by Catherine Labiran @CathsLabiran

by Lauren Dunn

The collective and individual trauma that Black women have and still continue to face, both in the U.S. and abroad, have been detrimental to our perceptions of self-worth.

Finding peace as a Black woman requires an exponential amount of tenacity. I mean think about it, you wake up each morning to a country run by people who don’t look like you, who don’t have your best interest in mind, who are actively working to kill people that look like you, all while being bombarded with messages that reiterate damaging stereotypes about you. So, someone please tell me how in the hell a Black woman is supposed to wake up feeling abundant in her self-worth with all the bullshit that’s consistently being flung her way.

I don’t remember the exact moment when I first realized that self-care/self-love will always look different for me than it does others. While I’ve always appreciated fellow WOC who take the time to discuss their personal self-care tips or the many ways in which they practice self-love as a form of decolonization, I’ve always felt a slight disconnect in the approach.
As a queer identified Black woman who suffers from both a chronic physical illness as well as anxiety and depression, the journey towards self-acceptance has been a tumultuous one filled with constant uncertainty and what feels like excessive relapsing. Often times when I read blogs and/or literature on working towards “being a better you” or “finding happiness” or even the whole idea of “mindfulness and being present”, I am more often than not induced with a heightened sense of anxiety.

It starts the second my eyes open from sleep. That heaviness in my chest. The pit in my stomach that flips and knots itself over and over. The inevitable feeling that something uncontrollable is coming my way and there is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent it.

At this point, I begin to mentally run through my list of rationales. “You are okay. You are whole. You are capable. You have responsibilities. People are counting on you. You have to at least try.” It is at this point in my mental dialogue, that I begin to will myself out of bed. Most days it feels as though my body is working magic unknown to my mind. Lifting limbs off sheets. Laying the soles of my feet unconsciously onto the carpet floor. On the really bad days, the days when my energy feels void and null, I don’t make it past the bedroom door.

There are good days. The heaviness is not always unbearable and the anxious moments are fewer, but even on those days when it feels as though I’ve been granted the largest of mercies in being able to breathe a little easier, I am faced with the very real and always present reality of being a queer woman of color. With this then comes an ambush of daily micro-aggressions. Small but wounding remarks that leave you battered.

There is no defining moment where I can pinpoint when or why or how I became this way. I kind of have to believe that I always was. As a young girl, I can remember feeling alone in a room full of people. I can still recall the unease I felt in the silence, as the noise in my head began to thunder.

Growing up, I always felt akin to the character May Boatwright from Sue Monk Kidd’s Secret Life of Bees. I so deeply connected with her sadness. The weight of feeling too much all at once and not knowing where to place all that hurt. I so vividly remember May’s “wailing wall”, a wall outside of her family’s home where she would go to be alone, write down her thoughts and stuff them in between the rocks. I think this may have been the first time that I considered writing as a way to let go of some of my own hurt.

Living with anxiety and depression means that there is an onslaught of different variables that come into play when attempting to take better care of oneself. There is a lot of self-loathing, doubt, fear and sadness to rummage through before you can even begin to get to a place where you are mentally, emotionally and physically capable of opening yourself up to the possibility of healing.

For the longest time I ran from the darkness inside of me. I thought that by ignoring my depression and anxiety I could somehow suppress all the uneasiness, sadness, and illogical thoughts. It wasn’t until I began to speak openly with friends who also suffer from mental health issues that I began to understand that the erasure of one’s mental illness is actually far more detrimental than it is useful.

In trying to act like this whole person who had it all together, I was ignoring parts of myself. Essentially I wasn’t living in my truth. I was trying to be this better version of myself instead of recognizing who I am in this very moment and learning to love all the mess in its wild uninhibited chaos.

By no means would I ever claim to have mastered this whole notion of self-love and self-care, but I have found some coping mechanisms that can sometimes lessen the weight of it all.

Feel all the things. Feel the sadness and the lonesomeness. Cry, scream, kick and cry some more. Don’t shame yourself into thinking you should be any more or different from what you are right now. You are okay and strangely beautiful just the way you are, mess and all.
Look at something outside of yourself. So many times we are told to look within. Well for a person with extreme anxiety and depression this can be the absolute most terrifying thing you can ask of them. The times when I feel the closest to being at peace is when I’m outside finding the wonder in nature. The rhythm of the leaves swaying in a tree. Studying the stillness. The grace in the uncontrolled movement of it all.

Carve out space and time for yourself. There are a lot of times when I feel compelled to surround myself with others as some token of validation that I am well and capable of functioning like everyone else. Well I’m not, and being okay with the fact that I sometimes, if not most of the time need to create space for myself away from everyone and everything to recharge and re-center myself is freeing.

Eat all the fruits. Savor their sweetness. Taste is a powerful phenomenon that invokes the senses. It feels good to appreciate something that can make you feel.

When possible, adorn yourself. If that means taking all the selfies that one day you’re feeling fly for the first time in months because you’ve been in a depressed fog, do it. If that means dancing and putting on that outfit that makes you feel beautiful and invincible, even if for one night, dance your fucking heart out. Move and shake and sway your body. Glisten and shimmer in the dim lights. Lose yourself to yourself.
Lauren Dunn aims to generate dialogue and exposure around and for the untold and often misrepresented experiences of marginalized groups of people. A graduate of Temple University's School of Media and Communication's, Dunn received her bachelor's degree in journalism in May of 2015. Exposing the multifaceted complexities of marginalized people within cultural, political, economic, artistic, environmental and academic frameworks stems from her exuberance for social advocacy. Dunn's passion lies in creating honest content-driven narratives that bring ethnic, gender and sexual minorities visibility within the public sphere.

by Bee Quammie

I’ve almost always been scatterbrained. As a child, I thought that multi-tasking and thinking two steps ahead at all times were the keys to success. That habit was never shaken as an adult. I can present a calm exterior, but that shell casing generally encapsulates a mental and emotional thunderstorm - clouds of ideas, lightening bolt plans, and showers of worries at any given moment.

Various forms of art have also helped me to quiet that internal storm while embracing clarity and mindfulness. When I look at the multitude of open tabs on my laptop and get overwhelmed because they’re ALL necessary, I put that sucker to sleep and indulge in a well-written book to cleanse my mental palate. When the clutter of my physical space starts to mirror the clutter of my mental space, music helps me to focus and clean up both aspects of life.

Moving my body with dance gives me a different kind of stress release and clarity. I’ve studied all kinds of dance - from ballet to jazz to Afro-Cuban - and all of my instruction has been very methodological:

1. Learn the steps. 
2. Practice and perfect the steps. 
3. Take a four-count or an eight-count and be sure to switch moves at the appropriate time. 
4. Rinse and repeat. 

Even in dance, I was literally thinking two steps ahead, multitasking to make sure my mind was ready for the next moves my body had to do, and counting along to ensure I hit each one at the right time.

When I stepped into my first West African dance class, I was ready for more of the same. Then all my expectations shattered.




The first thing the instructor told the class was “Everything in this room is a conversation between the dancer and the drummer. The most important thing here is that you need to be a good listener.” I quickly learned that gone were the days of counting to eight and switching from a kick ball change to a pivot turn. I experienced a brand new level of mindfulness.

We learned moves from the seductive Yankadi and energetic Macru dances of the Sousous people of Guinea, and I felt a spark in the depths of my blood memory. These weren’t moves I had done before, but my waist, hips, arms and feet seemed to instinctively find their proper places as I danced. After being taught a few moves, the instructor told us it was time to put what we had learned into a sequence. There was no counting to four or eight. Instead, we took our cue on when to start, change moves, or stop based on the drumming circle that accompanied us. During the drumming rhythms, one of the three drummers would hit a “break,” a distinct change in the beat that was a signal for us to begin dancing. We would keep doing that move until we heard another break, then we would switch to our next move. Since the timing of the breaks were entirely up to the drummer, we had no choice but to focus on the move we were doing in the moment because we couldn’t predict when we’d be doing the next. Eventually, we realized that our role wasn’t just to flawlessly execute our moves, but to ensure that we paid attention to the conversation our drummers were having with us.

After class I sat in my car, sweaty, sore, and rejuvenated. I had a revelation. For the first time in a long time, I practiced mindfulness. I stayed in the moment without deviating to the future. I took note of how my body moved and felt in the present without worrying about what it was supposed to do next. The drums forced me to focus solely on what they were saying in the particular moment, and reminded me that my dancing was only half of the artistic expression. I was mindful, grounded, and present, and my brain didn’t feel as tired as it usually does.

The Centre for Mindfulness Studies in Toronto, Ontario defines mindfulness as “a non-judgmental way of paying attention in the present moment, and leads to increased personal awareness and clarity.” The Centre has created a special Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy program aimed at helping those coping with anxiety and depression, but mindfulness is something that has a wide array of benefits.

From practicing meditation to simply taking a few moments to stop, breathe, and bring your thoughts back to the here and now, mindfulness can do amazing things for your overall health and wellbeing. Research shows that just a few benefits of practicing mindfulness include reducing stress, increasing focus, and decreasing emotional reactivity. Members of the Marine Corps and other branches of the U.S. military have also felt power of mindfulness. Psychology Today published a helpful article with easy ways to fit mindfulness into your day. It doesn’t take as much effort as you may think, but these small actions will yield some big results.




I’m gradually working towards being able to successfully meditate on a regular basis. For now, I get a regular reminder to be mindful with each dance class I attend. Every week, I have the chance to reset my brain - to leave yesterday in the past, to leave the next hour or day or week in the inevitable future. I have to focus on me in the moment. Every week, I’m a part of a conversation with my ancestry, my body, and my drums. And every week I’m proud of the fact that I was fully present for it all.

Photo: Shutterstock

Bee Quammie is a Toronto-based writer and founder of ‘83 To Infinity and The Brown Suga Mama. Recognized by Black Enterprise & the Black Canadians Awards for her digital work, Bee aims to live '83 To Infinity's motto: "It's never too late to learn something new, do something new, or be someone new." Follow her on Twitter at @beequammie.

by Cynthia Hines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Denise Nichole Andrews @DeniseNicohle

Black women often take on huge responsibilities that put us at the forefront of our communities and families. In times of urgency, this serves us well as we become the agents of change and leaders of equality and justice. However, more often than not, we are taken advantage of by the very same individuals we seek to help, educate, and “save”. Here are six types of people who don’t deserve any more of your time or energy.
Ignorant Friends and Colleagues

Some people just don’t get our causes and issues. Many don’t understand #BlackLivesMatter or #BlackGirlMagic so we decide to make it our mission to inform them. In the process, we exhaust our resources and efforts on the wrong people. We spend too much time arguing and debating and not enough time advocating and rallying. Your ignorant boss or friend does not make or break the cause. Those people are not our problems. What they fail to understand is not a reflection of our wrongdoing, but a consequence of their own ignorance. Let them be. You are not responsible for changing them.

Significant others who don’t contribute

Relationships are meaningful and rewarding when shared with the right person but that hope can come to a standstill when you try to force it. If your significant other does not support you, encourage you, or motivate you in the ways that matter- it may be time to say Bye Felicia! Takers are easy to find, but givers are harder to come by. Any person that wants to stick around in your life must earn it. It’s up to you to decide those grounds. But if anything believe us when we say that you are worthy.

Ungrateful Adult Children

Parents may find that their role as mothers do not stop when their children turn eighteen. No, motherhood is defined by a lifetime of sacrifice and support yet it can be easy to forget when enough is enough. Adult children are not entitled to your financial support and shelter. It’s okay to say no. It’s okay to tell to figure it out. Constantly coming to their rescue when they are in a time of need, may prevent them from gaining the skills they need to become successful on their own. If you want to see them fly, let them open their wings.

Judgmental Family Members

Many of us hope to gain our family’s approval by living a life that is pleasing to them, but often times that goal becomes impossible to obtain. Family members may adopt harsh attitudes and feel the need to criticize everything from your weight, to your decision to rock natural hair, changing your college major, or skipping church on Sundays. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Their approval means nothing if you aren’t happy. You don’t have to change everything you are to make them proud because in the end that will leave you empty and unfulfilled.

Toxic Friends

You’ve known these types of friends since you were six or you met them in college and have always had a strong bond. Yet somewhere along the line you grew up, and they did not. They still hit you up to go to grimey clubs or ask you for money. When you give in and make plans, they may show up late or make excuses for flaking. Unfortunately, this is something you expect since its impossible to rely on them. Don’t ignore that voice that tells you when these situations are bad. Don’t ignore the voice that tells you to run! Your discomfort and stress around toxic friends speaks volumes of your relationship with them. It may be time to let them go.
Frenemies, Exes, and Old Flames

Remember that girl that you just didn’t like in high school? Or the colleague who always shot your ideas down? You’re friends on Facebook you say? What! Why? Just because you know them doesn’t mean you have to keep in touch with them. The relationship has already run its course, there is no need to constantly remind yourself of the disappointment. You may think having them around is motivating since they can see all of your current progress and success. It may even feel good to rub it in their face with a very sexy selfie from time to time. Yet, seeking their acceptance and trying to impress them is a waste of time. If there is no sincerity on your part how can you expect the same from them? Delete them or block them. Do whatever you have to remove that negativity from your life.

It’s time to live for you and nobody else. There’s no reason that you should go above and beyond or out of your way for the people that drain you of all that you are. You deserve more. You deserve better. Let the haters hate. Let the spectators watch. Let the dogs bark and the gossipers’ gossip. You have a life to live. You have an empire to build. You have dreams to turn in to reality. Yeah girl, you got work to do. You don’t have to answer to anybody but you. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing.

Denise Nichole Andrews explores identity, relationships, and mental health through various art forms and mediums.

by Davelle Barnes

I absolutely love, admire and adore femme folk. They remain beautiful inside and out despite the many ways misogyny and patriarchy works against them. Femmes as a group have been finding creative ways to cope with trauma.

I live to be so rebellious. I strive to know myself as intimately. I want to care for myself better than any femme partner ever could. I'm on a journey to identify what self-care means to me. It is my mission to help other masculine of center women define what self-care is while butch/stud/dom/aggressive.
In efforts to meet that goal I officially declare self-care the new butch. We need it just like our femme friends. We deserve it. As Masculine of Center women as a community strive to shed the ways in which we also perpetuate misogyny it is important for us to be gentle with our butch souls.

I believed for years, throughout several failed relationships that my needs were never as important as femme and this thinking allowed abuse to occur. I gave more than I had to undeserving women. I have been by struck femme partners. Never retaliating, absorbing the blows thinking to endure is to be butch. I have in the past bought so far into the toxic masculine rhetoric of “provide and protect” I failed to provide for me or protect myself.

This pattern had to stop in order for me to continue to exist. I had to humble myself, quiet my bravado and pay attention to my desires. Learn how I could fulfill them on my own. Understand that I am complete without counterpart and loved by me first. The question of the day became, "What things do I do for me that bring me pleasure?"

I let my barber transform me. This act gives self-care a shape. In just twenty minutes minus wait time, I am edged with love so I can move throughout this world sharp, sculpted and bold. Me fresh out the chair is me at my finest. I do this weekly. I used to do it for holidays and interviews. I would stretch out the time between cuts, only going because I simply got too scruffy. Because my fro has consumed my ear lobe and is now impeding my vision. At times I did it to gain the attention of a lady friend. I may have done it for the Gram a time or two. Now, me pushing thirty do it for my own satisfaction.

Sweet digital goodness self care be a radio station. It is often I drive further, get lost on purpose just to jam. I'm a proud hip-hop head. Downloading the latest mixtapes is a divine act of self-love. When a rapper’s ad lib become my mantra I love every aspect of who I am. I celebrate me through their music. My love is in sync with the bass line. Self-esteem becomes self-evident. In these moments I recognize my worth and you must also.

I dress as a way to affirm my fly. I deliver self-praises via the button up. Self -love is a freshly pressed Express IMX Slim Fit dress shirt in any color. Some clutch pearls. I clutch my invisible collar when I am in a shirt other than the button up mentioned above. Tip: It broadens shoulders, smoothes over the side rolls, stretches to fit the breast while leaving a flattening effect. God designed it herself. I'm certain. Loving my dapper and nurturing my debonair is adornment.

To the simplest act of self-love as an act of revolution, you rock. #javaisbae. In a combat zone after the base alarms stopped sounding, I would quickly retreat to the nearest coffee shop to stimulate my weary senses. I did this to celebrate surviving. It is no coincidence that higher-ranking officers and Senior Enlisted personnel gravitated towards the same location. Why not self care like a General?

I often find myself having little to no energy to continue being a brilliant black queer professional in organizations rooted in white supremacy. It is important for me to take a moment to treat my mind to a nice cup of shut the fuck up. Not the turpentine they provide in the chow hall for free. Nothing instant! Not the stale pre grinded bag of pick me up for penny pitchers. I go for rich, bold, fair trade bougie coffee. I sprinkle cinnamon on my addiction transforming it into black girl magic.
My butch soul loves to leave. I live to travel. Going to Egypt preserved my sanity. I bathed in warm Egyptian sun. I perfected my melanin. Admired the way life reflected off the sand. The wind blew love and warmth. I saw other people of color live and love. I rode a horse from Pyramid to Pyramid. I took a thousand pictures. I ate like a local and emerged myself in the experience. I got Pyramid dust in my fro and tomb on my American Eagle Henley shirt. I prayed at the paw of the Sphinx. I knew what I needed to begin my journey of healing. I went alone. I slept alone. I shopped in the market place for me. Purchased art for the first time for a home I do not own yet. I'll say you haven't fully loved yourself until you have loved yourself somewhere else in the world. The challenge is to continue to love your self at home.

Some of the things I've mentioned seem menial. We get haircuts when need be and drink coffee often. When it's done for us, done as part of a routine, done intentionally, it becomes ritual. Doing these things for ourselves, putting our wants and needs at the forefront changes our relationship to these actions. Judgment free jam outs behind the wheel refines the radio experience. Express shirts always looked good on me but blossomed into full sexy when I began to love how the material felt on my skin.

What do you for self care? Why is being butch not directly tied to loving ourselves? Why don't we understand that we are of no service to another if we do not love and care for ourselves? Let's make self-care the new butch.

Davelle Barnes aka Ms Dada Esque is a poet/ performing artist from York, Pennsylvania. The Temple University Film Student has participated in the Queer Women of Color Media Arts Project (QWOCMAP) and 1Hood Media Academy. Her poetry appears in After Ferguson, In Solidarity and Steer Queer: The Redemption Issue.