, the drum-and-dance born from African slaves, where the dancer leads and the drummer must follow—a reversal of power, an insistence on autonomy even in chains. By 1530, over half the island's population was African. There is Loíza, Puerto Rico, the coastal town established by liberated African slaves who built community on their own terms, transforming their freedom into culture, into legacy.

Puerto Rico's very infrastructure—all built by African and Indigenous hands. Yet how often is that acknowledged? How often do we see ourselves in the official histories?

The artist Samuel Lind has spent over forty years answering that question. Through his sculptures, paintings, and music, he has become a visual historian of Loíza, threading together African and Indigenous heritage, giving form to what the textbooks left out. His work insists: We were here. We are here. We will remain.

This week we enter Black History Month—as millions prepare to watch Bad Bunny perform at the Super Bowl halftime show, his album DeBí TiRaR MáS FOToS serves as a love letter to Puerto Rico's layered history. As I am writing this the thing I keep thinking about is invisible threads. The ones that connect my grandmother's kitchen to a Loíza beach. The ones that tie Bomba drums to freedom songs sung in Mississippi. The ones that remind us our struggles have never been separate.

I keep returning to the words of Ta-Nehisi Coates, who recently said: "We are at a moment right now where people are asking themselves why can't the Democratic party defend this assault on democracy…and I would submit to you that if you can't draw the line at genocide, you probably can't draw the line at democracy."

If we cannot see each other's humanity across borders, across histories, across the false divisions colonialism drew….then what are we defending?

This week's newsletter is about those invisible threads. The ones we inherit. The ones we choose. The ones that, when pulled taut, reveal we've been connected all along.

BUSINESS

Wound is Only Healed by the Lance That Made It: Why entrepreneurship might be the medicine, not the poison

I came across a post by Erick Godsey this week and he shared a concept that hit very close to home. And to my heart.

He talked about Carl Jung's idea of two personalities living inside us:

Personality No. 1 is the "spirit of the times" — aka the part that learns to fit in, that wants money, recognition, success in the traditional sense.

Personality No. 2 is the "spirit of the depths" — aka the ancient part of you that wants ritual, silence, dreams, music around a fire at night. The part that feels things deeply.

He said that most artists are deeply sensitive to Personality No. 2. And here's what hit me: that weoften unconsciously associate entrepreneurship with everything that's sick in our culture. So we reject it. We reject the very tools that could help us build the life our souls are asking for.

I relate to this so deeply. For years, I resisted anything that felt like "selling" or "marketing" because it felt like I was feeding a machine I didn't believe in. But Godsey reframes it: what if entrepreneurship is just a modern magical system that Personality No. 1 can learn so that Personality No. 2 can actually impact culture?

He says forget "product-market fit" and "niching down." Instead, become the magician a younger you needed. Create something that would have helped you. Make it just for that younger, wounded version of yourself.

For example: he shared that when he lost his job in 2019, he created the journaling course he wished existed when he was 20 and going through psychosis. He explained it like this: Personality No. 2 created the content, but it was Personality No. 1 that figured out the landing page, the Stripe account, the emails. And when people started paying him for something he knew would feed their souls? He said that was the first time both personalities came together in joy.

There's an old Grail myth saying he shared as well: Seale guérit la blessure la lance qui la fit — "The wound is only healed by the lance that made it."

Have you ever felt paralyzed by the idea of "being an entrepreneur"? Like you'd have to betray something essential in yourself to succeed? Maybe this reframe could help. Maybe selling your medicine isn't selling out. Maybe it's healing the wound with the very thing that made it.

Source: Erick Godsey @erickgodsey

HEALTH & WELL-BEING

Ancient wisdom meets modern science:

Practice for Today: Box Breathing To honor this holistic approach to wellness, try this science-backed breathing technique used by Navy SEALs and supported by research showing it reduces cortisol and activates the parasympathetic nervous system:

• Breathe in for 4 counts

• Hold for 4 counts

• Breathe out for 4 counts

• Hold for 4 counts

• Repeat for 4 rounds

This simple practice connects breath to presence, calming the nervous system while honoring the ancient understanding that the body holds wisdom.

LIFESTYLE

Ancient African Self-Care Wisdom

Long before the term "self-care" became a wellness buzzword, pre-colonial African societies practiced holistic care that honored the interconnection of mind, body, and spirit. These weren't just beauty rituals they were sacred practices passed down through generations, rooted in community, nature, and ancestral wisdom.

Skincare From the Earth 

African communities created sophisticated beauty treatments using local resources. In West Africa, shea butter and African black soap nourished and protected skin against harsh climates. North African hammam rituals used mineral-rich Rhassoul clay mixed with rose water for deep cleansing and spiritual purification. The Himba people of Southern Africa blended butterfat with red ochre to create otjize paste a sunscreen, insect repellent, and symbol of beauty all in one.

Hair as Cultural Identity 

Protective styling wasn't just practical—it was art. Elaborate cornrows, threading (like the Yoruba's Irun Kiko), and braiding protected hair while communicating social status, age, and tribal affiliation. Natural oils like karkar oil and shea butter maintained moisture and health, proving that "natural hair care" has ancient roots.

Wellness as Community

 Unlike today's often solitary self-care routines, African practices were deeply communal. Dance and drumming using instruments like the djembe provided emotional release and meditative states. Traditional healers offered therapeutic massages and herbal remedies like Rooibos tea for overall well-being.

Spiritual Cleansing

Self-care extended beyond the physical. Spiritual baths infused with herbs cleansed negative energy. Libations honored ancestors, seeking their guidance and peace. In East Africa, al-dukkhan smoke baths purified both body and spirit.

The Lesson for Today 

These practices remind us that true self-care is holistic it nurtures our physical health, emotional well-being, spiritual connection, and community bonds. As we honor Black History Month, consider incorporating these time-tested traditions: use natural ingredients, make wellness communal, and remember that caring for yourself is a sacred act

SOCIAL IMPACT

How to Help: ICE Raids and Community Protection

As immigration enforcement escalates, communities nationwide are mobilizing to protect their neighbors. If you're wondering how to help, here are concrete actions you can take right now:

1. Call Your Senators About ICE Funding The most direct way to pressure elected officials is through phone calls—and 5 Calls makes it easy.

How it works:

• Visit 5calls.org or download the app

• Enter your zip code to get direct phone numbers for your two senators and representative

• Use their pre-written, editable script to guide your call

• The app tracks call volume, which creates pressure on officials

What's happening now: There are active campaigns urging senators to vote NO on Department of Homeland Security (DHS) appropriations bills that increase ICE funding. You can call to demand that your senators "refuse to vote for any appropriations bill funding DHS that fails to rein in ICE."

Nervous about calling?

• Call after hours to leave a voicemail—it still counts

• Leave your full name and address so your call is recorded as a constituent

• Volume matters: the more calls they get, the more pressure they feel

You can also call the Capitol switchboard directly at 202-224-3121 to be connected to your senators.

Alternative app: PolitiCall also makes it easy to reach both Senate and House representatives.

2. Know Your Rights & Share Them Organizations like United We Dream and the ACLU offer multilingual "Know Your Rights" cards and resources. Print them. Share them. Make sure your community knows: you do not have to open the door for ICE without a judicial warrant signed by a judge. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.

Download resources: unitedwedream.org/know-your-rights

3. Support Rapid Response Networks Many cities have Rapid Response Networks that dispatch legal observers, immigration attorneys, and community support when ICE activity is reported. You can donate, volunteer as a legal observer (training provided), or help spread alerts.

Find your local network or support national efforts through organizations like Mijente, the National Immigration Law Center, and the Immigrant Defense Project.

4. Offer Concrete Support If someone in your community is detained, they need practical help immediately: childcare, rides to court, money for bond, phone calls to family. Mutual aid networks and immigrant rights organizations coordinate this support. Show up. Contribute what you can—time, money, skills, presence.

This isn't abstract. This is neighbors protecting neighbors. That's how we build the world

SPIRITUALITY

Joy as Sacred Resistance

There's a line that I wrote in this newsletter’s intro that keeps circling back to me: "This was our inheritance: the music, the movement, the insistence on joy even when—especially when—the world wanted to erase us."

Insistence on joy. Not the Instagram kind. The kind that survives genocide, slavery, colonization. The kind that shows up in your grandmother's kitchen on a Saturday morning even though the world is hostile. The kind that makes you dance at seventy-five because your body remembers freedom even when the systems around you don't.

This is spiritual work.

When Ta-Nehisi Coates said, "If you can't draw the line at genocide, you probably can't draw the line at democracy," he was naming something deeper than politics. He was naming the through-line of all oppression: the refusal to see each other's full humanity.

But joy? Joy is the refusal of that refusal.

Joy says: you tried to erase us and we are still here, dancing, cooking, creating, loving, building.
Joy says: my existence is not up for debate.
Joy says: I will tend to beauty even in the wreckage.

The spiritual practice this week isn't complicated. It's this: choose one moment of joy that would have been stolen from your ancestors. A meal. A song. A rest. A gathering. A dance. And do it intentionally, as an act of honoring what survived.

Because joy, in a world built on extraction, is prayer.

TODAY’S MANTRA

Con Mucho Amor,

Tanyette

Smart. Soulful. Aligned.