By Carmen R. H. Chandler

By now, we know that self-care is not selfish. The next step is to acknowledge that it’s not just for us.

You are enough. Your health, wellness, and sanity are thorough reasons for taking excellent care of yourself. You must know this. We must know this. Even with families, companies, communities – hell, countries – depending on us to always come to the rescue, Black women must resist being absorbed by our various roles and relationships. Audre Lorde said “If I didn’t define myself for myself, I’d be crunched into other people’s fantasies of me and eaten alive.” At this point, we are fighting to define ourselves. Furthermore, we are learning and crafting the tools necessary to examine ourselves – to see our own wounds, and heal them; to recognize our own worth, and honor it. This is the very basis of self-care.

So this affirmation is vital: You are enough.

Still, you are not all.

None of us lives in a vacuum. We are all connected, and those connections are real. Although it is easy to feel isolated in an increasingly electronic and fantasy-based world, the village philosophy of our ancestors still speaks truth. Each of us is whole and self-sufficient, but together, we are a community. And community is everything.
This inherent knowledge compels us to think beyond the self. Black women have been the engine of every major movement for social change that America has ever experienced. There is a reason for that. As we push back against the self-destructive aspects of the “Strong Black Woman” stereotype, let us also resist the temptation to relinquish our ties to the larger vision. Our desire, our need, and our responsibility to take care of one another is just as valid as the task of taking care of ourselves. Community care, too, is vital to our wellness, growth, and forward movement.

Luckily, self-care and community care don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Uplifting the group doesn’t mean we have to put it on our backs. In many ways, our dedicated inner work creates an energy that expands outward, automatically augmenting one’s contribution to our collective rising. Here are four ways that committing to a regular self-care practice can benefit your activism, social justice, and community work.

Counter Compassion Fatigue and Decrease Apathy
We know that self-care can help us prevent and heal from burnout. Likewise, it can undo the effects of compassion fatigue. Compassion fatigue is defined by the Compassion Fatigue Awareness Project as “an extreme state of tension and preoccupation with the suffering of those being helped to the degree that it can create a secondary traumatic stress for the helper." Among other things, this can lead to apathy. As a natural reaction to overwhelm, our empathy response can shut down, causing us to forego concern about important issues in the interest of self-preservation. With regular self-care, we can nip this impulse in the bud, and reengage with our communities in impactful, whole-hearted ways.

Heal Intergenerational Trauma
Much of our self, family, and community healing work has to do with situations that occurred long before we were born. In her book Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome: America’s Legacy of Enduring Injury and Healing, Dr. Joy Degruy outlines the logic around the condition, which is unique to the descendants of Africans enslaved during the Trans-Atlantic Slave trade. “Although slavery has long been a part of human history, American chattel slavery represents a case of human trauma incomparable in scope, duration and consequence to any other incidence of human enslavement,” says Degruy. She asserts that not only do we carry the marks of the systematic oppression we experience in our lifetimes, many of us also bear signs of trauma that has been compounded as it was passed down through the generations.

Quality self-care can assist us in overturning this trauma. Talk and group therapy, and even alternative options such as Reiki or chakra balancing, can help us sort through all that we’re holding. They can also give us the tools to speak with our living lineage about what has occurred, and thereby help them to heal, as well. Finally, your personal journey to release familial/cultural trauma can inform your perspective on broader work. After looking squarely at your own scars and addressing them, it is much easier to recognize similar trauma-induced behavioral and social patterns in others. This perceptive ability, and the will to address issues respectfully and empathically, will almost certainly be a boon to your organizing efforts.
Boosts Your Immune System and Energy Levels
Self-care leaves you feeling refreshed, but that “new me, who ‘dis” feeling does more than just add points to your personal glow up scale. It also has a beneficial effect on your immune system, meaning that your body will be able to stave off illness better. Taking planned breaks for scheduled “me time” decreases the likelihood of unforeseen illness taking you out of the game.

With a regular self-care routine, you’re likely to feel more energized as well, meaning you’ll be able to put more effective effort into your chosen form of activism. You’ll be physically fortified and ready to truly show up for what you care about.

Transforms Relationships
Good self-care can help regulate the symptoms of chronic stress and anxiety. Generally, lifting these burdens can make you a more pleasant person to interact with and increase your social and leadership skills. Many people who practice quality holistic development also experience some level of personal transformation. It’s not uncommon for them to start to see that transformation reflected in their relationships soon thereafter. This is of utmost importance, as relationships are the building blocks of community. If each one of us brings more love, authenticity and communication to our individual relationships, it will take much less effort to form a working unified front against oppressive systems.

It’s perhaps the most tangible intangible benefit of self-care: as we heal ourselves, we heal others as well. The people in your environment will begin to reflect the work you’ve done for you… or, they’ll find a different space to inhabit. Either way, your self-care work creates in your life the microcosm of a more healed community. It’s a way to be the change you hope to see… and then see it.

While it’s common to view our time as being spent on either one thing or another, true self-care exists in a both/and space, the likes of which Black women know intimately. Giving deep attention to your care, growth, and joy takes nothing away from our communities. It adds to them. When you function better, you open the way for the people who engage with you to do the same.
Then we rise together - whole.

How does your self-care practice benefit your larger work?

---

Carmen R. H. Chandler is a writer, wellness practitioner, dancer, and educator. As the creator of The Body Temple, she blends these gifts to provide innovative, culturally relevant health solutions for the Black DAEUS (Descendants of Africans Enslaved in the United States) community. In all of her work, Carmen is committed to envisioning a new age of Black wholeness, freedom, joy, and justice.

by Dee Rene

I prepare for the holidays like I’m bracing for impact: Buckle down. Grin and bear it. It’ll be over soon. Although I enjoy the excuse to eat too many sweets, the holidays often hurt for a multitude of reasons. A few years ago, one of my favorite family members passed away, leaving a noticeable empty seat at the table and missing dessert from the spread. Thanksgiving dinner is now cut short, as everyone dashes out for Black Friday sales. Or, like this year, I had to return a gift for a boyfriend turned ex right as the holidays rolled into town.

By Kristina Patrice

This is my first time taking college courses in a quarter format. Sixteen weeks’ worth of material, in a 7.5-week time span, seemed like it would be easy to handle and only a slight adjustment from the standard semester schedule. It can be handled, but coupled with a full-time job, it can be overwhelming unless you have a strategic plan.

by Moriah Ray and Jasmine Hall for Black Millennials

Displaced: force (someone) to leave their home, typically because of war, persecution, or natural disasters.

There is a war being waged on black bodies that is resulting in our persecution and there is nothing natural about this disaster. It is methodological, institutionalized and heavily funded.

By Ericka Wilkins

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

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


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

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


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

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

Photo: Shutterstock

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

By Nayja A. Williams

Friend: noun, a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.

By Nneka M. Okona

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

By Jaimee A. Swift

With our current state of affairs, the mental, emotional and even physical fatigue that is ignited by the onslaught of racism, racialized gender violence, sexism and other harrowing issues can be utterly overwhelming. Although it is important to engaged and conscious to the horrific events and news occurring in our world, it is equally important to maintain our peace, manage our self-care and to continuously manifest our Black Joy.

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 Veronica Agard

The Black experience in the United States has always been paradoxical in nature, as our historical memory knows that it has been one of constant struggle. However, in the face of the violence, poverty, trauma, systemic oppression and death, we have continued to thrive.

But after rolling to protests, having emotionally charged conversations with White “allies,” and witnessing how many folks on my newsfeed were more concerned about Cecil the Lion than Sandra Bland, I’ve been reminded that be Black in America is to be tired. As it’s been said time and time again, being Black in America is exhausting – we’re supposed to just play sports, make White America laugh or sing along to (apolitical) music, and stay silent while the heteropatriarchal White supremacist system kills us. All to diminish our spirit and potential.



Society currently presents the intersection of thriving and surviving as a challenge; an impossible aspiration that seems less and less obtainable when bombarded by the mainstream news cycle. Systematic hurdles and barriers exist at every turn and dictate how we should be living our lives and imply that we should not aspire for more. As the medical data confirms that Black folks and other people of color suffer from generational trauma in the forms of high blood pressure, heart disease, strokes, diabetes, and other preventable illnesses, we are forced to buy back into a medical system that has historically harmed us. The capitalist structure is not truly designed for wellness, in fact, it invested in perpetuating illness as a means of profit.

While there is hope in holistic medicine and campaigns encouraging us to get physically healthy, such as Black Girls Run! and FLOTUS Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move!, we cannot afford to solely focus on the body. We have to place an emphasis on the spirit and what (collective) joy looks like for us as individuals and as a people. In this (new) movement for Black liberation, there has to be an emphasis on celebrating and cultivation Black joy as well. Black liberation has a long history – from the liberation theology born in the Civil Rights Movement, to the radical teachings of Assata Shakur and the Black Liberation Army – and proves to be more relevant than ever in our movements. Whether you seek liberation in the church or through direct action, can we truly liberate ourselves as a people if we do not acknowledge and emphasize the role of sustaining ourselves in mind, body and spirit?

If we are going to have Black liberation, we must continue to strive for wholeness and wellness in the face of all the ills of the world. For me, Black joy is both the collective experiences and the personal triumphs of our people. Black joy looks different for everyone and can be found in a variety of forms; in simple acts of self-care, spending time with loved ones, or indulging yourself by working on those projects you’ve been putting off. Starting a journal, getting to know your creative side through a form of art, developing a circle of sisters, or taking yourself out on the town. Even if it’s just five minutes, making the time to sit down to (re)discover what brings you happiness is a liberatory act.

by Ngozi Cole

Sweaty palms and a beating heart that almost bursts out of fear, anxiety, and repulsion…

Being in the same space as the rapist can be one of the most disempowering and soul-crushing experiences anyone can face. Emotional torture regurgitates lasting moments of physical trauma as we struggle, clutching at every strand of hope, just so that we may heal.

Silence in the face of oppression is about power dynamics. When people are silent about their pain, their power is sucked out of them, rendering them weak, defeated and psychologically captive under the ones who inflict their cancerous wounds. Despite the gravity of whatever incident might have occurred, it boils down to a simple power equation where one’s self-worth is subtracted and added to another’s coffer of conquest and control.

The power dynamics surrounding rape and sexual assault are no different. Unfortunately, rapists thrive on the shame and stigma inflicted on rape victims that guarantees that this private crime, even though rape is indeed a public crime, will be kept a secret. Rapists gain power on the silence of their victims, and of course there are countless incidents wherein they dare their victims to ever report the incident.

In many societies, rape victims shroud their experience in secrecy, too ashamed to out their assailants. However, rape is not an easy experience to talk about, primarily because of the physical and emotional damage involved. Many survivors prefer to bury these experiences in the hope that if they bury it long enough it might go away. Except more often than not, it doesn’t go away. Instead, it bears self-damaging fruits.

The culture of silence that surrounds rape and sexual assault, especially with regards to women and children, gives more and more power to their assailants. It cultivates the growth of victim blaming and shaming, when this should rightfully be transferred to the perpetrators instead.

It is extremely difficult to talk about rape, extremely painful to dig up a traumatic experience, but it is fundamentally self-empowering to break the silence. It can start in little steps such as changing the language surrounding your experience. Refer to yourself as a “survivor” instead of a “victim.” Even though it is essential to use the word “victim” to establish the gravity of rape as a crime, referring to yourself as a “survivor” is one step to psychological and emotional empowerment.

If it seems useless to report the crime or the time has elapsed for the assailant to be prosecuted, or if you are afraid to report it, then telling a close and trusted friend or family member is helpful too. It makes a huge difference to just talk about it—cry about it, pray about it and cuss out about it—with a trusted person. Don’t feel obligated to share all the details; share as much as you can and are ready to.

And then of course, when you feel ready and if you can, please report the crime. Many people who have been raped cite a weak or bureaucratic justice system that might not help them when these cases are reported. That might be true, but there is a lot of power that you take back from the assailant when you report them, name them, and subsequently shame them. Sometimes, just breaking the silence alone and not letting your voice be drowned by another’s oppression grants you a powerful first step to personal healing and helping others defeat their shame and silence too.

It took me five years after I had been raped as child to tell someone and then another twelve years to feel comfortable sharing it with some of my close friends and a counselor. During those years of silence, I had felt ashamed of myself that somehow it was all that little girl’s fault and that I would be an object of ridicule and repulsion if I reported it. However, the driving force behind my silence was fear…fear that the assailant would show up again and threaten me…fear that nobody would believe me, and even if they did, I would receive pity instead of support.

But sharing what had happened to me became incredibly liberating. Even though it was impossible to find the rapist again to get him arrested, I felt a pure sense of freedom and something that felt really close to healing and lasting peace. He couldn’t hurt me anymore because I had regained my power and sense of self-worth back-and you can too. Being silent about your experience does nothing for your healing and stunts the empowerment of other survivors of rape and sexual abuse to tell their stories, and gain their power back from their assailants. Please, break the silence, and conquer your oppressor.

Ngozi Cole is a recipient of the National Youth Excellence Award for Leadership in Sierra Leone, an exhibition of her deep commitment to her country. She writes for several online media platforms such as African Youth Journals and Voice of Women Initiative, and runs her own blog at sepiadahlia.com. Her work focuses on feminism and social justice.

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 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 Altheria Gaston


In her essay titled “Sin, Nature, and Black Women’s Bodies,” Delores S. Williams writes about “spirit breakers” or “Negro breakers,” those who were hired by slave owners to break the spirit of slaves who seemed to be too confident, too uppity, and too independent. The sole purpose of these “spirit breakers” was to put slaves in their place and to convince them that their status as mere property would never change.

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

Dominating a conversation isn’t natural for me. Instead, I listen. I enjoy listening – the inflections, the animation, the ebbs and flows that comprise the art of storytelling. It explains my major in English, my (seemingly) quiet demeanor, and my ability to attract folks with the gift of the gab. I got comfortable in that role—my role—of being The Listener. It was my way of asserting my true self without having to reveal too much. I doled out subtle rebuttals and “damn right!”s and shot the breeze – but at some point I stopped doling and shooting. The breeze turned to stagnant, stale air.

by C. Imani Williams