8.What goals do you have for your emotional well-being and self-care practices? How are you planning to achieve these goals, and what resources might you need?

9.How would you describe the conversation around mental health and self-care within the community of Black women? What unique experiences or perspectives do you feel you bring to this conversation?

10.How do you see the intersection of your identity as a Black woman with your self-care and mental health practices? Do you feel that there are unique aspects of your experience that require specialized understanding or support in the mental health field?

affirmations

1.I am worthy of peace and tranquility: My inner peace is a reflection of my strength, and I prioritize nurturing it every day.

2.My self-care is a necessary priority: I embrace taking care of myself, knowing that self-care is not selfish but essential for my mental and emotional well-being.

3.I am resilient and strong: My heritage and personal journey have shaped me into a resilient woman, capable of overcoming challenges with grace and wisdom.

4.I am in control of my emotions: My feelings are valid, and I honor them by allowing myself to feel and then moving forward, guided by my inner wisdom.

5.My mental health matters: I am committed to seeking support when I need it and taking the steps necessary to nurture my mental well-being.

6.I honor my ancestors through my self-love: I recognize the wisdom and strength in my lineage and honor it by loving and taking care of myself.

7.I am enough, just as I am: My value is inherent, and I don’t need to prove myself to anyone. I am enough in my authenticity.

8.I surround myself with love and positivity: I consciously choose the people and environments that uplift me, recognizing that I deserve love, respect, and kindness.

9.I am an agent of change and growth in my life: I have the power to make positive changes in my life and strive continually toward personal growth and fulfillment.

10.I embrace my unique journey with gratitude: I recognize the beauty and uniqueness of my path as a Black woman, and I navigate it with courage, love, and gratitude.

1.Smyth, Joshua M., 1998. “Written Emotional Expression: Effect Sizes, Outcome Types, and Moderating Variables.” Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology (66), 1:174–184. doi.org/10.1037/0022-006x.66.1.174.

chapter 2

the plight of

Black women

“Black women are the mules of the world.”

—Zora Neale Hurston

In addition to my own experience with the challenge of not only prioritizing my own physical and mental health, but also finding the courage and tools to do so, I’ve spent more than twenty years working in higher education as a counselor, faculty member, and director in the c-suite of my organization for a decade. I typically worked with a variety of students: those in career colleges, community colleges, and others who were still exploring their paths. I felt they would benefit most from seeing and feeling my presence in the classroom. I wanted to give them everything I had never received during my undergraduate years—encouragement, mentorship, nurturing, and listening. My primary goal was always to help my students see that they were more than their present circumstances and surroundings. Many were first-generation students, immigrants to South Florida, single parents, or working adults; some had been incarcerated; and most had overcome insurmountable odds. But I approached each one with no judgment—only a deep desire to see them reach their maximum potential.

When I started writing I’m Not Yelling, my goal was to take the knowledge I had gained from advocating for Black folk, and especially Black women, to be empowered in every space they inhabited, and to leverage their voices to step into their true calling. I had expanded my classroom beyond a physical building and taken to social media and mainstream media to share my love and support for Black women. But it wasn’t until I started to do research for the book that I was confronted with the troubling statistics from study after study. Black women were suffering from a myriad of physical and mental health ailments from racial trauma, microaggressions, and feelings of Imposter Syndrome, or what I had identified as Imposter Treatment, from being constantly under assault in the predominantly white environments of corporate America. We were tired and feeling undervalued, and we knew we weren’t being appreciated.

Many, if not all, of the women I spoke with, as well as the experts I consulted, confirmed that they were all searching for something more in their lives. We needed to heal from all of this trauma. We were looking for strategies to manage our stress and discontent. And, even worse, we were scared to even voice the turmoil we were feeling inside. So, just as I had done with I’m Not Yelling, I set out on a journey to find answers. Why were Black women feeling so overwhelmed? Why did we all share this feeling of exhaustion, and what were the sources? What could we do to find joy, healing, peace, and contentment? And what could we do beyond therapy and medical interventions? What were some of the ways we could learn to consistently prioritize ourselves and make that a habit until we naturally gave ourselves what we so desperately needed? I wanted to provide context for our feelings. You are not imagining this, Sis!

Those feelings of exhaustion are real and valid. You deserve rest, and I wanted to explore what that would look like. Not just collapsing into bed at the end of the work day, only to wake up tired and do it all over again. How could we find rest in our everyday existence and hold onto that? That was the reason for writing Protecting My Peace. I wanted to find out how to do it for myself, and I wanted to share what I found out with the Black women I love. I call I’m Not Yelling my love letter to Black women, and Protecting My Peace is a continuation of the same. We deserve love, peace, and happiness every day, and I wanted to show how much better life can be when those things are first on our to-do list. We are the first item at the top of that list. What does prioritizing ourselves on our to-do list look like? How does that feel?

For me, the journey to healing began when I finally took the first step to acknowledge my pain. I sank to the worst depths of despair I could ever imagine. It was then that I realized something had to change. So, one afternoon in the middle of the week, I packed one duffle bag with only my clothes and fled my home state to escape a cycle of physical, emotional, and financial domestic abuse that had lasted more than a decade. I didn’t know what faced me ahead, but I knew nothing could be worse than everything I had already endured. My job, marriage, family, and relationships were shredded at the seams from my exhaustion and lack of focus on putting myself first. I didn’t even know how to attend to my own needs, because I never had. But now I had no choice. If I didn’t commit to taking care of myself, the consequences would be disastrous for my health and even my life.

The diagnosis of severe anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder initially shocked my body. My heart pounded uncontrollably, my hands were constantly shaking, and I couldn’t get my mind to stop racing to slow my thoughts down even momentarily. Work and life seemed impossible to balance, so I knew my best option was therapy and consulting with a psychiatrist to explore more deeply what was happening to my mind and body. I had been resistant to that idea for almost a year. I didn’t want to admit I didn’t “have it together.” I was ashamed of what I had endured, unable to articulate why I had let it go on or acknowledge how damaging it had been to my soul and my very existence in the world. I felt like there must be a way for me to overcome this. I looked at what I had been able to do. I had walked through the fire, and even though I’d been burned, I had survived. But even though I had survived, I struggled to make it through each day. I prayed for night to come so I could close my eyes. There were times when I wished I would never wake up. I had hit a wall, and I didn’t know how to “push through” anymore. I wanted help. I needed help.

Finding a Black woman in the mental health field—one I could trust—became its own challenge. I almost gave up. But as each spiral got worse and worse, I knew this had to be faced, and I needed to talk to someone who looked like me. No judgment. No blame. Just the freedom to speak my truth and find comfort in knowing that, not only was I normal, but everything was going to be okay.

Eventually, I found a Black woman psychiatrist who was seventy years old—the same age as my mom. And at the end of our first session, she told me to give myself a big hug. She congratulated me for overcoming fear and taking the first step to take care of myself and what she called the chemicals in my brain. Not that I was sick. Not that I was bad. Not that I was a disappointment. I had chemicals in my brain that needed to be managed so I could feel better and heal.

I received confirmation of the anxiety and PTSD I suspected I was suffering from as a result of more than a decade of unaddressed trauma. In addition, I found out I was also struggling with the symptoms of both bipolar disorder and attention deficit disorder (ADHD). Initially, I cried—a mixture of relief, sadness, and fear. I felt like the bottom of my world had fallen out from underneath me. But it explained so much about what I was going through in the present, and how I had handled most of my life. I often couldn’t think clearly or concentrate, even though I was an “A” student as an undergrad at a top university and had earned three master’s degrees in business, organizational management, and interdisciplinary studies with a focus in English and writing. I was also a college professor for more than a decade.

But, for reasons I couldn’t articulate during that time, I had largely not been happy. And when I did feel joy, it was fleeting and hard to recapture. I had always felt like there was something more that would relieve this feeling of emptiness. With each degree, accomplishment, promotion, and milestone like marriage and children, the emptiness only subsided temporarily, then came back with a vengeance, as if to let me know it would not go quietly. I knew that the peace I sought wouldn’t be found in any of those things. It was inside me, and I needed to take my doctor’s advice. I needed to take care of myself. I needed to love myself with everything I had inside. I needed to hug myself and not let go.

With this newfound knowledge of my diagnoses and understanding of my mental and physical states, I pondered how I could apply it to my healing journey. What did it mean for me regarding how I would function for the rest of my life? I was bold. I was outspoken. I was Black excellence. I was Black Girl Magic personified. I was all the things. All of them. I was unstoppable. I was more than a conqueror. But when I looked in the mirror and touched my face, I looked sad. I looked tired. I was. I looked afraid. I was. This Black woman had been running on empty for so long that she didn’t remember ever resting.

I couldn’t remember when I had last been happy. I was chronically tired and uninterested in most things, including my job and even my friendships. And I was in pain both physically and mentally. Recognizing that my past attempts at seeking therapy during times of stress were not enough, I committed to ongoing therapy as a crucial step on my healing journey.

Stressed. That word seemed so inadequate to describe what I was going through, not only currently, but also in the past. It was laughable that I had shrugged off these feelings of always being overwhelmed, like I was wading in mud, and always running without resting as normal. I would need to determine a new normal in order to change my lifestyle and decrease my stress level. As I committed to getting better, I wanted to think about my journey holistically, to match the way I approach everything in my life. I’m a researcher and problem solver by nature, so I decided to think about not only my own healing journey, but also that of all of the other Black women I had met since writing my first book, I’m Not Yelling: A Black Woman’s Guide to Navigating the Workplace.

After speaking with dozens of women I met across social media, at book signings, during panel discussions, and during interviews on my podcast on EBONY Media, I concluded that I was not alone in my challenge to balance my mental health and emotional well-being. And I was also not alone in feeling a deep and desperate urge to heal my exhausted body and soul fully. After more than twenty years working in nonprofit, sales, media, and higher education, I could count the raises and promotions I had received on one hand. And each one I’d had to fight for. I’d had to justify myself. I’d done everything to prove myself, including working myself to exhaustion. I had never taken a vacation from work. Ever.

In addition to my mental health diagnosis, I had received an epilepsy diagnosis of unknown causes a few years prior. My body had undergone surgery for uterine fibroids. I had endured two high-risk pregnancies. I wanted to understand why. Why were Black women so prone to these physical and mental health ailments? What was the root cause that left us so depleted in every way? What strategies or remedies could I add to my wellness practice besides the therapy and medication I had already committed to? And how could I incorporate practices that built on the knowledge I gained while writing my bestselling book, I’m Not Yelling?

Black women’s experiences are unique to our circumstances and how we navigate the world. I knew that based on the research I had already done. In talking to Black women, I learned that many were looking for coping strategies for stress, wellness, and emotional well-being, as well as healing unpacked trauma. They were challenged with articulating their stressors and wanting to accurately determine the source of these stressors. They sought holistic solutions that focused on their minds, bodies, and souls—to reveal the entirety of their beings in all of their glory. Each of the women I spoke to was ready to unfurl her wings and soar like a phoenix, rising from the ashes of the past and kissing the sun to greet a new day—the beginning of a brand-new existence.

Another important fact I learned during research for I’m Not Yelling was that the unique history and culture of Black folk, and particularly Black women, have been the foundation that has strengthened, comforted, and guided us through unspeakable obstacles, trials, and stumbling blocks. Yet, through it all, we are still here. We are still standing. Despite the pain, we have found a way to push through. And I wanted to understand how. Despite a unilateral war that was waged physically, mentally, and spiritually across the African diaspora, we managed to walk through fire and survive. The fires that burned in Rosewood, Tulsa, and Seneca Village were not conjured up like hoodoo, a part of a collective tall tale, or just a figment of our vivid imaginations.

So, how do we tap into the traditions that have allowed our communities to continue to survive, even after all of the turmoil and trauma we have endured? What can we do to honor our ancestral roots, which signify the resilience and tenacity inherent in our heritage? Pan-African activist, journalist, and entrepreneur Marcus Garvey was a strong advocate for understanding and celebrating our roots. He famously wrote, “A people without knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots. Trees that are not firmly rooted in rich, fertile soil do not grow, do not bear fruit, they cannot withstand strong wind, or bear heavy loads.”² Our ancestors blazed a path of joy, resilience, and strength for us to follow, and they did so with intention. None of it was accidental. I really wanted to understand how that could possibly be. We turned our stumbling blocks into stepping stones. How did we do it collectively in the past? And how could we harness that knowledge today to improve our mental, spiritual, and emotional well-being?

Some of us may only have a vague understanding or awareness of ancestral knowledge and spirit. But for many of us, delving into this knowledge in search of answers seems like an overwhelmingly daunting task. Perhaps we have been taught that knowledge is not applicable to our modern-day lives. I’d counter that it is more beneficial now than ever before. Maybe we think there is something wrong with seeking this type of knowledge because it runs counter to our upbringing or religious beliefs. My response to anyone, and even myself, is that this type of knowledge predates anything we currently know because it is integral to our very identity and coded into our DNA, running through our veins in a way that nothing else can. It is literally a part of us, and the emptiness and yearning we feel often can’t be reconciled until we find that missing puzzle piece to make ourselves complete.

Some may believe that leaning on this awareness may be harmful or cause others to judge them or their intent. We have all seen the memes and jokes about “Hotepry,” a term often used to mock pseudo-intellectualism, on social media. It seems as though everything is designed to pull us away from ancestral ties that have bound our communities and sustained them for hundreds of years here in America, and for hundreds of thousands of years prior in African antiquity. What if we ran toward our ancestral ties and traditions instead of running away from them, as we were taught to do? What if we could decolonize our minds and incorporate the nourishment from traditional practices that have been our legacy since the dawn of civilization? What if we chose to run into the loving arms of the people who knew us before we knew ourselves, sacrificed so much so we could be here, and left a legacy for us to follow? What might that mean for us, not only individually but also collectively?

So, with all of that in mind, I made a conscious decision to uncover gems, gold, and hidden treasure. I knew it was waiting for me to discover it. But I sought this knowledge not for exploitation, unlike the colonists, who stole cultural treasures for their own selfish endeavors. I wanted something more beyond the clinical questionnaires, pharmaceutical drugs, and countless hours of therapy learning coping skills and strategies to overcome the racing thoughts and sinking feelings I was experiencing daily. Recognizing my own struggles, I understood how desperately I needed those interventions. But my ancestors didn’t have any of those tools, strategies, or resources. So, what did they do to encourage themselves, to center themselves, to love themselves, to heal themselves fully, and to keep going for me? I needed to know.

The complex web of challenges we face as Black women is not just personal—it’s also deeply historical. This is captured in the concept of post-traumatic slave syndrome (PTSS), as explained by renowned author, academic, and researcher Dr. Joy Angela DeGruy, which explains the etiology of many of the adaptive survival behaviors in African American communities throughout the United States and the diaspora. It is a condition that exists as a consequence of the multigenerational oppression of Africans and their descendants resulting from centuries of chattel slavery. This form of slavery was predicated on the belief that African Americans were inherently or genetically inferior to whites. Institutionalized racism came after this and continues to cause harm. Under such circumstances, these are some of the predictable patterns of behavior that tend to occur: vacant esteem; marked propensity for anger and violence; racist socialization and internalized racism.³

To not acknowledge the mental trauma that we, the children of stolen and sold Africans, have endured intergenerationally is to participate in the same dismissive attitude of those in the majority, who constantly tell us through narratives seen in the news media, television, film, and even in the school system that any lack of resilience or motivation has absolutely nothing to do with the hundreds of years of trauma and horror we have endured. The subtext here is, “Just work harder.” This results in higher levels of stress and anxiety regarding a goal you suspect is unattainable. And the cycle continues as you race toward each goal you think is the finish line, only to have the goal marker move farther beyond you yet again.

This situation brews a mental and emotional storm, depriving us of the essential rest and well-being we need to function effectively. Many of us fail to acknowledge just how depleted we are without this fundamental care. Historically, acknowledging this depletion has often been stigmatized. A lack of resources and understanding of the benefits has made mental health care seem like a luxury. This is a luxury that most in our community cannot afford. Financially and emotionally, the price seems much too high. The reality we face is to grit our teeth and bear through each challenge, despite most of us lacking the knowledge, models, or coping skills to surmount the numerous obstacles flung into our path. And even if we seek wise counsel, those older mentors and elders have not encountered the more recent evolutions of racism that were not prevalent during their own interactions with those in the majority.

So each generation wades into uncharted waters, our days full of anxiety as we navigate systems that were not designed for us, or people who don’t look like us but insist that the only way for us to be successful is to assimilate to being more like them, which we know intellectually as well as spiritually to be impossible. We bring a unique energy and perspective, one that often doesn’t align with the mainstream view. Regardless of our efforts, it’s impossible to repress our authentic selves to match these expectations. And society at large is well aware of that, even if not fully consciously. That leaves them free to interpret our actions in any way they desire, and absolutely not in the empathetic language framed by understanding the ramifications of post-traumatic slave syndrome. With that lens, they would need to examine their own actions in the past, present, and future. They refuse to do that in any meaningful or measurable way.

They would rather blame poor parenting, poverty (without acknowledging how their systems are to blame), and a general lack of motivation for these issues. There is no interrogation of a system purposely designed to subjugate Black people, first to the level of animals that were less than human, then as perfectly equal humans “asking” (or begging) simply for the autonomy to fully participate in society and make our own choices on a 150-year journey to prove our humanity to the very people who told us we were subhuman. The hypocritical gaslighting of such a foolhardy quest, and how emotionally harmful it is to embark on it every single waking day of our lives, is somehow lost in our desire to prove them wrong and even to validate ourselves, while their desire is to maintain that status quo that leaves us constantly questioning every step we take and constantly calculating the risk versus reward of each step, living in a state of hypervigilance that can only clinically be described as PTSD, or more accurately, the post-traumatic slave syndrome explained by Dr. DeGruy.

In 1961, author James Baldwin was asked by a radio host about being Black in America. He said: