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‎راز من (Rāz-e man) My Secret

I have loved in the open before -
and watched love be torn from my hands.
Every love I placed before the world,
was violently taken from me.

So I kept one thing sacred.
A song no one could steal.
A love no one could betray.
In the quiet corners of my room, I played.
No applause. No eyes to witness.
Just the hum of wood against my skin,
the whisper of strings beneath my fingertips.

They called my name on national stages,
but the empty seats always knew my truth.
There are no photographs to prove
I ever held her, ever bled for her,
ever wept with her in my arms.

For years, she sat in the shadows,
gathering dust like a forgotten prayer.
Because indifference is the slowest kind of death,
and in places where I was unseen,
so was she.

But when I walked away from those hands
that never clapped, from those eyes
that never saw beyond the surface -
She was still there. Waiting.
Forgiving.
Singing for me as if I had never left.

And for that, I love her.
For that, now, I let the world see her shine.
She has given me nothing but abundance,
nothing but love.

I keep her secret no more.
She is mine, and I am hers.
And we are one -
until the silence takes me.

And even then,
She will continue to sing for me.

Thank you for these beautiful photos @mitchvsantos

‎راز من (Rāz-e man) My Secret

I have loved in the open before -
and watched love be torn from my hands.
Every love I placed before the world,
was violently taken from me.

So I kept one thing sacred.
A song no one could steal.
A love no one could betray.
In the quiet corners of my room, I played.
No applause. No eyes to witness.
Just the hum of wood against my skin,
the whisper of strings beneath my fingertips.

They called my name on national stages,
but the empty seats always knew my truth.
There are no photographs to prove
I ever held her, ever bled for her,
ever wept with her in my arms.

For years, she sat in the shadows,
gathering dust like a forgotten prayer.
Because indifference is the slowest kind of death,
and in places where I was unseen,
so was she.

But when I walked away from those hands
that never clapped, from those eyes
that never saw beyond the surface -
She was still there. Waiting.
Forgiving.
Singing for me as if I had never left.

And for that, I love her.
For that, now, I let the world see her shine.
She has given me nothing but abundance,
nothing but love.

I keep her secret no more.
She is mine, and I am hers.
And we are one -
until the silence takes me.

And even then,
She will continue to sing for me.

Thank you for these beautiful photos @mitchvsantos

‎راز من (Rāz-e man) My Secret

I have loved in the open before -
and watched love be torn from my hands.
Every love I placed before the world,
was violently taken from me.

So I kept one thing sacred.
A song no one could steal.
A love no one could betray.
In the quiet corners of my room, I played.
No applause. No eyes to witness.
Just the hum of wood against my skin,
the whisper of strings beneath my fingertips.

They called my name on national stages,
but the empty seats always knew my truth.
There are no photographs to prove
I ever held her, ever bled for her,
ever wept with her in my arms.

For years, she sat in the shadows,
gathering dust like a forgotten prayer.
Because indifference is the slowest kind of death,
and in places where I was unseen,
so was she.

But when I walked away from those hands
that never clapped, from those eyes
that never saw beyond the surface -
She was still there. Waiting.
Forgiving.
Singing for me as if I had never left.

And for that, I love her.
For that, now, I let the world see her shine.
She has given me nothing but abundance,
nothing but love.

I keep her secret no more.
She is mine, and I am hers.
And we are one -
until the silence takes me.

And even then,
She will continue to sing for me.

Thank you for these beautiful photos @mitchvsantos

‎راز من (Rāz-e man) My Secret

I have loved in the open before -
and watched love be torn from my hands.
Every love I placed before the world,
was violently taken from me.

So I kept one thing sacred.
A song no one could steal.
A love no one could betray.
In the quiet corners of my room, I played.
No applause. No eyes to witness.
Just the hum of wood against my skin,
the whisper of strings beneath my fingertips.

They called my name on national stages,
but the empty seats always knew my truth.
There are no photographs to prove
I ever held her, ever bled for her,
ever wept with her in my arms.

For years, she sat in the shadows,
gathering dust like a forgotten prayer.
Because indifference is the slowest kind of death,
and in places where I was unseen,
so was she.

But when I walked away from those hands
that never clapped, from those eyes
that never saw beyond the surface -
She was still there. Waiting.
Forgiving.
Singing for me as if I had never left.

And for that, I love her.
For that, now, I let the world see her shine.
She has given me nothing but abundance,
nothing but love.

I keep her secret no more.
She is mine, and I am hers.
And we are one -
until the silence takes me.

And even then,
She will continue to sing for me.

Thank you for these beautiful photos @mitchvsantos

‎راز من (Rāz-e man) My Secret

I have loved in the open before -
and watched love be torn from my hands.
Every love I placed before the world,
was violently taken from me.

So I kept one thing sacred.
A song no one could steal.
A love no one could betray.
In the quiet corners of my room, I played.
No applause. No eyes to witness.
Just the hum of wood against my skin,
the whisper of strings beneath my fingertips.

They called my name on national stages,
but the empty seats always knew my truth.
There are no photographs to prove
I ever held her, ever bled for her,
ever wept with her in my arms.

For years, she sat in the shadows,
gathering dust like a forgotten prayer.
Because indifference is the slowest kind of death,
and in places where I was unseen,
so was she.

But when I walked away from those hands
that never clapped, from those eyes
that never saw beyond the surface -
She was still there. Waiting.
Forgiving.
Singing for me as if I had never left.

And for that, I love her.
For that, now, I let the world see her shine.
She has given me nothing but abundance,
nothing but love.

I keep her secret no more.
She is mine, and I am hers.
And we are one -
until the silence takes me.

And even then,
She will continue to sing for me.

Thank you for these beautiful photos @mitchvsantos

Honored to have written the Nowruz Proclamation for the City of Denver AS AN AFGHAN - acknowledgingand recognizing Nowruz as a cultural day of importance ✨

I am not Persian. But I am a child of Nowruz, raised on the scent of hyacinths and the taste of fresh Haft Mewa, carrying centuries of tradition in my blood. So this year, I wrote the proclamation of Nowruz -to carve its name into the fabric of this place, to remind the world that it is not just one nation’s holiday, but a legacy woven through time and land, belonging to millions.

Yes, the first Nowruz was rooted in Iran, but to call it only "Persian New Year" is to erase the voices of those who have carried it through centuries and across borders. Nowruz is not just Iran’s, not just Afghanistan’s—it belongs to over 300 million people across Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Pakistan, parts of India, Iraq, and Turkey. It is a celebration older than borders, older than the nations we now name. It is the fire we leap over, chanting zardi man az to, sorkhi to az man—take my sickness, give me your warmth. It is the Haft Sin and the Haft Mewa, the first taste of sweetness in a new year, the fresh clothes, the poetry, the gathering of hands.

Nowruz literally translates to New Day. A day where the earth resets, and so do we. A day when the past is left behind in the flames, and spring reminds us that no winter—no hardship, no grief—lasts forever. It is tulips blooming in the valleys of Mazar and the echoes of Hafez’s poetry in Shiraz. It is a moment outside of time, a reminder that we have endured.

Nowruz is not just a new year; it is proof of our survival. A testament to the fact that we are still here. That no matter how many times we are scattered, how many times we must rebuild, spring will always find us.

So no, Nowruz is not just a Persian New Year. It is Afghan. It is Tajik. It is Uzbek, and Turkmen, and Kazakh. It is mine. It is yours. It is all of ours. And as long as the sun rises, we will celebrate it—not in silence, not in erasure, but in the full bloom of its name.

Nowruz Mubarak to every heart, no matter where in the world you stand 🌸🌷

Honored to have written the Nowruz Proclamation for the City of Denver AS AN AFGHAN - acknowledgingand recognizing Nowruz as a cultural day of importance ✨

I am not Persian. But I am a child of Nowruz, raised on the scent of hyacinths and the taste of fresh Haft Mewa, carrying centuries of tradition in my blood. So this year, I wrote the proclamation of Nowruz -to carve its name into the fabric of this place, to remind the world that it is not just one nation’s holiday, but a legacy woven through time and land, belonging to millions.

Yes, the first Nowruz was rooted in Iran, but to call it only "Persian New Year" is to erase the voices of those who have carried it through centuries and across borders. Nowruz is not just Iran’s, not just Afghanistan’s—it belongs to over 300 million people across Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Pakistan, parts of India, Iraq, and Turkey. It is a celebration older than borders, older than the nations we now name. It is the fire we leap over, chanting zardi man az to, sorkhi to az man—take my sickness, give me your warmth. It is the Haft Sin and the Haft Mewa, the first taste of sweetness in a new year, the fresh clothes, the poetry, the gathering of hands.

Nowruz literally translates to New Day. A day where the earth resets, and so do we. A day when the past is left behind in the flames, and spring reminds us that no winter—no hardship, no grief—lasts forever. It is tulips blooming in the valleys of Mazar and the echoes of Hafez’s poetry in Shiraz. It is a moment outside of time, a reminder that we have endured.

Nowruz is not just a new year; it is proof of our survival. A testament to the fact that we are still here. That no matter how many times we are scattered, how many times we must rebuild, spring will always find us.

So no, Nowruz is not just a Persian New Year. It is Afghan. It is Tajik. It is Uzbek, and Turkmen, and Kazakh. It is mine. It is yours. It is all of ours. And as long as the sun rises, we will celebrate it—not in silence, not in erasure, but in the full bloom of its name.

Nowruz Mubarak to every heart, no matter where in the world you stand 🌸🌷

Honored to have written the Nowruz Proclamation for the City of Denver AS AN AFGHAN - acknowledgingand recognizing Nowruz as a cultural day of importance ✨

I am not Persian. But I am a child of Nowruz, raised on the scent of hyacinths and the taste of fresh Haft Mewa, carrying centuries of tradition in my blood. So this year, I wrote the proclamation of Nowruz -to carve its name into the fabric of this place, to remind the world that it is not just one nation’s holiday, but a legacy woven through time and land, belonging to millions.

Yes, the first Nowruz was rooted in Iran, but to call it only "Persian New Year" is to erase the voices of those who have carried it through centuries and across borders. Nowruz is not just Iran’s, not just Afghanistan’s—it belongs to over 300 million people across Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Pakistan, parts of India, Iraq, and Turkey. It is a celebration older than borders, older than the nations we now name. It is the fire we leap over, chanting zardi man az to, sorkhi to az man—take my sickness, give me your warmth. It is the Haft Sin and the Haft Mewa, the first taste of sweetness in a new year, the fresh clothes, the poetry, the gathering of hands.

Nowruz literally translates to New Day. A day where the earth resets, and so do we. A day when the past is left behind in the flames, and spring reminds us that no winter—no hardship, no grief—lasts forever. It is tulips blooming in the valleys of Mazar and the echoes of Hafez’s poetry in Shiraz. It is a moment outside of time, a reminder that we have endured.

Nowruz is not just a new year; it is proof of our survival. A testament to the fact that we are still here. That no matter how many times we are scattered, how many times we must rebuild, spring will always find us.

So no, Nowruz is not just a Persian New Year. It is Afghan. It is Tajik. It is Uzbek, and Turkmen, and Kazakh. It is mine. It is yours. It is all of ours. And as long as the sun rises, we will celebrate it—not in silence, not in erasure, but in the full bloom of its name.

Nowruz Mubarak to every heart, no matter where in the world you stand 🌸🌷

Honored to have written the Nowruz Proclamation for the City of Denver AS AN AFGHAN - acknowledgingand recognizing Nowruz as a cultural day of importance ✨

I am not Persian. But I am a child of Nowruz, raised on the scent of hyacinths and the taste of fresh Haft Mewa, carrying centuries of tradition in my blood. So this year, I wrote the proclamation of Nowruz -to carve its name into the fabric of this place, to remind the world that it is not just one nation’s holiday, but a legacy woven through time and land, belonging to millions.

Yes, the first Nowruz was rooted in Iran, but to call it only "Persian New Year" is to erase the voices of those who have carried it through centuries and across borders. Nowruz is not just Iran’s, not just Afghanistan’s—it belongs to over 300 million people across Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Pakistan, parts of India, Iraq, and Turkey. It is a celebration older than borders, older than the nations we now name. It is the fire we leap over, chanting zardi man az to, sorkhi to az man—take my sickness, give me your warmth. It is the Haft Sin and the Haft Mewa, the first taste of sweetness in a new year, the fresh clothes, the poetry, the gathering of hands.

Nowruz literally translates to New Day. A day where the earth resets, and so do we. A day when the past is left behind in the flames, and spring reminds us that no winter—no hardship, no grief—lasts forever. It is tulips blooming in the valleys of Mazar and the echoes of Hafez’s poetry in Shiraz. It is a moment outside of time, a reminder that we have endured.

Nowruz is not just a new year; it is proof of our survival. A testament to the fact that we are still here. That no matter how many times we are scattered, how many times we must rebuild, spring will always find us.

So no, Nowruz is not just a Persian New Year. It is Afghan. It is Tajik. It is Uzbek, and Turkmen, and Kazakh. It is mine. It is yours. It is all of ours. And as long as the sun rises, we will celebrate it—not in silence, not in erasure, but in the full bloom of its name.

Nowruz Mubarak to every heart, no matter where in the world you stand 🌸🌷

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

Swipe to watch me play.
Scroll to read something pretty. (TW: suicide)

A Song Between Strings, Stars and Scars

When i play, it’s like pressing my lips to the moon,
left lonely in the dark after the sun turned me down.
Now I dance in the fire tails of comets,
the heat licking my skin, wild and untamed,
and I stumble through the winds,
as it dances with the waves,
caught in a rhythm deeper than gravity.

Music is both my anchor and my rebellion,
the only thing strong enough to hold me down -
while lifting me far beyond the places most people fear.

Throughout the history of Me-
These strings on my violin sang louder than the slits on my wrists,
a song that took my pain in its mouth,
and held it there, like absinthe burning the tongue,
until those scars learned to hum, soft and raw,
a harmony between beauty and the edge of eternal darkness.

So i play, for the ache and the ecstasy,
for the scars that scratch at me, “i’m still here.”
in the spaces between waves and stars,
i am both shattered and whole,
untamed, exquisite, and finally free.

Hosnah Safi
🖤

A very special thank you for @shotsavant for the incredible photos and of course, @afghanamericancommunityorg for having me.

“Hosnah, have you read this book? It reminds me of you so much.”

The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho is about a woman raised inside devotion who learns early how to behave, succeed, and be admired. She searches for herself in love, in careers, in hobbies, doing everything right, becoming good at everything she touches. From the outside, she looks fulfilled. From the inside, she is starving.

That part felt uncomfortable because it was painfully familiar.
I understood why this book reminded others of myself.

I spent years chasing identity through achievement and motion. I was productive, adaptable, successful by most measures, and deeply disconnected. I kept assuming fulfillment was something you earned after enough effort. It never came.

In the book, her power doesn’t arrive through obedience or refinement. It arrives the moment she stops asking permission. Art becomes her language. Dance becomes her rebellion. Music becomes her bridge back into the body, into spirit, into a truth that doesn’t desire approval.

Some people find God on a prayer mat. Others find God in movement.

This video was captured in a single take by Fa’al, after another shoot, in a photography studio, still wrapped in my Afghan clothes. No performance. No rehearsal. No correction. Just movement. He followed me as I moved from pursuit to release, from chasing to being followed.

What was revealed is what I know now to be true. Identity does not respond to discipline or devotion. It responds to surrender. It finds you when you stop trying to contain it.

When a woman stops asking permission to exist, she is often mistaken for a threat. Every culture has a name for women who choose themselves. Witch is just one of them.

I’m no Hagia Sofia, but I am Hosnah Safi.

❤️

✨My real hair is almost this long again - need to update this feed asap considering I haven't posted since March (lol)✨ photo friends please slip into the DMs ✨

Photo from a former shoot done with NUD Extensions ✨

The sound of music 🎶
What instrument can you play?

#sonyalpha #colorgrade #lavideographer #sony #cinema #soundofmusic #create #explore

The ocean was calling for us 🎻🌊


#lavideographer #sonyalpha #colorgrade #musician #violin #createart

A little taste of a project I had the privilege of bringing to life - “Eat the Rich” wrapped in Wes Anderson inspired aesthetics. Titled: Hypernormalisation.

As Plato once said, “There should exist among the citizens neither extreme poverty nor, again, excessive wealth, for both are productive of great evil.”

Let that sink in.

Right now, the top 10% hold more wealth than the bottom 90% combined. Read that again. While we fight each other, the system thrives off our division,designed to keep us distracted while the rich get richer and we pay $15 for a carton of eggs.

But the cracks are showing. The illusion is fading. And the day will come when we stop begging for crumbs from the table and realize - we were meant to flip the whole damn table over.

Watch the entire clip on @woodyroseland page 📸 who produced the entire thing - and is also the man I'm strangling.

PS: The tie-mouth dab? Completely improvised. From the girl whose first concert ever was Rage Against the Machine.

Little Hosnah would be proud.

Birthday BEAT for my sister @hello.hosnah 🇦🇫♥️

13 years of friendship. I can’t wait until we’re old and grey and still showing up 45 min late to the functions 😂 #BrownPeopleTime

PHOTO: @luispizarroportraits 📷
STYLE: @fardinfashioninc 💃🏽

——

#denvermua #denvermakeupartist #coloradomua #coloradomakeupartist#coloradoesthetician #denveresthetician #denverweddings #coloradoweddings #denverbridal #coloradobridal #quinceañera #quinceañeramakeup #bridalmakeup #weddingmakeup #vailmakeupartist #avonmakeupartist #beavercreekmakeupartist #breckenridgemakeupartist #estesparkmakeupartist #coloradospringsmua #aspenmakeupartist #coloradospringsmakeupartist #makeupcourse #masterclass #makeuplessons #weddingmakeupartist #bridalmakeupartist #afghanistan #afghan

Birthday BEAT for my sister @hello.hosnah 🇦🇫♥️

13 years of friendship. I can’t wait until we’re old and grey and still showing up 45 min late to the functions 😂 #BrownPeopleTime

PHOTO: @luispizarroportraits 📷
STYLE: @fardinfashioninc 💃🏽

——

#denvermua #denvermakeupartist #coloradomua #coloradomakeupartist#coloradoesthetician #denveresthetician #denverweddings #coloradoweddings #denverbridal #coloradobridal #quinceañera #quinceañeramakeup #bridalmakeup #weddingmakeup #vailmakeupartist #avonmakeupartist #beavercreekmakeupartist #breckenridgemakeupartist #estesparkmakeupartist #coloradospringsmua #aspenmakeupartist #coloradospringsmakeupartist #makeupcourse #masterclass #makeuplessons #weddingmakeupartist #bridalmakeupartist #afghanistan #afghan

Birthday BEAT for my sister @hello.hosnah 🇦🇫♥️

13 years of friendship. I can’t wait until we’re old and grey and still showing up 45 min late to the functions 😂 #BrownPeopleTime

PHOTO: @luispizarroportraits 📷
STYLE: @fardinfashioninc 💃🏽

——

#denvermua #denvermakeupartist #coloradomua #coloradomakeupartist#coloradoesthetician #denveresthetician #denverweddings #coloradoweddings #denverbridal #coloradobridal #quinceañera #quinceañeramakeup #bridalmakeup #weddingmakeup #vailmakeupartist #avonmakeupartist #beavercreekmakeupartist #breckenridgemakeupartist #estesparkmakeupartist #coloradospringsmua #aspenmakeupartist #coloradospringsmakeupartist #makeupcourse #masterclass #makeuplessons #weddingmakeupartist #bridalmakeupartist #afghanistan #afghan

Birthday BEAT for my sister @hello.hosnah 🇦🇫♥️

13 years of friendship. I can’t wait until we’re old and grey and still showing up 45 min late to the functions 😂 #BrownPeopleTime

PHOTO: @luispizarroportraits 📷
STYLE: @fardinfashioninc 💃🏽

——

#denvermua #denvermakeupartist #coloradomua #coloradomakeupartist#coloradoesthetician #denveresthetician #denverweddings #coloradoweddings #denverbridal #coloradobridal #quinceañera #quinceañeramakeup #bridalmakeup #weddingmakeup #vailmakeupartist #avonmakeupartist #beavercreekmakeupartist #breckenridgemakeupartist #estesparkmakeupartist #coloradospringsmua #aspenmakeupartist #coloradospringsmakeupartist #makeupcourse #masterclass #makeuplessons #weddingmakeupartist #bridalmakeupartist #afghanistan #afghan

Chapter 35. And still the main character.

Cheers and thank you for the birthday love.

🖤

Chapter 35. And still the main character.

Cheers and thank you for the birthday love.

🖤

Chapter 35. And still the main character.

Cheers and thank you for the birthday love.

🖤

Chapter 35. And still the main character.

Cheers and thank you for the birthday love.

🖤

‎
‎نُه دالر

I found this dress at a thrift store.

$9.00.

Nine dollars for a history they didn’t bother to learn.
Nine dollars for a homeland torn at the seams.
Nine dollars for hands that stitched through dimly lit rooms,
for thread spun with prayers in a language no one here speaks.

I imagine you once hung in a Kabul bazaar,
swaying in the thick air of spice and charcoal,
bathed in the scent of saffron and lamb,
waiting - patient, proud -
for a woman to press you against her body and say,
This one.

Once wrapped around a girl with kohl-lined eyes,
spinning through a night filled with music and joy.

And yet, you ended up here.
Tossed between cheap satin and plastic beads,
waiting for hands that don't know your story.

Who let you go?
Who forgot what you were?
Who let you slip from brown hands into a place
where no one could hear you whisper the songs you remember?

I paid the nine dollars.
Not because it was fair—
but because I was the only one who knew it wasn’t.

I took you home.
Pulled you over my shoulders,
felt the weight of it -
the weight of her.

The woman who made you.
The woman who dreamed you’d find your way
to another Afghan, lost in the wind.

And now?
I wear you like a name no one can mispronounce.

‎
‎نُه دالر

I found this dress at a thrift store.

$9.00.

Nine dollars for a history they didn’t bother to learn.
Nine dollars for a homeland torn at the seams.
Nine dollars for hands that stitched through dimly lit rooms,
for thread spun with prayers in a language no one here speaks.

I imagine you once hung in a Kabul bazaar,
swaying in the thick air of spice and charcoal,
bathed in the scent of saffron and lamb,
waiting - patient, proud -
for a woman to press you against her body and say,
This one.

Once wrapped around a girl with kohl-lined eyes,
spinning through a night filled with music and joy.

And yet, you ended up here.
Tossed between cheap satin and plastic beads,
waiting for hands that don't know your story.

Who let you go?
Who forgot what you were?
Who let you slip from brown hands into a place
where no one could hear you whisper the songs you remember?

I paid the nine dollars.
Not because it was fair—
but because I was the only one who knew it wasn’t.

I took you home.
Pulled you over my shoulders,
felt the weight of it -
the weight of her.

The woman who made you.
The woman who dreamed you’d find your way
to another Afghan, lost in the wind.

And now?
I wear you like a name no one can mispronounce.

Mornings with @hello.hosnah 🎻
Colorado people creating in LA 🌊

#sonyalpha #colorgrade #lavideographer #colorgrading #violin #create