THE BIRTH OF NELL

Most people know me—especially professionally—as Kizzie.

I spent seven years under that name when my husband and I were full-time musicians performing as members of our independent band, Adam & Kizzie.

Before that, I went by my government name and the various nicknames my family called me.

So the day the name “Nell” was spoken to me—by a quiet but unmistakably clear voice—I hesitated.

But the voice was so certain… so undeniable… that I felt compelled to obey.

It happened one morning during a season of deep spiritual and emotional transition in my life.

I was confused. Feeling lost. Recovering from depression—but thankfully on the winning side of it. I was also slowly working my way out of an interpersonal storm.

During that time, I had become serious about two things:

1. Being still

2. Praying steadfastly

I’m the kind of person who thinks about everything. And worse, I analyze all of those things too. It’s one of the reasons I’m a strong writer—but without the right tools, that kind of mind can make life feel heavy.

At the time, I was deep in new motherhood with my second newborn.

I felt so far removed from my creative self—let alone the career-driven woman I once strongly identified as.

I wasn’t trying to return to who I had been ten years earlier. I loved being a mother. I cherished the wisdom I’d gained over forty years of life. I valued the health and strength of my marriage—something my husband and I fought hard to build.

I wasn’t trying to undo my life.

But something inside me needed rescuing.

For years—more than a decade, really—I had been feeling incomplete.

Long before kids.

Long before moving to Los Angeles.

Even during the height of my music career.

As I’ve said before, it was because I had buried the writer.

And like many artists working in industries built on gatekeeping, I struggled deeply with identity and validation.

Artists are often conditioned to believe that their professional worth must be granted by someone else. Until someone else confirms it, we’re told we’re merely hobbyists.

That’s why even successful artists struggle with imposter syndrome.

Because when your legitimacy depends on the permission of someone sitting behind a collapsible table in a rented studio room—studying you with a blank expression—there is no real ceiling to reach.

There’s never a moment where you can say, Okay. I’ve arrived.

Because there will always be another room.

Another table.

Another person who appears more powerful than the last—someone whose approval is required for the next step. And every time, that same physical arrangement remains:

They sit.

You stand.

They judge your worth while you endure silent scrutiny.

Sometimes you leave never knowing what they thought of you. You just know you didn’t book the gig. You weren’t the one they were looking for. You didn’t fit.

And when answers aren’t given, the mind fills in the gaps.

Was I not pretty enough?

Not unique enough?

Not wearing the right thing?

Not Black enough?

Not universal enough?

Not talented enough?

Even the strongest artists walk away from those rooms carrying some emotional weight.

I remember reading an interview where Zachary Levi spoke about the emotional toll of losing the role of Captain America.

Chuck.

A beloved leading man from a hit series with a cult following. Even he questioned his career.

Then there’s Bryce Dallas Howard, daughter of Ron Howard. Say what you want about nepotism—but the woman undeniably has talent. She once spoke about counting more than sixty failed auditions before finally seeing momentum.

Sixty. Ron Howard's extremely talented daughter had to weather more than sixty rejections.

And even after that number, there was no guarantee when the next door would open.

Eventually, the normalization of this process became something my spirit simply no longer wanted to accept. But because of years of conditioning, I interpreted that resistance as weakness.

I thought something was wrong with me for not wanting to endure endless rejection. For not wanting to wait indefinitely for someone else’s permission to do what I loved.

For not wanting to start the audition cycle all over again after finally signing with a talent agency—only to watch it dissolve just weeks later.

For not wanting to sit through another conversation explaining that they already had “a Black woman with natural hair” on their roster.

For not wanting to go into debt paying for classes and networking opportunities designed to increase the odds of receiving that mythical thumbs-up from the person at the table.

To be clear, I don’t believe those who pursue traditional publishing or representation are doing it wrong. That path works beautifully for many authors and artists. My situation is simply different. I’ve always been the kind of creator with an all-encompassing vision for my work. For me, storytelling doesn’t begin and end with words on a page. I want to build the world, shape the characters, design the visuals, and guide the narrative from every angle. I realized I wasn’t built to hand that vision off and sit in the passenger seat while someone else drove. It became clear I had to pave the road myself.

But I didn't understand this about myself yet. And so I spent many years chasing someone else's path of success, trying to fit into creative roles that were unnatural to me, seeking out career avenues that didn't actually align with my artistic vision.

So when I became too sick to sustain a Broadway-bound career, couldn't leverage my music career to get inside the rooms with the people (I thought) I wanted to access to, and couldn't break through the infrastructural barriers of the LA film industry with any kind of certainty, I began questioning myself. My ability. My resolve. My worth. My mind became a minefield of negative self-talk.

Eventually, I decided to step away from the entire system—for the sake of my sanity. And that’s when I began asking for something very specific in my nightly prayers:

Clarity.

Not clarity about what career path to choose.

Not clarity about what decision to make next.

Just clarity of mind.

Freedom from the noise.

Freedom from the clutter of thoughts that made it impossible to move forward with peace.

I prayed that God would clear my mind so I could hear Him more clearly. So I could replace the negative voices with healthier ones, and see myself more truthfully.

Not long after I began praying that prayer, my mind started to quiet. I felt a weight lifting. Then one morning I woke up—not even fully lucid—and heard a voice clearly say—

Nell.

That was the name I would go by. The name I would introduce myself with. The name that would appear on my resume. The name I would write down. That was my name now. Nell. Derived from my middle name: Janell.

The message was so clear. So undeniable. And yet, as I sat up in bed sure of what I'd heard, I questioned it.

Did that really just happen?

Was that you, God?

Of course, I knew the answer. But still… Why Nell?

I had been Kizzie for so long. That’s how people knew me. And I already had my beautiful birth name. Nell?

Really?

It was the strangest experience—being completely certain about something and hesitant about it at the same time.

And telling other people was even more awkward. For months I stumbled over introductions. I was so used to saying, “Hi, I’m Kizzie.” Now I had to retrain my own tongue.

It was clumsy. Awkward. Sometimes funny. But I trusted it. Even in uncertainty.

I changed my resume, my website, my social media. And somewhere along the way, something beautiful became clear—Nell wasn’t replacing Kizzie or Kimila. Nell was integrating them.

Kizzie had been the singer. Kimila was the writer who felt abandoned. Motherhood had become a new identity entirely. But Nell became the space where all of those parts could exist together.

Nell is the version of me that feels more healed—more whole.

And Nell is sitting at her own table now. A table she built herself. Inside a room she designed—and plans to expand with every book she writes. Each room filled with the ideas, stories, and dreams that have lived inside her since childhood but once felt impossible to release without someone else’s permission.

Since embracing that name, I’ve explored, discovered, healed, imagined, and built a future that feels deeply freeing. Scary sometimes. Uncertain sometimes. But only because remnants of that old gatekeeper script still occasionally tried to linger. Once I fully erased it, something incredible happened.

My brand elevated.

And my book was finally published.

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/11cb8e_f6eba47e15a44a7090b0c93a90c4581a/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

So if I can leave you with anything, it’s this:

If you feel unclear, pray for clarity.

If you feel lost, you may be following someone else’s map. Forge your own path.

If you’re scared, good. That usually means the thing you’re chasing matters.

If you’re tired of waiting—move.

Show up for yourself. Even if you feel unprepared, uncertain, afraid... Let it be awkward. Just show up.

Give yourself grace.

Build your table.

Sit in the chair crafted by your own hands. And if the legs wobble, fix them. But be proud that it’s your table. Because you control what happens there.

My website is my table.

The Draft is the first room.

The Elevator will be the entire four-bedroom house.

My authorship is the estate.

In this space, there is no waiting.

The permission has already been granted.