by Brionne Janae

I have lived the better half of the last five years with shame. A shame I didn’t know how deeply I felt until I sat sobbing in a Pentecostal church, my head resting on the chest of a woman whose name I don’t know, and had never spoken to until just then. Yet there I was in her arms as she rocked and prayed for me. I had only once before spoken honestly of the state of my mind in church, though I have spent a good portion of my life there.

The first time I shared my burden, I got the typical give it to Jesus prayer. I’m sure many of us who struggle with depression in churches, especially black churches, have heard it. It’s the kind of prayer that turns my blood, makes me want to stand in the pulpit, and shout. Jesus gave this to me. Jesus handed me this weight and never asked if I wanted it. I didn’t choose this. Give it to Jesus? You might as well say walk away from yourself, or get over it, or if the fire is so damn hot why don’t you get out of the kitchen. Because my whole life is tied up in that kitchen. 
But this woman Sunday before last, didn’t pray one of those prayers. She was specific. She prayed for my body, that I would have the strength to get out of bed in the morning. She prayed that I would not stop believing in the sanctity of my mind, she prayed that I would not feel the need to kill myself. She prayed that I would not be ashamed.

I am ashamed of depression, but mostly I am ashamed of how often I have wanted to stop living, to cease existing, to get in bed and stay there. When I was 19, I fantasized about stepping in front of busses. It was my first time living away from home, first time living without a car, and walking everywhere and catching the bus. I was a student at the University of California, Berkeley, living for the first time with real space in my life for depression and anxiety to spill over into. I didn’t have to stress about my parents worrying about me, calling my gloom insolence, or using my angst as a mirror for their own. I started cutting, mostly as a means to cope with living. I knew if I decided to leave my body it wouldn’t be with a knife.

I would walk down College Avenue, and every time a bus would drive by, I would want to lean into it, and I'd be filled with this terror that I actually would. I didn’t really want to die. I just wanted to not be alive, to stop and rest a while, to be at peace. I’ve long stopped leaning into busses, but never spoken of that time or any of the ways I’ve imagined leaving my body, not even in my poetry.

It has always felt wrong to ask people to step into this with me. Wrong and terrifying. What if I tell someone and they decide the best place for me is a mental hospital? What if every conversation I have with them from then forward is with their eyes looking at me as if I were a wounded deer? What if I drag them down with me? What if they walk away?

I’ve always believed that it was my job to pretend that everything is good, even and especially, when it isn’t. I do this for the sake of those around me, but mostly for myself. I’ve internalized this belief so much that often when I’m confronted with a person who wears their depression on their sleeves, my knee jerk reaction is nasty. I think get over it. I think fucking filter yourself. I think just fake it like the rest of us. Fortunately, I have a decent filter, and have come to realize that what I dislike in them is, simply, what I am ashamed of in myself.

That afternoon, after I wept like a small child in that church woman’s arms, I tried going about my normal Sunday routine. I went to the cafe downtown where I like to grade essays and pretend to be productive. I went to the movies on a whim and saw whatever was playing next, and after as I walked toward the station, I detoured through Macy’s and bought a small silver cross on a whim. Or if I was continuing my usual dishonesty, I’d say because it was 55 percent off. I mean I payed $65 for a cross that was regularly $150. What a steal. But that is not why I bought the cross. As I meandered home I made myself a promise. A promise I make quite frequently: I will keep on in this fight for my life, and if I keep fighting then, God, you must be here with me. I’ve ended more than a couple poems with this sentiment.

Living with my mind constantly under attack means, that sometimes every day, and sometimes every hour, I am fighting for my life. I am asserting that I want to be here. It is my choice and I choose life for myself, knowing full and well, that abandoning my body looks so much easier.
And that’s what is hardest about mental illness. Here I am fighting for my life, making the most important choice I’ll ever make every day, and I’m ashamed of it, which means I tell no one, which means I fight, for the most, part alone. We don’t send soldiers into combat alone for a reason. People need people. We are fundamentally social beings. People with mental illness shouldn’t struggle alone. And so even as I have committed myself to life for the umpteenth thousandth time and purchased a tangible symbol of that struggle and commitment. I also need to commit to not doing this alone. To letting go of shame.

This mind I have, this temperament of my heart and soul, was given to me at birth. I did nothing to earn them. It has shaped and worked at me for better, for worse. Has made me more compassionate, and attuned to the world around me, even as I struggle to love myself and all the ways I move through this life. I do not need to be ashamed. I must commit today to finding new ways to exists in the world. Ways that allow me to be honest about what I’m feeling. Ways that permit me to ask for help when I need it. Ways that allow me to trust and believe that the world is filled with people like the woman from my church, people who will offer a hand up when it gets difficult to stand. I need to not only speak but live the words of Audre Lorde:

“….when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive”

Photo: Shutterstock

Brionne Janae is a California native, teaching artist and poet living in Boston. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in jubilat, Apogee Journal, Waxwing, The Nashville Review and Bayou Magazine. Brionne received her MFA from Emerson College, and is a Cave Cane Fellow.

by Kayla Thompson

A few months ago as I was flipping through channels, I stopped on Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I’ve seen the movie and read the book several times, so I scrolled through my Twitter timeline as the movie functioned more as background noise than entertainment.

When the Dementors took the screen, I couldn’t help but look up from my Twitter feed. To me, the Dementors were the most evil creatures in the world of Harry Potter. A beast that sucks the happiness right out of you? Yeah, that’s fucked.



I watched as the Dementors attempted to suck Harry’s soul into the depths of Demenetor hell, and I thought, “Oh shit, this is the embodiment of depression.”

I don’t know how I didn’t make this connection before. Maybe it was because I would never admit that I was depressed. Maybe it was because the world told me I was a strong black woman—even when I was just a broken black girl. Maybe it was because when I was younger. I had no diagnosis to tell me why I felt like my “soul was being sucked into the depths of Dementor hell.” But when I witnessed the vile beings create an icy atmosphere of depression and despair, I knew that the experiences created by this fictional demon were very real.

“Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you.”

I’m black. I’m a woman. I’m young. And I’m clinically depressed.

I wasn’t always clinically depressed. At first I was just deniably depressed. I was hopeless. I was terrified, lonely and broken. And although I was filled with all of these clear indications of depression, I was a black girl. So I had strength. I had love. I had conviction. I had magic. I continued living in denial of my mental health issue because black girls have super powers, and magical beings can’t be broken by punk ass “bout of sadness.”

When my dad was shot and killed my family cried and mourned and looked to his only daughter to be the stronghold for his remaining children.

“You’re so strong, take care of your brothers. They are all you have left”

When I felt the deep rifts of sexism and misogynoir, I steadied myself from its blows by excusing the behaviors of the perpetrators.

“Men are sexual beings. It’s not your fault, but be more careful when you [insert any normal human action] and you’ll be alright.

When I refused to inject myself with painkillers during labor, pushing out my nearly 6-month grown still-born daughter, I was told that I’m so strong to endure that type of pain.

“I couldn’t imagine going through something like that. How are you staying so strong?”

I was not ok before my confrontation with trauma, and I certainly was not ok afterward.

I always felt the presence of my personal Dementor. The demon always stayed far enough away I could only feel its happiness drain. An ever-present feeling of icy despair. Not close enough that I was converted into a soulless shell, but enough that I felt its power nip at the edge of my aura no matter where I went.

And the Dementor followed me everywhere I went.

Some days it was so far off, that my happiness was able to shine a little brighter, and a little longer, and I was able to pass as the strong black woman the world christened me to be.

Other days the Dementor lurked right outside of my reach. It was so close that I couldn’t see the light outside, the beauty inside or the love around me. My vision could only perceive the dark cloak of my tormentor. All I could feel was my soul being sucked to hell.

Because society tricked me into believing that I embodied some magical Patronus. I believed I had some superhuman ability to ward off my depression, while simultaneously going to the rescue of anyone being attacked by a figurative Dementor.

I ignored and denied the presence of my depression for as long as I could, but black girl magic can’t save your soul. And eventually, the Dementor gets close enough to perform the Dementor’s kiss, then you’re fucked—permanently.

Ultimately I was forced to look my personal demon right in its eye, and name it. I had to seek help. I was not strong. My love waned. My only conviction was that things would never get better. I wasn’t a fucking wizard. I didn’t have a wand. There was no magic.

Naming my depression was the first step to healing. I always felt it was my duty to make sure everyone else was ok, and in the process I denied myself love because I was giving the little I had left to others.



Depression is not a sign of weakness. Seeking help is not giving up. You give up when you allow the depths of your depression turn you into a soulless shell. Naming my depression. Acknowledging my depression. Seeking help for my mental health issue proved to be my biggest show of might in my life. Yeah, I live with a Dementor, but the only thing it’s kissing is my ass.

So to all my magical Black girls, naming your depression is not a repudiation of your strength. It’s loving yourself in your full form. It’s having power to acknowledge all parts of yourself, despite what the world may say is a weakness. And as we know, for us, loving our full selves in this world that constantly ignores us, beats us, and denies our personhood is a type of magic.

Photo: Shutterstock

Kayla Thompson grew up in St. Louis, MO and graduated with a BA in Cultural Anthropology from Webster University. She currently teach 4th grade.

by Iresha Picot

She yelled all the time.

Yelled about the house not being cleaned.

Yelled about my school work.

Yelled about spending too much time on the phone.

Yelled that the music was too loud.

She just always yelled.

I can remember thinking about cutting her vocal box out of her once. Or a few times. I told her this in a fit of rage, when I was about 16. She just looked at me and yelled some more. I am pretty sure that Audre Lorde was talking about my mama when she said, “I am deliberate and afraid of nothing”.
My mama didn’t always yell. When I was a young girl, my mama was noted for her laughter and the jokes she told to not only her own children, but to the children who would come over to our home. They loved my mama’s jokes and her eagerness to make everyone laugh.
I have fond memories of my mama as a child. She used to let me rest on her lap all the time or ride me on the back of her bike as we went on adventures through our small country town. As the youngest of three girls, I used to have her all to myself when my sisters would go off to school and my dad went to work. And we had fun. Going to her girlfriend’s home, to the beauty salon, out to eat; wherever my Mama went, I was right there with her. Even when my sisters came home from school, there were good times to be had by all. On Saturdays, she would walk the three of us, hand and hand to the Three Guys restaurant for pizza across the train tracks from our home; telling us jokes the whole way. On Sundays, we awoke to pancakes being cooked, and the Alvin and the Chipmunks record being played on our record player. We danced, and laughed. We enjoyed our Mama.
Then things changed. My dad became addicted to crack cocaine. Things became hard. My mother started to laugh less. She started yelling more.

Her workload increased as well.

With my daddy’s addiction, his paycheck would be depleted in two days. Sometimes the same day. Bills weren’t getting paid, and we struggled. We moved at least once a year. Sometimes twice. Our electricity was never on. We couldn’t even afford the $25 dollars for our books at school. My mother started working 2 to 3 jobs to compensate for my father’s habit. She rarely slept, going from one job to the next. We hardly saw her and when we did, we stayed out of her way if we didn’t want to be yelled at. Even moments that seem to be fun times with my mother turned sour. I can vividly remember on one of her rare off days watching our favorite television show, Martin, together. We went from busting it up, laughing loudly at Martin’s punch lines, to her becoming upset. Her mood could change like a light switch.

She would suddenly look up and realize that the house was dirty and the yelling and cursing would start. “Why is the house so fucking dirty?” or “I work all damn day and no one washed the dishes.” It got to a point where we started to enjoy her being away from the home. It was peaceful.
She also developed these control issues. Probably because her own life was spinning out of control. She couldn’t make our plight much better, even by working several jobs. She couldn’t stop her husband from smoking crack. The only little bit of control she had was overpowering her children. If we didn’t do something my mama wanted, she went into her rages. She hid the home telephone when she went to work, and we were trapped in the house without being able to communicate to anyone. She did this, too, with simple things such as the soap powder. If she was mad at us, we couldn’t wash clothes. This was the same for the iron, the cable cord, the soda. She had to have control over everything. Over us. But not herself.

I have great empathy for my mama’s plight now. She struggled to raise children in poverty by herself, and in return, she developed mental health problems. As a mental health professional, I now understand that my mother was suffering from stress related mental health issues. My mama was unhappy in her own life. Even with a husband present, she was raising her children up as an overworked, Single Black Mother. She fell into her own stereotypes. In Black communities, Black women aren’t supposed to crack. We are not supposed to become depressed, even when we experience poverty, poor and unstable living conditions, psychosocial challenges, and white supremacy.

Just because we are Black and Woman.

Black Women, as the keepers of children, suffer silently. They have to be present under this system to raise vibrant children. It is a difficult task, at best, because if our children do not flourish under our rearing, it is the mamas who have to answer for those failures. As the great bell hooks stated, we must “cherish our mothers,” not just uphold them for the things that they do for us, but also assist them in making their load lighter. If we see a mother struggling, we have to be there as a community to lift her up and when we see her not doing well, we have to be able to assist in creating a space for her to be able to say that she is tired and needs help. Yes, we need to cherish mothers.

After I wrote this piece, I decided to not only share the content with my mother, but to also include her voice. What follows is an interview that I did with her when she came to visit me on 5/14/15.
Conversation with my Mama

Iresha: What were some of the struggles you faced with basically raising your children by yourself?

Mom: Trying to pay the bills. The bills were always on my mind. It was a constant worry. Also, for five years, I did not work, and with your father’s drug problem, not only was I thrown into having to go to work, I had to work 2 to 3 jobs, which means I always had to go to work and leave my children around.

Iresha: The name of this piece is called “The Mama that Yelled.” Do you think that you yelled a lot when you were raising your children?

Mom: To be honest, yes. I didn’t know that at the time, but I see how it affected you now. My mother yelled, and her mother yelled. We were just a yelling family and it seemed normal. But yes, I can say I yelled at you all a lot.

Iresha: Do you ever reflect back on that time and wonder what you could have done differently? If so, what are you doing now with your children to change those patterns?

Mom: I could have been a better mom with my attitude and did family things with my children.

Iresha: Do you think that you suffered from depression at that time?

Mom: Absolutely. I just had so much on me and it was kind of hard. I was away from my family in DC and so I had no family here in Virginia for my own personal support. Your dad’s family helped me out a lot with raising you all, but I had no one to talk about my husband being on drugs and having to struggle. I cried all the time. I cried in the morning, at work. Especially, when your father would come home on pay day and there was no money. He had spent it on drugs.

Iresha: What advice would you give mamas, raising children by themselves?

Mom: Whatever you do, put your children first. Be a good mother to your children. And for the mothers and their own health, use your support systems and look to God; because to me that is looking up.

Photo: Shutterstock

Iresha Picot, M.Ed, BSL is a Licensed Behavior Specialist and Therapist in Philadelphia. Iresha is also an activist, with a lot of her work concentrating on prison abolitionist and birth work as a Doula. Her Doula website is 52ndstreetdoula.com

by Vanessa Hazzard

I thought I was well. It’s been over a year since I stopped cutting and almost two years since I’ve been released from the hospital after being treated for borderline personality disorder, bipolar disorder and PTSD. Since then, I’ve held a steady job and re-enrolled in a Bachelors degree program. My life had been successfully recalibrated after years of trauma. That life was so far in the rear view mirror, so small, that it seemed just a blip on the radar compared to all the good things that lay before me.

by Dee Rene

“When did things get this bad?”

Opening the door to my apartment after a stint in the hospital from a mental breakdown was sobering. Everything was the same as I had left it, a pot in the sink, a jacket tossed carelessly over the couch, and yet nothing was the same at all. There was no work to go to on Monday because depression had swallowed me whole and I was now on disability. There were no classes to prepare for because I hadn’t been able to keep up with the course work when things fell apart. Friends were gone, family deaths and romantic love was nothing but a festering painful memory.

Welcome to rock bottom. Bad days had come and gone but I had managed to find a way to survive. Somehow this was different. I had no idea where to go, what to do, who to call or even where to start.

Rock bottom is that devastating moment where you realize there is no lower point, although you are sure it could be worse and that things are “worse” for other people, this is the lowest it’s ever been for you and moving from this place seems impossible. However, if you resist the urge to make rock bottom a grave, you may see that rock bottom can ultimately benefit your life. J.K. Rowling spoke the truth in her Harvard Commencement Speech when she said, “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I built my life.”




Here are some lessons I learned when I hit rock bottom.

You must deal with yourself. No more distractions. No more money. No more friends and fun. It is just you and your mess. Stop blaming anyone else and stop getting lost in hypotheticals of how things in the past could have been different. All you can deal with is right now. Now what? Rock bottom is not the time to call yourself a failure but it is the time to admit when you screwed up. Separate your worth as a person from the actions that led you here.

You discover the beauty in starting over. Rebuilding is daunting but you can find encouragement in knowing that now you have a chance to rebuild in a way that you truly desire and need. Rebuild friendships or let them go. Find your dream job or finally go after what you really want. Now is the time, as your life has been stripped of what you once held so dearly, you can evaluate what is really important. When you get past the crippling pain, find the strength in letting go and the beauty in starting over.

With your back to the wall, and your resources depleted, you learn one simple truth about yourself – you can overcome the worst moment of your life. It becomes fuel for survival. No one is stronger than the person who reached their breaking point and lived to tell the tale. Limits become fluid and you understand that slamming into the wall of life hurts like hell but recovery is possible.

Rock bottom makes you an example of survival. Someone else is waiting on your survival through your darkest times so that you can encourage them about how to crawl out of the hole.




Although you won’t see it in the moment, hitting rock bottom can actually improve your life. Rock bottom can become a mirror, a clean slate, a testimony and a teaching tool for others. Give yourself space and time to hurt, to understand and assess your pain, to grieve your losses, and then… get up. Get back up and live your life because if you are still breathing, rock bottom is a stepping stone and not a grave.

By Margo Jefferson for The Cut

In her latest book, the Pulitzer Prize–winning critic Margo Jefferson offers a new definition of "Negroland." “Negroland is my name for a small region of Negro America where residents were sheltered by a certain amount of privilege and plenty,” she writes in the introduction to her new memoir. Chronicling her affluent upbringing in Chicago, which hits shelves September 8, Negroland is a sharp reflection on the intersection of race and class in mid-century America.

by Joy Notoma

I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Sandra Bland. Her face perpetually materializes behind my eyes when I start to doze off. I imagine that she is someone I used to know. An old friend. A cousin I haven’t spoken to in a long time. I want answers for her sweet smile. I want to hear her talk about her awakening black consciousness. I want to hear her say, “Sandy speaks,” as she offers strangers encouragement on her Facebook page. I want justice for the cruelty of her past depression being used to make suicide seem plausible. I want to join her mother when she says, “This is war,” who reminds me of Emmett Till’s mother using his murder as a call, not a moment of forgiveness.

I want answers.

Who is responsible for the death of Sandra Bland? What if Sandra Bland committed suicide? Does that mean the Waller County, Texas police department is not liable for her death? If she was murdered, will anyone be held accountable?

If Sandra Bland killed herself, she was undoubtedly depressed. In fact, she stated in a jail pre-screening interview, that she had been previously depressed. To some, this along with the fact that she was found hanging in her cell is all one needs as proof of suicide. No further questions necessary. But who is responsible? Why does ruling her death suicide seem to be reasonable cause for the Waller County police department to wash its hands of responsibility (not counting the responsibility it bears for neglecting to place her on suicide watch)?

Can we consider the extreme anxiety that being unjustly imprisoned must have caused a person who had been suicidal in the past? What of the additional anxiety and fear that she may have felt knowing that incidents of police brutality on black bodies frequently go unpunished? When the state trooper, Brian Encinia, put his hands on Sandra Bland to pull her out of the car, might she have thought of Freddie Gray, and feared that she may be yet another black body murdered at the hands of a power hungry cop?



What about Sandra Bland’s anger? Was her attitude out of line? Because of social media and camera phones, the American public, by and large, has only just begun to witness what black people have experienced for generations— physical, mental, and emotional terrorism regularly meted out by law enforcement officials on black bodies and black communities. The fact of this psychosomatic terror may be news to millions of white Americans, but it wasn’t news to Sandra Bland.

I sometimes think of what the late playwright, August Wilson, called “blood memory” when I think of intergenerational trauma. Intergenerational trauma is a fairly recent domain of research in the mental health field, but there is a substantial amount of evidence that an individual may carry trauma in the DNA that was experienced by preceding familial generations. This type of trauma also includes intercultural trauma and can be experienced by people of related cultures and communities.

Eureka! Finally there is a word, a proven, documented phenomenon that explains what black and brown people have known in their bones for centuries. There is a name for the anger that lurks around the corners of my eyes, daring to come forth, sometimes even when I am most joyous. There is a name for the shame that lingers too long when someone of my race that I don’t even know behaves in a manner that is true to a stereotype perpetuated in the media. There is a name for the uncanny thrill I get when I walk into a room and sense the hush of white people taking in my presence because they only relate to me as “other” and perceive me as a threat even without knowing me personally.

And these are only the little things.

There is a name for when we weep for nine murdered parishioners as if they were our own brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins; why the pain seems deeper than we can face without losing sanity. There is a name for the personal edge of the rage we feel when find there’s no justice for a boy who went out for Skittles and Amazon iced tea with his head covered by a black hoodie. There is a name for the anguish in our ribs that disturbs our sleep when we find that the marches and protests amounted to $5.5 million dollars but still no justice for a man selling loose cigarettes on the street. There is a name for why I can’t sleep at night thinking about a woman I have never met named Sandra Bland. The atrocities go on, but this pain that goes past my feet and into the ground and connects me with ancestors I don’t even have names for at least has a name.

So yes. Sandra Bland was angry. Maybe she wasn’t experiencing inter-generational trauma. Maybe she was just angry at having been pulled over for an infraction that many drivers commit multiple times a day—changing lanes without a signal. Maybe she was angry at being told to put out her cigarette or step out of her vehicle or being threatened with a taser. Regardless the cause, her anger was justifiable.

Having already experienced the brutality of the highway patrolman and having been in jail for three days, what might have gone through the mind of Sandra Bland who was already predisposed to depression? Could she have feared years in prison with unthinkable injustices heaped upon her daily like Kalief Browder? Could she have feared an unfair trial and skewed media coverage like the New Jersey 5? These are things we will never know.

Who is responsible for the death of Sandra Bland? If she indeed killed herself, it will be concluded that the answer to that question speaks for itself. But does it? If the investigation into her death uncovers foul play, can the family of Sandra Bland expect that justice will be served? Unfortunately, we all know how that story goes and the sad ending is not worth the energy to recount.

Sandra Bland’s name is another drop of our blood memory. But maybe this memory will not only call up terror, rage, and mental anguish. Maybe this memory will open the door to heal trauma, stare down mental illness, and retribute police brutality. Maybe this memory will mobilize us to confront forces that confine us to mental spaces that have damaged us longer than we consciously remember.

Photo: Facebook

Joy Notoma is a writer and performer living in NYC. Her current work includes interviewing people who have been affected by religious shunning and reviewing writings of incarcerated people. Check out her long form travel blog truthandtravel.wordpress.com.

by Danielle Stevens for This Bridge Called Our Health

I think some of the discourse emerging from these ‪#‎IfIDieInPoliceCustody and ‪#‎WhatHappenedToSandraBland‬ conversations are dangerously limited. Folks are saying “Sandra Bland was mentally sound” and “Black women like her would never commit suicide”, etc. Not only are we upholding precarious and dehumanizing ‘strong black woman’ archetypes that neglect to hold Black women in the fullness and breadth that we embody, but our failure to operate within a mental health & disability justice framework by making the assertion that Sandra Bland was ‘mentallly sound’ in order to prove that she did not commit suicide is a dangerous narrative that both devalues black people who navigate mental health difficulties and trauma and also erases their/our narratives from the conversation.

by Dee Rene

One difficult part of friendship is watching your friend suffer and not being able to help them move through it. A friend with depression seems to be slowly drowning and you feel like you aren’t able to send them a lifesaver.

by Kristina Brooke

I was diagnosed with clinical depression at 16 years old and generalized anxiety disorder at 17. My mother did not take either diagnosis seriously. She was a registered nurse, yet she often commented that my diagnosis stemmed from wanting attention. Like many Black parents, especially those who identify as Christian, it was easier to believe that I was being dramatic rather than suffering from a mental illness.

by Anna Gibson


According to the National Alliance of Mental Illness it's estimated that 1 in 4 people in the United States struggle with mental illness. The "trifecta" of severe mental illnesses—bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and major depression—are estimated to affect 13.6 million Americans.

by Anna Gibson


On April 8th, 2014, a rising star in the black community, Karyn Washington, died by suicide. According to an article by Buzzfeed, Washington was the originator of the critically acclaimed website, For Brown Girls, and the #DarkSkinRedLipProject, an initiative that began in response to A$AP Rocky’s comments that “dark-skinned women shouldn’t wear red lipstick.” This movement inspired thousands of women and little girls to find pride in the skin they’re in.

“What you’ve described to me, what I’ve observed from our time together, and what I believe in my professional opinion, is that you have PTSD.”

by Yirssi


On February 11, 2012, the world responded with deep sadness as media outlets reported beloved singer and entertainer Whitney Houston’s untimely and tragic death. Almost three years later, her daughter, Bobbi Kristina Brown, was found in eerily similar circumstances: unresponsive in a bathtub in her Georgia home, before being transported to the hospital in an attempt to prevent history from repeating itself. While news about Bobbi Kristina’s current status has been inconsistent and rumor-based, millions of people are praying that she makes a full recovery.

by Eboni Rafus


I’ve been a writer since I was in elementary school. My grandmother’s suicide a month before my 9th birthday left my mother and I both sad and confused. I wanted to help my mom but I didn’t know what I could say or do that would be comforting. After all, I was still trying to wrap my head around the concept of death myself.

by Bee Quammie


Feeling understood is a luxury these days, and I guess a portion of that is my fault.

Each time I get a text message asking “Hey! How you doin’?” and I answer “Fine! How are you?” I promise myself that next time I’ll respond with the truth. Each time I get off the phone with my mother, I wonder if she senses the hesitation in my goodbye, the falter in my voice that signifies that I want to say more, but I don’t know how. Each time my husband asks me what he can do to help, emotion rises in my throat and bubbles out through my tears. All I can say is, “I don’t know.”

by Dee Rene


I’m a Black, Southern, Christian naturalista. Yes, I’m the person that tosses out the pain medications after a broken finger or uses tea tree oil for infections. If I can’t solve the problem with something from Whole Foods, I’m likely not interested.

by Ariel C. Williams 

by Neisha Washington


In light of the recent passing of Titi Branch, entrepreneur and founder of Miss Jessie’s, due to a reported suicide, many have called for elevating the discussion of black women’s mental health into the wider consciousness. The story of black women and mental health is a difficult one to tell. It is not pretty. It is not poetic. It is something that requires stripping down to the bare bones of intersectionality and oppression. It is a story often told by examining the reasons for the silence in our communities, schools, and homes. It will take a toll on the myths of strength that black women have told ourselves to survive.

Titi Branch (left) and Miko Branch (right).

Although it has not been confirmed by Branch's family or representatives, it was announced over the weekend that Titi Branch, co-founder of the natural haircare line Miss Jessie's, died on Dec. 4th from an apparent suicide.