by Leslie Marant

I spent the weekend of June 3, 2017 celebrating my father’s 80th birthday at the Capital Jazz Festival in Columbia, Maryland. My sisters and I decided that this was the perfect gift for our jazz loving father. As the only one of his children to get bit with the jazz bug, I happily agreed to escort him. I kept my sisters and followers abreast of our Capital Jazz activities via Facebook postings. People enjoyed the postings and looked forward to our trip updates. I saw several comments saying things like, “I love to see great daddy-daughter relationships,” “awwww, you’re a daddy’s girl,” and “best daughter.”

But I am not a daddy’s girl and never have been. What I am is someone who learned to make peace with my father and with our fractured past. What I have become is someone who is purposeful in my intentions to heal, recover, learn, grow and love. As a result reconciliation became possible.


I won't share all of the details of my childhood or dishonor my father by laying out his misdeeds. Suffice it to say that some of his actions were incredibly harmful to my mother, siblings, and me. It was pretty traumatic stuff. After my parents divorced in my early teens I was estranged from my father for many years. I was cool with it, or so I believed. My mother never spoke a word against him. I spoke them for her. Based on my father's troubled relationship with his parents we didn't grow up knowing and visiting my paternal grandparents. He held onto his own hurts and history and stated that it did not matter if we knew them. His inability to cope with the disappointments of his childhood carried over into adulthood. Long story short, shit rolls downhill and he created a family he was emotionally unprepared to love well. But he loved us nevertheless. He worked hard for us. He sacrificed for us. He fought for us. Those things are as important as his errors.

It took me years to be able to view my dad objectively. When someone harms us it's natural to avoid delving into what happened​ to them and examining the reasons for their behavior. All we want to care about is the harm they've done to us. We want them to own it, acknowledge it, apologize for it, and rectify it if they can. That ain't my daddy. He’s not built like that. His hurts ran too deep and he's​ nurtured them for too long. He feeds them and what we feed lives and grows. Consequently the forgiveness that I was taught is necessary for my own deliverance and health was a long time coming. It was a process. It took years. It required therapy.

I was estranged from my father from my mid-teens through my early adulthood. When my ex-husband said he wanted to speak with my father about our engagement I replied, "for what? Nope and dialogue with my father about my mother, my parent's marriage, and women is off the table." I did not trust my father’s distorted version of the truth nor his view of women. I did not want my fiancé poisoned with my father’s bitterness and skepticism.

But when my eldest child was born I knew it was important for my children to know my dad. I had begrudging awareness that he contributed more to my life than harm. My kids deserved the good, albeit crazy, parts of my father. They deserved a grandpop. I'd forgiven​ enough to allow him to have a relationship with his grandchildren. As their mother I decided that I had the ability to simply cut him back out of my life if I did not like the way he interacted with me or my family. You see I was an adult and he was not going to harm me or mine ever again. If he even dreamed about I would invite him to the door.

I believe years of being enstranged from his children did something to my father. I suspect he did some self-examination, but only a little. So when he came around my sisters and I for family functions he was clearly very grateful to be invited. He was happy. He loved up on the babies. My father allowed his grandchildren to get away with stuff that would have put us in fear of our lives. Once he was at my house when my eldest was a toddler and I tapped her hands about something. "Pooh, don't beat the baby." Say what? Who is this person and what have you done with my father?” I couldn't believe it.

Nevertheless he became quite the loving grandpop. Just as he did when he was raising us, if the kids expressed an interest in anything he would mail an article, CD, cassette tape or anything else he could get his hands on about it. He took them on trips to museums, the theater, plays, and musical performances. He was and is a great grandpop.

But I guess that somewhere in the back of my mind I was not fully done with my own troubled past with my dad. I hosted most of the family events. He was always invited and came. But in small ways I made sure that he was not the boss of me. I made sure that I was in control of the relationship, that I would never respond to him like a little girl anymore,and would never be afraid of him again. It wasn't until my ex-husband once said, "y'all don't make your father a plate. Somebody make his plate." Man you make it, daddy should be happy to be here! Perhaps that was when I realized that I was not quite as finished with this forgiveness thing as I thought because I was thinking, "he's here. He's around. This is for the kids. This is good enough and better than I ever thought it would be possible. But Daddy can make his own plate."

The kids grew up, I went through my own divorce, and went to therapy to get through that mess. If we have good therapists we can learn all about ourselves, the reasons we do the things we do, think the way we do, react and respond the way we do. A good therapist will guide us as we revisit some hurts and pains that are the source of the baggage we bring to the relationships we create in adulthood. We can find peace through the process. I have a very good therapist. Ouch!

My therapist and I wrestled with my past for a long time. As a result I began to develop more compassion and empathy for my dad. I don't condone his actions. I simply understand them now. That understanding allowed me to move from "my father is in my life here for relatable ancestry for my children​" to "you're welcome in my life, Daddy."

It has not always been peaches and roses even after reconciliation. My dad is 80. He's stubborn. He's lived alone for more than 40 years and is unaware of how he can sometimes be self-centered. Both of my parents are elderly and need/needed care. Because of our lengthy estrangement my father is not at the top of my mind all of the time. I check on my mom almost daily because she just holds that kind of priority in my life. I have to remind myself to check on my dad. It's not willful or conscious neglect. It's more, "oh shoot, I haven’t talked to Dad, did anybody talk to Dad or check in on him?" There are consequences to the way we build relationships. Having to remind myself to check in on my dad is one of those consequences.

We likely almost lost him last year. He was very sick. It was just natural for me to jump in and take care of his needs. However, after getting him situated back home he made a statement that -and I can't stand this word - "triggered" me and took me right back to a childhood reaction to trauma. Like a legitimate trigger. I was almost done with him. But I've done a lot of work in therapy. I intend to be the best version of me I can be and I intend for my relationships with people to be healthy or I won’t endure them. After I blocked my father’s calls and he sent numerous messages through my sisters I finally agreed to talk to him. My thoughts were "I know I didn't just finish taking days off work to care for him and get his house straight and he said that to me? Naw dude. I'm good on you." But we met and after I “gave him the business” as he claims and established the boundaries regarding what he could never say to me again we were fine.

I did not consider it giving him the business. I simply told him how I felt about all of his transgressions, how they impacted me as a child, and how they impacted me as an adult. It wasn’t emotional or abusive. It wasn’t loud. It was just me telling him things I needed to say. It was letting go. He attempted to intervene and defend. I did not allow that. Thus the “giving him the business.” It is hard to hear someone else's version of the harm we inflicted and the damage it caused. It's hard to hear what someone thinks of our worst selves. It's hard to hear some of what our children think of us. But that's what I told him and I laid down some rules for future engagement. He did not like some of it. He disagreed with some of it. He apologized for none of it. But I was not there for his apologies. I no longer need them. No invisible weight was lifted. There was no relief. I had my say and that was that. My therapist said, "then you're really done with the past. That's good. You weren't​ challenged with the consequences of your decision. You're fine and in a good space with your relationship with your father."


So we went to the Capital Jazz Festival together and had an absolute blast! We tapped fingers and toes. He stayed up later than I did for the late night jam session. I waited in line for 90 blazing minutes to get his platter of food. I employed my powers of persuasiveness to get him a better seat. He blocked my potential dating activity because it’s hard to be single and mingle when your 80 year old father is attached at the hip, lol! But we had fun. We created memories for both of us that will last. Whenever he passes, not too soon please Creator, it will be well with my soul.


I guess I say all of this to remind us that no one is all villain nor hero. We are who we are. We are human. I'm not the best daughter in the world. I'm not the worst. He’s not the best father. He’s not the worst. But I love my Dad as he loves me, flaws and all. Years ago a friend said, "we are the victims of our parent's mistakes and the beneficiaries of their blessings." Indeed. I am grateful to have shared this time and experience with him. I'm grateful to be able to bring him some happiness. I am grateful for the opportunity to reconcile and the willingness on both of our parts to do so. I am grateful.
Photo: CreateHerStock

by Briana Perry

Recently, I have come across several Facebook posts, tweets, and op-eds addressing call-out culture and disposability in movement work. For some, “calling out” a person for causing harm and being overly problematic is also detrimental because call-outs can take place publicly and become heated, which could be unhealthy. For others, “calling out” harm that is inflicted upon them is warranted, especially harm that is rooted in systemic oppression, as it can lead to distress and trauma. People who support “calling out” might also argue that it is unfair  to tell someone how to address and process their pain. It can also be viewed as a form of tone policing.

I was once a big proponent of “calling out” the abusive and problematic statements/practices of a person (or group), especially if the practices occurred publicly. Growing up, my mama taught me to never let anyone “make a fool out of me,” so I’ve often taken the approach that if someone hurts/embarrasses me (especially publicly), then I am going to address it in the same manner (i.e. engage in a public dragging). While I am aware of the old adages “you can’t fight fire with fire” and “two wrongs don’t make a right,” there was always a sense of relief (and sometimes joy) that accompanied going off about a harmful comment and/or action that was directed toward me. And after the call out, I quickly removed the culprit from my life. If it was someone from the movement who I knew, I would abruptly cease communication. If it was just a person from the comments section, I would simply block them.


I also utilized this approach in my personal life, even before becoming involved in social justice work. If a friend or romantic partner did or said something that was painful, I would address it (publicly if necessary) and then remove them from my life. This was deeply rooted in the belief that if someone has harmed you, then that person does not need to hold space in your life. Over a month ago, I relied on this principle to remove a person from my life because of some actions that led to pain and embarrassment for me. I even provided a deadline for when the removal would take place. However, when I tried to do so, the individual said something that startled me; they shared how I am adamant about being compassionate and not wanting to be disposed of by others, but yet I was trying to dispose, which was problematic (and hypocritical). Initially after receiving this feedback, I became defensive. I felt as if the remark was a deflection and an attempt to not take accountability for the harm that had been caused. Upon further reflection and processing, I realized that I was being hypocritical, and my deadline approach was damaging.

This situation was a gateway for confronting a harsh reality; while I try hard to navigate the world without causing harm, I have in fact harmed others. I have engaged in abusive and problematic practices that have probably been shameful, hurtful, and embarrassing for some folks. Nayyirah Waheed states in one of her poems that “we have all hurt someone tremendously. whether by intent or accident.” I have come to realize that I thought because I am, for the most part, a caring and considerate person, I was exempt from this. But that is not the case. We have all harmed and inflicted pain. And this is what makes call-out culture and disposing of others complicated. Capitalism, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and ableism have taught us that certain individuals are disposable. But we are not. Even though it can be difficult to give grace and be patient in some situations, I am now reminding myself that I have made mistakes. I have wounded.

I am not suggesting that we completely do away with publicly addressing harm or pain. I do believe, especially for historically marginalized groups, that space should be created for expressing and processing an array of emotions as a result of being harmed. I also believe that there are times when people need to part ways due to toxicity, a constant denial of one’s humanity, and a lack of contribution to mutual growth.


I do hope that we consider the nuances and think more deeply about the historical pain/trauma that we, as marginalized folks, carry (that we have both inherited and experienced), how we can inflict that pain on each other, and our healing process.

In the past, I thought that I was healing with my approach and practices, but I was not. My recent situation has helped me to recognize that part of the healing process involves acknowledging and addressing how I, too, have harmed. And I don’t want to be disposed of for my shortcomings.

Briana Perry is a Black feminist born, raised, and currently situated in the South. She is passionate about reproductive justice, storytelling, and investing in public schools.

By Najya Williams

At the time of Trayvon Martin’s death, I was an eighth grader on my way to high school. I first heard the news of this horrific racial injustice on the radio, and to say I was shocked is an understatement. It was my first experience with racial injustice not only in my generation, but in this era. Four years and dozens of stolen lives later, I was as emotionally drained as I had ever been. The constant fear of becoming another hashtag or developing one for someone in my inner circle paralyzed my thoughts daily. Am I next? Will I become another hashtag? How am I supposed to want to bring children into this type of environment?

by Aydrea Walden

When was the last time you found yourself saying something like this:
“Ugh. I should just go out.”
“I feel really bad for not being there.”
“I know he doesn’t understand why I need to be alone right now.”

by Anitra Winder

There are a few constants about living in Los Angeles. For example, trying to find a parking space at Trader Joe’s will be akin to doing battle in the Thunder Dome, or attempting a group breakfast at any restaurant after 10 a.m. on the weekend is pure folly, and, of course, everyone works out. It’s common to see joggers zipping through city terrain filled with latte-sipping pedestrians clutching little dogs or packs of cyclists dominating the roadways or participants of CrossFit with routines so extreme that they may end up on the hood of your car doing burpees during a traffic stop. Yes, bodies are in motion in the city, a cultivated stock of stellar bodies, and then there’s me, a coffee-colored, unapologetic female occupier of ample physical space that’s usually reserved for males.


Non-white female bodies have long been the focus of a historical oppression that has misrepresented and complicated the social narrative of women of color. The nature of oppression in the dichotomous form of racism and misogyny are acted out through the subjugation of Black female bodies by whites. Frequently this subjugation is played out in public spaces through stereotyping and food and body policing, which are often positioned casually. A case in point would be when a white male coworker can’t be convinced that you enjoy hiking because according to his sources, Black women have a “sweat and hair thing that keeps them from exercising” or being told by a server in a vegetarian restaurant that the menu has small portions and no meat before moving on to another customer. Or when a thin, blonde overenthusiastic fellow shopper can’t stop congratulating you for “trying to get healthy and lose weight for bikini season” because your cart is filled with produce.

Because white supremacy is the foundation of our social fabric, it’s presupposed that all Black women share the same relationship to food and their bodies as white women; that we measure our bodies by the same standards set forth within the dominant culture, which by design are racist and damaging to women. Serena Williams, although a winner of multiple Wimbledon titles and is ranked number 1 by the Women’s Tennis Association, has been dogged her entire career by white assessments of her body and femininity. Williams has been criticized for being unattractive, fat, and unfit even though she’s snagged 21 Grand Slam titles and has repeatedly proven herself a consistent champion.

What we can take away from the social commentary surrounding not only Williams, but specifically any non-white female body that doesn’t fit the prescribed Eurocentric beauty model, is that you will not be afforded the agency to decide if your body is healthy or attractive. You will not be granted the right to personal corporal discretion because your body doesn’t belong to you. Your achievements, regardless of scale, are inconsequential because you will be denied the privilege of determining your successes.

Therefore, socially, my size 16 body is not only purportedly symbolic of my ill health but also representative of the indolence Black women have mastered. Yet, I’m a cognizant eater who has lost 160 pounds over the course of three years and hasn’t regained weight because I’m regularly physically active. However, this triumph is obscured because even after such a massive weight loss I’m still not thin. And more importantly I have the audacity to be at peace with it and refuse to act contrite. In a world where female beauty is predicated on whiteness and thinness, racist and sexist forms of female objectification have become a celebrated norm, while self-determination is vilified. Women often feel obligated to apologize for the supposed counterintuitive act of gaining weight, when often the act of gaining weight can sometimes be much more emotionally complicated than simply not being able to put down the fork.


For some weight loss is only qualified as a success if the end result is a body that’s a gangly assemblage of muscle fit to run a 10K. However, I’m choosing to honor my journey and view my body as a success because it is a testament to the many abuses it has survived at the hands of sexual abusers, racists, and misogynists. This body soldiered on. Despite years of severe hypertension, high cholesterol, edema, diabetes, and pain, this body withstood and maintained to bring me to my current state of health, which no longer requires medication or occasional canes. I can walk long distances, climb stairs, plank, and squat.

For the first time in my life, I’m metabolically healthy and I have a healthy relationship with food. The world couldn’t imagine that while still in a large body, this Black woman hiked her way through the desert for five hours – at night! This fat body can now do things it hasn't been able to do since adolescence, and my body feels good. So today, I’ll climb over a few hills and then down into crowded streets to pick up a coconut water at the end of my hike. I’ll probably catch a few puzzled stares along the way as I speed through, sweat drenched, in neon running shoes and my favorite crimson hoodie. And why shouldn't they stare…? They’ve never seen liberation in motion before.

Photo: Shutterstock

Anitra Winder is a queer, crafty, Afrofuturistic, writer, and social justice advocate. She has a degree from the University of Massachusetts Amherst in Health Care Administration/Public Health. When she’s not focused on social justice issues, she’s battling her comic book addiction…she’s not winning. Find her on Twitter @Donitocarmenito.

Bill Cosby is once again in the spotlight. Over 40 women have come forward accusing him of sexual assault—some of the accusations from as early as 1969. And this week, documents from court dispositions were unsealed, revealing that Cosby admitted to giving drugs to women so that they would have sex with him in 2005.

by Neisha Washington

In the wake of last month's Charleston church shooting, in which six women and three men were gunned down mercilessly, black people across the country have felt increasingly unsafe. The event demonstrated the lack of security black bodies have in even sacred spaces. An attack on the black church is an attack on the very heart of black society. It seems there is no place to be safe and black in this country, no place in which we’re free from having aspersions projected onto our melanin.

by Danae Ross

Our news feeds and timelines have been inundated with articles lamenting the shooting in Charleston. Many reports emphasize the quantity of lives lost this Wednesday, without even a mere mention of the victims’ names. Their lives are barely acknowledged, while the shooter's entire existenc, both before and after the massacre, is detailed. Innumerable outlets are investing energy into analyzing—even rationalizing—his behavior, while no reference at all is allotted to the men and women of Emanuel A.M.E. They are not merely nine "people," "churchgoers," or even "African Americans.” Instead, they have become no more than a number: nine. As in 9 "dead," 9 "killed," 9 "slaughtered," 9 "shot." Nine. Period. End of story. Not only does this threaten to psychosocially sanitize these homicides by dehumanizing the men and women we lost last Wednesday, it allows the media to perpetually humanize the shooter while simultaneously pushing the victims—and us, as a community—to the back burner.

by Marena Bridges

I didn’t know what to expect when I went into my first appointment with my therapist so long ago. As we walked to her office, she explained that she specialized in working with trauma survivors. Trauma survivors? Sure, I’d had my share of awful experiences just like anyone else, but I’d never thought of myself as a survivor. But, as I continued attending therapy sessions, I came to realize that I had a rather narrow view of exactly what it means to experience and survive trauma.

by Anna Gibson

Jessica is 29 years old and currently lives in Detroit, Michigan. She currently takes care of two beautiful and energetic sons, Quadir and Jibril. Jessica is also a survivor of intimate partner violence, where threats, coercion, and physical violence were the norm.

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 Dalila Thomas


Relationships can be hard, and even harder when they don’t work out. When it comes to break-ups, no matter who broke up with whom, there’s going to be some pain involved. Is there any way to change this? Not exactly. Time does heal all wounds essentially, but there are some ways to make a break-up easier on yourself, so you can begin healing sooner rather than later.

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 Samantha Marie Haynes

by Piper Anderson


I’m sitting in the back of a police car on my way to Brooklyn Central Booking after spending a night in the 77th precinct in Crown Heights. Cop sitting on the front passenger side, barely turns to me as he sweetly chides, “You know what your problem is, Piper? You think too much.”

In August, I wrote briefly about the profusion of sexual assault tales within Black women’s narratives, after researching books to include on a list for teenage girls (also posted on For Harriet). This was influenced, in part, by celebrities like Vanessa Williams and Jada Pinkett-Smith opening up about their own experiences as sexual assault survivors, in the wake of the case about 16-year-old Jada from Houston, TX. And last month, I wrote about Daniel Holtzclaw, an Oklahoma City police officer accused of sexually assaulting up to nine Black women while on duty.

Finding happiness at twenty-two as a queer, mixed race woman of color has been nothing short of a two-decade struggle. Growing up in a household with a white mother and an emotionally unstable black father – who mastered the art of invisibility quite swiftly upon brining me into the world – created a unique set of insecurities.

I’ve always been a sprinter. As a child, my long legs would dash across an open field or down the asphalt of my neighborhood street determined to be the first to slap the hand of the person acting as our finish line. In high school, during my brief stint at track and field, my coach encouraged me to be a long distance runner, but I insisted on the thrill of the 100-yd dash. I didn’t see the benefit in the endurance and strength required for 800 meters.

When I became intentional about beginning my healing journey, I took a similar approach--attempting to sprint to the finish line called “healed.” As if I had disappeared into a lab and placed my psyche under the microscope, I dove into very deep waters, unaware of my capacity and how it was mismatched with my ferocious quest to heal. With the help of therapy and deep self-reflective work through writing, I unearthed long repressed memories that floored me.
I was ill prepared for the unexpected grief and momentary rage that had me wondering if I would ever smile again. Determined to heal myself and recover what was taken from me as a survivor of child abuse, I went full throttle into my process, trying to mine my past for my lost parts, relentless to recover what had been taken from me.

I was finally doing the work and needed to make up for lost time. My wounds took center stage and after a while of processing may past in that way, I became overwhelmed. I thought that by looking at every memory, every hurt, reading every book, I wouldn’t hurt so much and somehow fix it all--I was wrong.

Whether I went inside myself with a bulldozer or an ice pick, what I uncovered surprised, terrified, depressed, angered, and at times even disgusted me. Eventually those heavy and dark emotions gave way to something sweet, powerful, resilient, and fiercely loving. I learned that I could face my pain.

I learned that those emotions and memories would not kill me. I learned that I had what it took to make it through and heal. Healing from trauma is not about fixing one’s self. It is about tending to our wounds, then giving them time to breathe.

Like a child being shooed away from picking a healing scab, sometimes we have to just let it be. Healing is about recognizing our wholeness in the face of deep pain, knowing that scars mean that I’ve been wounded, but they also mean that I’ve healed.

Now, when I’m doing those “deep dives,” I know I must prepare myself and make sure I am taking care of my body in addition to my mind and spirit-- something I’ve learned many trauma survivors struggle with. I have also learned to recognize when I’ve been triggered and am responding to life from a space where I feel small, reactionary, uneasy and tense in my body. This work is a continuous journey, but the most rewarding and fruitful work I’ve ever done.

The following tools are ones I’ve learned and practiced both in my healing work and in my life. They support my “training” in living my life as a whole human being who is worthy of love.

Take care of your self

I got sick a few times early on in this process. My sleep was often interrupted by flashbacks. I ate a lot of unhealthy comfort foods and ignored the signs from my body indicating its need for more care. Eating nutritious foods, getting a good night’s sleep and exercising are practices that maintain a certain level of wellness in the body and during times of deep emotional processing, an act of self-love.

Paying close attention to how your body feels will help you to know if you are doing too much and where you may need to make adjustments regarding how you’re caring for it.

Set boundaries
For many years I struggled to set boundaries with others. I either said “yes” when I wanted to say “no” or I avoided the issue completely. I wasn’t strong enough to say what I really wanted or needed or I wasn’t clear. Learning to be in touch with what I feel and what I need has been a huge and important step for me in setting boundaries. Honoring myself enough to let others know what my needs are and deciding what I will do to care for myself when others don’t honor them has been vital to me feeling safe in my body and to my healing.

Find a good therapist
There is no way I could have done this level of work without the support of my therapist. I am grateful that she is compassionate, wise and that my wholeness is important to her. If you are processing a painful past, hopefully you are already doing this work with a therapist. If you are not, I highly suggest finding someone who will support you in your healing journey. You don’t have to do this alone and you shouldn’t. You deserve the support.

Have someone you can call anytime of the night or day
There were many nights when I thought the tears wouldn’t come to an end and those who were willing to answer my phone calls at any time of day or night where anchors in my storm. Having a loving witness to our pain is sometimes the very thing we need to help us transition from a rough patch. At times this can be a therapist, but if you’re not able to access them or if you’re not seeing one, a good and trustworthy friend is the next best option.

Do something that brings you joy
One thing that trauma does is limits our capacity to experience a range of emotions fully, especially good ones like joy and peace. I am personally very familiar with the emotions of fear and anger.

I am sometimes hyper-vigilant, preparing myself for the next attack or on the lookout for the next bad thing to happen. Now, with increased awareness, I deliberately seek out experiences that facilitate true joy and happiness. Something as simple as going for a walk in nature and allowing myself to take in its beauty and wonder allows me to tap into the ever-giving stream of goodness inside and all around me.
Celebrate yourself
In the heavy lifting that is the healing journey, I took care of myself. I asked for help and slowly but surely, the persistent sadness began to lift. I was able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Joy came more easily. Anger, an emotion that used to dominate and floor me, now informs me. I have the tools I need when I fall back into sadness or self-sabotage, which I sometimes do.

Healing work is some of the hardest work you’ll ever do. Touching those tender spaces inside you is an act of bravery and radical and fierce self-love. Wherever you are on your healing journey, you deserve to celebrate yourself. You deserve respect. You deserve to be supported and loved.

Please remember that during this times, when a new you is immerging and you are setting boundaries, honoring yourself in ways you never have, you may have to release relationships and people who will not celebrate this new person you are becoming. Bless them and send them on their way.

The Buddha stated, “You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” In your commitment to healing, you show yourself the greatest demonstration of your love and care for yourself.

by Staci Gorden

I never really understood what yoga was about until I met Margaret during yoga class 6 years ago.

Margaret practices yoga for at least an hour and a half every day. She believes it helped save her life and continues to do so. She tells me, “I still have those stories in my head of not being good enough. I sometimes still ask myself why I am practicing yoga on one leg. But there is something special about being with my body how it is.”