by Neena Robertson

It was summer. The early morning hours of July 4th, 2013 to be exact.

As I sat in the fetal position on my bathroom floor, trying to rock the pain away, I remember thinking how ironic it was to be having a miscarriage on the day our nation celebrates its liberation. The thing inside of me had become somewhat of an oppressor, forever connecting me to a relationship that I wasn't totally invested in, and a concept of motherhood that I wasn't totally sold on. It would have been a lifetime of responsibility that I wasn't totally prepared for, so some part of me was ready to be free and done with it.

Just hours before the pain began, I was out having dinner with friends who had flown in from Toronto. We were reminiscing about previous travel adventures across the continents and making plans for our next carefree expedition. I felt my stomach begin to cramp. After all of the research I had done online, I knew cramping was the first sign of a miscarriage, so to some degree I was prepared. My doctor had told me two weeks prior that the six-week-old life once growing inside of me had simply stopped. No more heartbeat. No reason she could point to. Just another reminder that death was also a part of life.
I remember reading a blog post in which a woman accurately described a miscarriage as feeling like a walking casket. I could totally relate. Some part of me welcomed the pain. I welcomed the idea of no longer being attached to this thing that I had objectified as part of some twisted biological mechanism.

But the reality is that I hadn’t always viewed giving birth in such a way. In fact, for as long as I can remember, I'd always wanted children. Like most 70’s babies born towards the end of that decade, watching The Cosby Show shaped my ideas of family. Although my own family was fairly intact, it was the relationships between Heathcliff, Claire, and their children that I aspired to achieve once I became an adult. I envisioned living in a beautiful home with a thriving career, a handsome husband, and five loving children whom I was proud and honored to be the mother of.

But as I write this, that image is in complete contrast to my current reality: I am a 36-year-old woman, single and childless by choice and circumstance.

Like many women in my situation, I am constantly being asked when I’m going to have children, get married, and settle down. The younger me used to take offense to family, friends, and complete strangers placing such judgments on my life. It was as if my life were in some way flawed or incomplete because I didn’t have a husband or kids. But my older, more mature self has accepted that it's often difficult to shake socially constructed views.

The truth is: Had it not been for losing my soul mate, I too would probably still be fantasizing about raising a family in a Brooklyn brownstone.

I was 26 years old when Russell passed, and with him went my sense of self and desire to have a family. For so long, it was he and I, traveling across the globe, enjoying each other’s energy, and making plans for the future—which most definitely included children. But not until we were both financially and mentally ready. And at that time, we were neither. Any money that we saved was spent on travel, including a fateful trip to St. Martins that would change our trajectory completely.

It was a Saturday, warm and sunny, with very few clouds in the sky. We had spent the morning preparing for our flight home—me packing, Russell resting. He had passed out from the heat the day before, and the doctor suggested that he take it easy.



I can remember us laughing and reflecting on our time away from home. Seven awesome days of vacation; just the two of us and a rental car. We were all over that little island, visiting the French side, the Dutch side, and then back around. Even on our last day, we made one last loop before traveling to the airport, attempting to take it all in before our return to the states. But halfway around the island, Russell began to feel sick again. He complained of nausea and was sweating profusely. I stopped to grab him a Gatorade and crackers, as the doctor from the day before instructed to do to keep him hydrated. I remember asking him if he wanted to go back to the hospital and him insisting that he just wanted to get home.

But that never happened. He collapsed shortly after we boarded the plane. And although the ambulance ride from the airport to the hospital was fairly quick—island traffic jams aside—he never regained consciousness: A massive heart attack at 31 years old. Dead.

I was calm… too calm. Maybe the experience of him passing out the day before had in some way prepared me for his mortality. Yet I'm guessing it was complete shock that explained my state of stillness. Someone I loved—who was so young and so full of life—was gone.

After the doctor left the room I was on my own, tasked with making sense of something so senseless. I picked up the phone, called my mother and then his sister, and waited for someone to come rescue me.

I had no concept of time. I just knew it was late, but I was wide awake. The sun had set hours ago, turning day to night, warm to cold. After speaking with a few of my family and friends, I convinced my mother that I could manage my flight in the morning on my own. There was no need for her come to me in St. Martin.

I got off the phone and let the reality of my situation sink in: I was alone. Completely and utterly alone. Miles upon miles of ocean separated me from any sense of normalcy.

I remember turning on the television in an attempt to drown out my thoughts. I laid in bed watching the sun peek behind the water with my favorite episode of The Cosby Show playing in the background. Rudy was belting out “Baby!” Her hips were gyrating, her smile as wide as could be, performing in the living room for her grandparents’ anniversary.

It was a small dose of familiarity.

But in the coming weeks, months, and years, my life would be anything but familiar. I would spend a lot of time and energy shaping a new reality, a new sense a self. In an effort to become more self-evolved, I became more self-centered in a way that made sense for my new situation. There was no one that I needed to consider; there was just me. So, I lived my life accordingly—in a way that didn’t hold a space for someone else. Especially a child.

The more trips I began to take by myself or with my girlfriends, the freer I felt. I embraced that feeling. I embraced being single because it meant I wasn’t responsible for meeting someone else’s needs. I still missed Russell and the relationship that we shared ( it’s ten years later and he still occupies a major space in my heart), but I finally felt OK with being by myself.

And it’s not that I despise children. On the contrary, I take pride in being a godmother, honorary godfather, and “fairy god-cousin,” but I'm OK with being childless. As much as I embraced the pain of my miscarriage I felt a few summers ago, I was also completely devastated when the ibuprofen wore off and the reality of my empty womb sunk in. However, in the process of healing, I accepted how loss can give birth to life.

I feel like a woman renewed and redefined. I don’t feel pressured to get married and have babies, or live my life in any one particular way. There's something very powerful in that for me; something very liberating and spirit filling at the same time.
It’s not to say that I will never love again or have children. But if and when I do, it will be on my own terms and according to my own rules. It will not simply be because that is what my mother did, and my mother’s mother before her, and so on. And it most certainly will not be because it’s what women are “supposed” to do. I have vowed to live my life in a way that makes me happy, and I’m not willing to compromise that for the sake of someone else. I understand compromise is the very core of being a good mother or spouse. They both require offering oneself completely to other beings. That is beautiful, but most certainly not for me—not at this time.

People often say that once you have children and get married that these feelings will change. Well, what if I don’t want to change? I want to continue living and being just as I am. I love the freedom of just being able to get up and go—no plans or approval needed. Indeed, I felt free just typing that! I would hate to end up being someone who had children or got married just for the sake of doing both, rather than truly wanting those things for myself. Why set myself up for that type of resentment… or anyone else, for that matter? Instead I choose to do what makes me feel good, however selfish that may sound.

Loss has forced me to live a more authentic life and I am forever grateful for that type of rebirthing. While we may never really know what the world is going to throw our way—or how to even begin to preparing for it—our work is simply to adjust, trusting that the universe will guide our way.

 Photo: Shutterstock 

Neena Robertson is a native Washingtonian and practicing psychotherapist. She specializes in depression and anxiety, helping her clients manage grief and loss. Neena also recently launched a clothing line (www.mypsatees.com) where she enjoys flexing her creative muscle by way of statement tees. She's also in the process of finalizing a mental health app, Sister Sessions, for women of color to help minimize the stigma of mental health. (Be on the look out!)

Front porch with wooden boards and meshed screen housed conversations, revelations, and remarkable storytelling that shaped my world as a young girl child growing up in Wilcox County, Alabama. My mind fancies soul-stirring memories of the gathering of Black women who sought solace on my grandmother’s small porch and the scattered oak trees in the barren yard that danced to the rhythm of the wind. Paint rusting on the rocking chairs as my grandmother, women-relatives, and sister-womenfolk from our small town rocked, hummed, and bared their souls. I remember the inflection in tone and the power and deep affection delicately wrapped around their voices as they shared their stories. My grandmother’s front porch served as a safe haven for a community of women who shared their lived and learned experiences—soul stories that fostered glimpses of freedom, healing, and survival. Those rich narratives told by Black women—who were uniquely similar—are forever embedded in the basement of my mind and etched in the art of my own form of soul-searching storytelling.

This is not the remarkable, smoldering saga of how a Black woman was brave, courageous, and unwavering. It’s not a tribute to how I was able to see the tenacity within and trudge forward—empowered and leaving behind a life riddled with mistakes and poor judgement in one fatal swoop.

Today, and everyday, I am thinking about what it means to engage in transformative, Black queer love.

Engaging in queer black love means not only surviving your own trauma, but holding the paralleled trauma of your partner and navigating the ways in which that trauma collides. In existing, navigating, and surviving as queer Black folks within a white supremacist patriarchy, it feels impossible to heal our own selves, yet alone offer healing to each other. In seeing each other, holding each other, and loving each other, we must engage in community practice and dialogue around what transformative love looks like beyond survival. Revolutionary Black love is often praised within our organizing and activist spaces, yet rarely engaged in practice enough to garner understanding of how our mental health, political growth, and prospering are cultivated within our intimate partnerships.

by Queen Muse

It’s been an amazing year for black women. From entertainment to politics to sports, black women have slashed records, made history, and stood up nobly for important causes, for themselves and for one another. These are the #BlackGirlMagic moments that made us laugh, cry tears of joy or shout a unified “Yaaasss!” in celebration of our fellow sisters.

by Priscilla Ward

I felt like everything was okay. The ability to separate myself from history was blissful. I had the mental and physical autonomy to brush it off and not be bothered. On a small scale I understood the pain and despair of African-Americans’ struggles in this country, but they were distant and far removed. I could study them one moment, shelve the pain, and focus on something else the next.

by Inda Lauryn

The #CarefreeBlackGirl is one of my favorite social media movements among Black women. While we live under the auspices of #BlackLivesMatter, #SayHerName, #YouOkSis, and other social justice movements, the carefree Black girl reminds us to take time for ourselves and make room for happiness—wherever we may find it. However, many of us who embrace the movement and the hashtag have only been able to do so during our adult years.

My childhood definitely did not allow much time to be “carefree” and some days I still hesitate to stake my claim on the label. Poverty doesn't allow too many opportunities to celebrate the mere joy in existing even when we're children. Poverty gives an additional burden already placed on Black girls to grow up before our time and leave girlhood behind as soon as possible. Black girlhood teaches us survival no matter the costs, the cost often being the innocence afforded most children until they come of age.


Perhaps this is one of the reasons the Carefree Black Girl movement has resonated so much with those of us who saw the last of our girlhood decades ago. Many of us are finally on our own and making our way as adults without the aid of our families as a safety net. That means we've learned something we weren't taught no matter how soon we were forced to grow up: adulting is hard.

In addition to the personal obligations of work, bills, families, social lives and other facets of adulthood, social media bombards us with a constant onslaught of news that make movements such as Black Lives Matter necessary. Self-care has become a necessity, not a luxury. We must find ways to take care of ourselves and the carefree Black girl movement provides such an outlet.

I have been tagged as a Carefree Black Girl on Twitter. I enjoyed that friends saw me in this light. But sometimes I wondered if I was truly worthy of the title; I worry over every little thing and often miss out on chances to enjoy life as much as I want. Then there are times I feel too old to be called a Carefree Black Girl.

Then I'm reminded that this particular title is actually not limited by age. If we think about women like Beyoncé, Nicki Minaj, and Rihanna, they did not become the faces of carefree Black girls everywhere until they were also in their late 20s and early 30s. They also had a lot of hard work behind them and have definitely earned their right to be seen in their happiness. As much as they are criticized because many still cannot stand to see Black women happy and loved, they continue to give us these moments of escapism.

This goes also for younger girls such as Willow Smith, Quvenzhané Wallis, and Amandla Stenberg. We don't often get to see young Black girls with so much quirkiness and freedom to be who they are outside of arbitrary notions of blackness. As I was coming up, I didn't see too many of these types of quirky Black girls in everyday life—not until Ms. Erykah Badu, who the mainstream tried to dismiss as pretty but flaky.

Fortunately, I see more Carefree Black Girls now. It mostly happens in selfies. Daily I see an array of beautiful Black girls and women posting selfies to show off their handiwork with lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner, hairstyles, tattoos, clothing and other fashion. I see Black women cosplaying as characters in pop culture or as characters of their own creations based on their favorite aesthetics.
Age Ain't Nothin But a Number: Reflections on Embracing Your Inner #CarefreeBlackGirl in Your 30s and Beyond
I no longer worry about what my age means regarding the carefree Black girl. While it cannot take over my whole lifestyle, I can embrace it when it comes to finding those moments of joy in my life. Whether it is a chat session with dear friends or taking a walk by the lake on a nice day, I find ways to make this life more bearable. Being a carefree Black girl is not simply a means of escape. For many of us, it is a lifesaving coping mechanism.

Even though platforms such as Twitter and Tumblr remind us why it is necessary to #SayHerName and that all #Black LivesMatter, they also show that Black girls are much more than our pain. The #CarefreeBlackGirl movement is a powerful reminder of our full humanity. It is a reminder that blackness and black womanhood/girlhood encompass more than the narratives of struggle that mainstream likes to see. Taking a moment to be carefree is not a “distraction” from the problems plaguing our communities. And for those of us who had no time or luxury to be carefree Black girls in our younger years, we can indeed embrace the aesthetic… during our 30s and beyond.

Photo: Shutterstock

Inda Lauryn has previously been published in Blackberry, A Magazine, Interfictions, The Toast, XOJane, and Callaloo, as well as had her work featured on blogs such as Black Girl Nerds, Bitch Flicks, and AfroPunk. She is currently working on a novel and countless other unfinished writing projects, occasionally blogs at Corner Store Press, cohosts a podcast and shares music playlists at MixCloud.

by Raina J. Johnson

I am getting ready to turn 30, and I'm in love. I have a beautiful son, a host of great friends, a wonderful man, and a growing career as a writer that I never would have dreamed of. As the day draws nearer, I have discovered for the first time in my life, I can unapologetically declare that I am in love with all of me.

by Michelle Denise Jackson

Today, I do not feel like smiling. I only wish to buttress myself within the confines of my bed. I wish to keep the world at bay.

by Delilah Johnson

We've all heard the African proverb, "It takes a village to raise a child." But have you ever thought of what it takes to raise a woman?

by Saaraa Bailey

We fall in love much like we begin life—naive and full of hope. Like many women around the world, I have experienced certain romantic issues that jilted my perception of relationships. I call these embodiments of my romantic misfortune the five types of “Mr. Wrongs.” Collaboratively, the men of my past paved my road to love and ultimately self discovery in blood, sweat, tears, and heartache.

by Anna Gibson

When I first came out of the closet, I was shunned almost immediately. I attended Detroit’s Mumford High School in 2004. Back then, the kids attached a negative stereotype to each of the public schools. These associations were often exaggerated and not true, but the schools were still spoken of by their nicknames. Murray Wright was known as “Murder Wright” because of the violence that occurred there. Pershing High was said to be overrun with students who had STDs. Finally, Mumford was nicknamed “Dykeford.” It was well known that there were a ton of gay and lesbian students who attended the school. As the name implies, the stigma toward black LGBTQ youth was real and it often spilled over into violence.

by Cherise Martinez-McBride

I only got to see four of them before I had to close my browser window. Profiles of people who were spending their Wednesday night at Bible study, and never got back in their cars or on the bus or the sidewalk again.

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 Gina Torres


My journey to becoming an Unapologetic Black Girl began with my upbringing. I was born in the late 1960’s to Black parents who were grew up in the northern United States. It was towards the end of the the Civil Rights Movement. I drank in “Black Power!” and “Black is Beautiful!” with my mother’s milk; I threw up the Black Power fist before I could speak. I believed it. I believed my mother’s creamy brown skin was beautiful (it still is). I believed my own beige skin was beautiful, because I was taught shades all across the spectrum of Blackness were—and are—beautiful.

by Kadon Douglas

by Nneka M. Okona

Growing up, the world was a vast, looming place full of feelings and emotions. And there was most definitely something wrong with me, unequivocally, undoubtedly, because I felt them all—the highs, the lows, and the in-betweens—intensely. It was too much. And I must have been too much, too, since I experienced them all and no one else seemed to.

I remember identifying with these truths at a young age, maybe when I was four or five years old. Being me, as a little Black girl, meant intuitively detecting the moods of a person before they even spoke, and often taking on these feelings as my own. It meant feeling the energy of places, people, things, and being burdened with that energy if it was heavy. It meant feeling overwhelmed to an extreme degree by loud noises—yelling, sirens, car accidents, helicopters, TVs turned up too loud—and crouching whenever I encountered with these things. It meant being pummeled by the hurtful actions and behavior of others, feeling devastatingly wounded and  taking a long time to journey past those hurt feelings.

It also meant, as a little Black girl, learning very quickly that displaying too much emotion or being openly forlorn and vulnerable was frowned upon. Because if I showed any sign that I was hurt, I was indeed a weak person. And I had to be strong, at all costs.

My means of survival for most of my life meant suppressing the intensity of what I was feeling and how those emotions affected me, as I processed them and assigned meaning to them. It was easier to act stoic, cold, and unmoved—robotic even—rather than to admit at any moment, in every moment, I was chronically overwhelmed, overstimulated, and didn’t know how to function. How in any moment, in every moment, I wanted to cry because there was so much I felt and didn’t have a proper channel to release it all or a safe space to be understood.

This stifling of my emotions ultimately became destructive, of course. I channeled all I was feeling and experiencing into a profound degree of rage. A rage so icy and fierce it annihilated those who came into contact with it. I was emotionally reactive and out of control. It was almost like trying to keep a lid screwed tight on a Mason jar, but the contents kept overflowing.

I couldn’t contain myself.

But it was exhausting and embarrassing to deal with the aftermath each time. Eventually, I wanted something different. I wanted to be able to communicate my emotions and feelings in a healthy way before they spiraled out. I wanted to make sense of what I was feeling.



I began to do this through tending to my spiritual life and refining my spiritual practice. I started seeing a spiritual director in the fall of 2010. After a few visits and talks with my spiritual director, she, out of the blue, recommended a book to me. It was Elaine Aron’s book, The Highly Sensitive Person.

I devoured the first chapter while crying. Reading through the pages was like reading my life story, and I finally felt validated and sane. I was not some crazy person who was difficult to love or understand. I was not “too emotional” and “too sensitive” as I had heard from numerous people for as long as I could remember. There was a particular way I experienced the world, a way that was vastly different from how many others did. It didn’t make me abnormal, faulty, or “too much”. It just made me different: a woman who is empathic and highly sensitive.

I am an empathic and highly sensitive Black woman, and as such, there are some truths to be accepted. The mere fact of our existence, our humanity, precedes us, despite how our countenance may manifest. We are supposed to uphold our families and friends, without question. We are called upon to be a reservoir of strength for everyone we come into contact with.

This is unrealistic, limiting, and tiring.

We, as Black women, have to know it’s okay to feel, to go into the depths of our spirits and truly experience our emotions, especially for us who are empaths. We have to discard the notion that we are faulty if we cry, or if our feelings are hurt, or if we can’t keep it together. Life—and shit in general—is hard. This doesn’t make us weak. This doesn’t make us less than. It makes us human.

Knowing these things and adopting them as core beliefs while demystifying the harmful “strong Black woman” trope is pivotal during this time when we are all trying to find our place and space within the #BlackLivesMatter movement—especially for us empaths.

A radical degree of self-care is needed to cling to my self-preservation. Setting boundaries; teaching others how to treat me; taking the necessary time to myself to rejuvenate and recharge; listening and nourishing my spirit; following my bliss and meditating help to keep me centered and remain closest to my truest self.

Limiting the amount of violent and dramatic imaging I take in—whether through social media or television—is equally important. Constantly absorbing these things, as an empath, can be detrimental to my mental and emotional health.

Another key aspect of being an empath is being able to keenly identify when what I am feeling is my own feelings vs. the feelings of others I have inadvertently taken on. This takes mindfulness and meditation to better discern between the two. I also started to use shielding as a practice, per advice from my therapist who suggested doing so.

I’ve realized who I am—an empathic and highly sensitive Black woman—is beautiful simply because I’m being my authentic self. I am a gift to the world. By insisting to be who I am with no reservations I encourage others—those who are empaths and those who are not—to do the same.

It’s about me, but it’s also not about me. It’s the ripple effect of dropping that tiny pebble into a pond and watching the ripples stretch farther and farther away from me. And by doing so, hoping, trusting, inspiring, and counting on others to reach within themselves and do the same.

Photo: Shutterstock

Nneka M. Okona is a writer based in Washington, DC. Visit her blog, www.afrosypaella.com, her website, about.me/nnekaokona or follow her tweets, @NisforNneka.

by Marena Bridges


When I entered the cell block, dragging my mattress behind me, my new cell mate offered me the bottom bunk and made space for my meager belongings. A few days later, as we chatted over a card game, she declared, “You don’t seem like a criminal.” I chuckled and gave a halfhearted shrug, but her words never left me.

by Kimberly Elise

If you’ve ever travelled by airplane, you’ve likely heard the flight attendants state, “Remember to put your oxygen mask on before attempting to help others,” during their speech on safety procedures.

Continue reading