By Brittany Johnson

I was tired. Not just physically, I-really-need-a-power-nap, set the alarm tired. Tired as in, "I'm so emotionally and mentally exhausted that I can hardly get out of bed in the morning." Tired as in, "I'm not sure if I can continue at this pace, in this brain, with this amount of overthinking." From the outside looking in, I was going through all of the right motions. Meditating before I went to sleep - check. Trying to recognize moments of gratitude during the day - check. Encouraging friends and family to spread their light and love their truths - double check. But on the inside, I was killing myself ever so softly.

The hardest part about coming to grips with my anxiety and depression was that I didn’t feel like I even deserved to feel this way. I came from a loving, supportive family and grew up in a safe neighborhood. I didn’t have an absent father or an emotionally inept mother. My grandparents were the lights of my life and God was continually showing up for me in more ways than one. I did not deserve to feel sad, anxious, and mentally weary day in and day out. I did not deserve to experience the symptoms of depression so deeply that, at times, I was unable to hold simple conservations or sustain meaningful relationships.

It is lies like these, the secret ones we tell ourselves, that are responsible for holding back our recognition, acceptance, and subsequent healing.
Dealing with physical and emotional trauma as a young adult ended up exasperating the tendencies that already existed under the surface. I suffered a random, violent physical attack in my early 20s that left me with the scars, bruising, and hospital visits to prove it. The physical wounds eventually healed on their own - the emotional ones did not. I previously thought that PTSD was reserved for real heroes, who suffered from “real trauma”...soldiers, public servants, unrelenting activists. It wasn’t until a routine checkup (for previous brain swelling, among other things, from the attack) that the doctor questioned what I had been doing to heal mentally. Pause. My idea of therapy was sitting on an old velvet chaise lounge while a Caucasian man in his late 50s asked me, “how do you feel about that”. I was in denial of how much help I needed, and I was angry. I wanted to be brave enough to fix this on my own. It could’ve been much worse! I wasn’t raped, or permanently maimed. I could get past this! The reality was, it had been over a year since that night. I still had weekly nightmares, had caused the demise of my own social life and friendships, and ended up engaging in a codependent relationship that left me more damaged than it found me. I eventually left the relationship and made some progress in my personal life but continued to push away people who truly wanted the best for me. Later, it had been over two years since the attack and I was still a sad, super anxious, overthinking, anti-social, unmotivated mess.

I finally realized that I could not get past it any of it, not on my own.

My first day of therapy felt like an awkward first date. I was blessed enough to find a highly recommend black woman psychotherapist practicing in my area. It was so much different than I had expected - she was warm, personable, and never asked me “how do you feel about that”. It wasn’t just me dumping my problems out to a silent, head-nodding authority; we proceeded to have a real, honest conversation. To be able to share my innermost feelings with another black woman made me feel as though taking this step towards inner peace was not something foreign, or undeserved. I felt supported and strong.

There is strength in taking hold of the hardest parts of your life by recognizing how much of an effect they have on your daily existence. There is strength in realizing that you need help tackling the speed bumps of your mental health journey and in proceeding to seek that help.

Going to therapy was a deeply personal choice. It was an important step for me to recognize that as a black woman, there are certain trials that I’ll deal with at the intersection of gender and race that some people will never understand. It was important to realize that aside from societal pressures and constraints, going through further trauma in my own life was a burden that, at times, was entirely too heavy to carry alone.

I’m still attending sessions, and I’m still working towards being cognizant of mindfulness and well-being in all areas of my life. It isn’t easy, and there isn’t a new epiphany every day. What there IS is an innermost calm in knowing that I can better recognize my triggers when they first occur and meet them where they start. There IS a subtle confidence in knowing that I do deserve to feel whole, loved, and happy. There IS a steadfast faith in knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that I deserve healthy and mutually respectful relationships, and what’s truly for me will always be within my reach.

Cheers to the grace that’s found in taking care of self, simply because we deserve it.

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Brittany Johnson is the creator of codeREDD&co. and works in community marketing and content creation in the Bay Area. Passionate about authenticity in wellness and self care, her writing is heavily inspired by the peaks and pitfalls that come as the result of being a black woman working to manifest her purpose. 

by Cynthia Hines

Three weeks ago, while finishing up my psychotherapy session, I checked my phone. It was Millie, the all-knowing senior citizen in my condo building. Think Ruby Dee’s character of Mother Sister in Do The Right Thing.

I answered. “Cynthia, this is Millie,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that your front door is wide open and I think somebody just broke into your home.”

People who have experienced a burglary can relate to this sense of invasion. The terror. The mystery of who (and why) someone would do this to me. It’s always personal. I had a mix of feelings of anger, guilt, shame and a desire to get revenge. But for me, any invasion to my home—in both the physical structure and the temple God has me in—needs immediate attention. I have post-traumatic stress disorder, commonly referred to as PTSD.

Here’s some background. I’m a veteran who, in August 2013, worked as a civilian contractor on a base in Afghanistan. During a well-orchestrated attack, a suicide bomber drove a truck loaded with explosives to the base and detonated himself, creating a hole in the wall where another dozen Taliban members were able to enter. They were looking for soldiers and civilians so they could detonate themselves, taking as many people down with them as possible. Even by Afghanistan standards, the attack was significant. We were sent to the bunker where we stayed for 15 hours, hearing a barrage of explosions and gunfire. Most of us contractors were unarmed. I was terrified, immobilized with fear and certain I would die that day.

“God, I can’t go out like this. You know what? I give in. I’m going to die today. But please God, just let my body be in one piece when You take me. I don’t want my family to see me blown into little pieces.” The incident left me feeling helpless and demoralized. The Taliban took complete custody of my body and they were not letting it go.

What many people don’t understand about PTSD is how terrifying it is to live in your own body after a traumatic event. Sufferers have no way of knowing what body sensation will arise; when we’ll “lose it,” or when we will be “invaded” by intrusive thoughts that come without warning.

Our bodies get hijacked by these thoughts and feelings, making it difficult to concentrate on the present. We are stuck in the past, and the past is a scary place. The intrusive thoughts leave many of us ashamed to talk about them for fear of being seen as crazy and desperate for a way to avoid our collective pain. "[Sufferers] are likely to experiment with anything—drugs, alcohol, binge eating, or cutting—that offers some kind of relief," said Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, a Harvard-trained psychiatrist and trauma expert, in his book The Body Keeps The Score: Brain, Mind and Body in the Healing of Trauma.

I was eventually sent home from Afghanistan for medical treatment. Home was a small condo on the south side of Chicago, a neighborhood plagued by its own share of violence. My trip back home left me asking if I had exchanged one combat zone for another.

BOOM! Two weeks after I arrived home, my car was burglarized while parked in my garage.

BOOM! Shortly thereafter, a grandmother and her two grandchildren were shot within 200 feet of my front door.

BOOM! Don’t drive over those manhole covers! They might explode. And while you’re at it, avoid dead animals on the street! The enemy may have strapped an explosive on them! The enemy is everywhere.

BOOM! I hear something at my back door. I think I do. No, that’s my imagination. No, it’s real. Tell someone that you’re hearing sounds! No, they’ll think I’m crazy.

BOOM! What was this dream about the beheaded men invading my body I had last night, and why can’t the ISIS soldiers stop chasing me and trying to destroy my skin and internal organs? They’re closing in on me!

BOOM! Okay, I’m parking on the street now. Why is there a loud sound when I turn on my car? Is it a bomb? No, someone cut out my catalytic converter. Why is everyone trying to do me harm?

BOOM! My father just triggered me. I am the wrong one. I didn’t kill the fool who tried to steal my car but I won’t let my daddy talk to me any way he wants to and get away with it just because he’s my daddy. If he wants to act like an enemy combatant, I’ll treat him like one. Does he know I am one trigger away from killing somebody? THEY won’t go to war with me and be victorious this time. Oh, hell no.

BOOM! Turn off the damn TV. The police are looking for a… there was an explosion in a journalist was kidnapped while... a soldier returning home from Iraq committed suicide… a veteran is being charged with… Turn off the damn TV. Wait. Turn off the damn TV? And what will I do? What is the alternative? Hear the intrusive thoughts in my head?

 I’ll just eat. Yes, that will solve everything. Well, at least for a few minutes.

None of these incidents are remarkable in and of themselves. What has been different since returning home is how just the slightest issue has sent me over the edge, convicted in the belief that someone was after me. This is hypervigilance in its most raw form.

These are some of my experiences on the road to my recovery since 2013. This recovery has gone through hills and valleys, over scenic views as well as dark alleys. It has been complicated by my physical injuries. It has also been complicated by the loss of my mother from ovarian cancer less than a year after coming home.

I now practice yoga, which requires my body to be fully present. I strive to take the skills learned in yoga to remain calm, centered, and present when faced with fearful experiences and disturbing thoughts and images.

I also started acting, something I ironically was too afraid to do before joining the military. Acting allows me to express all my emotions without apology and to engage with other people, which is crucial for those with PTSD.

Most important, I found a church home that offers me an opportunity to have a trusting relationship with God. Trust is everything.

I’ve also learned to do the unthinkable: asking for help. That meant telling my father the pain I was in and asking that he call me from Milwaukee at least once a week to check in on me. It also meant asking friends to help me pack up my modest condo. I knew that in order to heal, I could not stay another night there and moved out that weekend following the break-in. I removed the cape of the Strong Black Woman. I can’t do it alone. My recovery cannot take place in isolation. And my recovery is far from over.

PTSD has given me the gift of recognizing when I’m in fear and seeking help. Like a good soldier, I stayed around to fight a battle that, like the wars we have waged in Iraq and Afghanistan, had no end in sight. I surrender my old self to God and make way for the new me. And surrendering has made me stronger than I could have ever imagined.

By M'Shai S. Dash

The moment he closed the bathroom door, the guilt washed over me and I gathered my clothing as quickly as I could. I was still disoriented from all the alcohol I’d consumed at the legislative conference we’d both attended. Sighing heavily, I double-checked my bejeweled clutch for my credit cards and black makeup compacts (as both things are of nearly equal importance to my daily life, and I wasn’t sure if the contents had fallen on the floor when I’d accidentally kicked it off of his king-sized bed during sex precisely—and sadly—just six minutes before). Once I heard the toilet flush and water running I picked up the pace. I tiptoed down the hallway of (Charles’? Simon’s?) modest one-bedroom apartment, glancing briefly at his address on a piece of mail that lay on a table by his door before stepping out into the coolness of the late September evening. Down the dark corridor and out into the artificial, fluorescent light of his apartment building’s second floor landing I went, light on my feet as I could possibly be. I slipped on the sequined peep-toe pumps I’d been holding only when I’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

By Ericka Wilkins

At my age, having never been married nor birthed children, it’s easy to dry up into the stereotype of a Mammy or a Sapphire. Both identities originate in slavery, created from a desire to suck the humanity out of Black women and to minimize us into persons whose sole purpose of existing was to be of service to others. Both of these images require Black women to forget that we deserve to be soft, tender and loved, along with our strong, resilient and caring edges, in an effort to lessen the lifestyles that we deserve.

Ever feel like you are everything to everyone, and that you are good at it, but “damn” you get tired? Among close-knit circles, I jokingly talk about this as the need to “grow another set of boobs” so that I can nurture more babies. Corporate women may experience this when they agree to mentor yet another promising young Black career person, while stifling the fact that they barely have time to nurture their own careers. Another example of this can be found among women who are leaders in their churches, serving on numerous ministries, and somehow still find time to serve the needs of family and friends. For a single woman, being identified as a “mammy” in our communities is likely met with appreciation and reverence. And it’s fucking exhausting.


Living a life primarily in the service of others, while reaping very little return benefit, can be spiritually draining. Pouring into others while feeling like your own cup is not being poured into, can exhaust women with even the greatest emotional endurance. The hopeful mentee, who you once greeted with excitement, is now viewed as a needy succubus who drains you emotionally. And if they spend another moment in your office they might literally start draining your bank account, as you spend so much time with them that you don’t have time to work towards your own lucrative promotion. The church folks who you used to joyfully serve become people for whom you issue daily prayers. Asking God to be a covering over your mouth because if these people start mess one more time…

If the mammy is the nurturer or self-sacrificial caretaker, then the Sapphire is the person who is tough enough to handle any of life’s challenges. The Sapphire is the woman who is strong enough to financially support her family members while handling all of her own financial responsibility. She has a guarded “no-nonsense,” “I came in this world alone and I’m going to die alone,” “all men cheat,” “I don’t need a man for anything” persona because guess what? This is key to her very survival in the midst of a world that sharpens Black women’s soft edges by treating us as if we can handle anything, are less than too many things and believes that we are more durable than most. Like pack horses.


The thing about a pack horse, or any other animal that is used for carrying items, is that I’ve often wondered if they have moods. Like, after years of carrying things around, doesn’t it make sense for them to be pretty pissed off and tired most of the time? Pack horses don’t have a choice. They just have to lug more and more stuff around until eventually they are too old to do anything other than wait to die.

Black women are different. Despite living in a reality where there are often good reasons for us to don a “SuperNegress” cape, it is necessary for us to begin a journey of how to refill the same spiritual, emotional and mental reserves that we use to help sustain our villages of family and friends. As such, it is time for Black women to begin exploring how to get back what we give.

Photo: Shutterstock

Dr. Erica Wilkins is a licensed marriage and family therapist who works with individuals, couples and families in the greater Philadelphia metropolitan area. She has researched the residual effects of slavery and clinical implications for therapeutic practitioners. Dr. Wilkins has received numerous awards and is a published author who has presented locally, nationally, and internationally.

By Nneka M. Okona

Zora Neale Hurston, the foremother of Black women’s literature, so eloquently penned that Black women were “de mule uh de world” and even many, many years later, we can see how this statement still rings true. Black women are seen as the pillars of strength in nearly every circle we comprise. We are the backbones of our families, the shoulder always called upon to cry on. We are supposed to readily perform strength, on demand, no matter what our emotional or mental state.