All that We Have Isn’t All that We Have

Posted on August 20, 2018

Reading Time: 8 minutes

A few weeks ago as I geared up emotionally for the one-year anniversary of Charlottesville and the ensuing hate rally White Nationalist rally in Washington DC, my husband surprised me with a day trip to Philadelphia to tour Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell.

I was grateful for the distraction. And, of course, I couldn’t overlook the juxtaposition of visiting the Liberty Bell on the exact day that Nazi’s White Nationalists were marching in Washington DC.

After all, the Liberty Bell has never been a definitive symbol of intersectional liberty. When the Liberty Bell was originally constructed, it did not include liberty for women, POC, persons in indigenous tribes or persons whom identify within the LGBTQIA community.

Today, the pursuit of liberty is still a pursuit for many people across the world and in the nation.

Today, the pursuit of justice is still a pursuit for many people across the world and in the nation.

Today, independence is still limited to a few rather than the many. And, that liberty is still at the expense of black and brown communities.  

These past two weeks, as I invested in some self-care practices and worked my way through the week, I couldn’t help but notice a deep compassion begin to well up inside of me for those whom choose hate as a life practice. As a strong advocate for racial and social justice, intersectional feminism and as a follower of Christ, I began to ask specific questions and lean into observations that helped me to lean in rather than lean out. And, I wanted to share some of these questions and observations.

                It must feel really lonely to make hate an identity

                I wonder what has happened that makes hate feel like the easiest option

                I can relate to feeling lonely and isolated.

                I can relate to feeling like people wish me harm

                I can relate to feeling afraid and scared because of the color of my skin

While these questions do not shift my attitude towards hate or acts of hate, these questions do shift my focus from the hateful action to the person whom is hurting. When I allow myself to humanize those whom wish me and others harm, I find that I have the capacity to choose a different response. Finding and choosing to not hate another person is probably one of the most powerful and important acts we can do as humans.

As a Christ follower, I have wrestled with the concept of loving my neighbor, particularly in terms of race, injustice and oppression.  

·         What does it mean to love someone whom fundamentally wishes me harm and, sometimes, even death?

·         What does it mean to follow a Christ that would expect that?

·         What does it look like to forgive someone for something in which they are not even sorry for?

·         What does it mean to build relationships with others whom fundamentally do not value or respect your body or life?

When considering the Unite the Right rally and the events leading up to it and those in its wake, it is easy for me to think in terms of extremes. My inclination is to characterize all those people into otheringtraits. Because, for me, there has never been a middle ground when considering toleration for injustice. Maybe that is my personality.

And, to be honest, I still don’t think that there is one.

However, I do think that in the midst of trouble and injustice and terror and fear, love can still win. Let me be clear, (because I am really over all that hype about the substitute life coach named Dr. Phil Pinterest with his filtered life advice quotes).

o   Choosing love isn’t choosing a life without boundaries

o   Choosing love isn’t choosing a life without truth telling

o   Choosing love isn’t denying racial or social justice

o   Choosing love doesn’t center from a source of whiteness and white innocence

o   Choosing love means staying committed, speaking truth, and choosing relationship, anyways

o   Choosing love is unselfish

o   Choosing love means staying intentionally un-colorblind

o   Choosing love means staying committed to intentional anti-racism

o   Choosing love is the hardest thing because it is totally and always undeserved

I think that part of my journey into Love has required reconciling my experiences that were supposed to be love with my newfound understanding of love.

Sometimes, even loving people will give unloving care.

Jesus consistently points us in the direction of Love, and yet I felt as if my religious background and ideology, particularly in regard to love, had always been limited to a love centered in and normalized by whiteness. In this context, blackness has remained a subordinated gender identity and became constructed not just in relation to white people but also in relation to how I understood White Jesus and religion.

Sometimes, loving people will cause harm.

This isn’t to condemn my upbringing. Instead, I wanted to articulate that my journey into Love has required committing to paying attention to the journey and recognizing the many layers which have shaped and continue to shape my ideology thus far.

We are revealed by the way in which we love.

Yesterday, I visited one of my local churches. I went rather begrudgingly. For as much as I enjoy traveling, I don’t really like visiting new churches, and I don’t like going to new churches alone (my husband is in his hometown this weekend), but I felt like God was quietly nudging me to visit this particular church.

And, of course He knew what He was doing.

So, I couldn’t help but giggle when I saw the new sermon series the pastors were beginning was entitled: Actors, Allies and Accomplices, in regard to anti-bigotry and the Bible.

In Acts 10, Peter is radically reminded of the revolutionary, upside-down, wild kind of love in which God invites all to participate in. Remember the story? It’s the one where God sends down a sheet filled with all the kinds of food in which Jews were forbidden to eat. And yet, God tells Peter that what He calls clean is no longer unclean. And, of course, God does this three times, because, well, it’s Peter, and Peter is that one friend that always needs the extra reminders. Every time.

And, I couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit convicted.

Especially with everything that has happened.

What if loving my neighbor means humanizing them, and that is enough? What if tiny acts that move toward love, are just enough?

This idea has challenged me to consider people that wish me harm in a different way. Because, what if the fact that I am still here and speaking my truth is exactly enough?

I think it is.

So, it’s been just over a year since the Unite the Right rally happened in Charlottesville and, I’m still here.

Okay, so maybe that is a bit dramatic (but, that is your sista girl).

Or, maybe that isn’t dramatic enough. 

The reality is that as a POC and as a woman, I am reminded every day about my status as a lesser citizen. It happens in the little things. The microaggressions and the overt aggressions.

·         It happens when the driver that cuts me off doesn’t just give me the middle finger but also yells the N word.

·         It’s the boss who asks when I’m going to have the “pretty hair” back

·          It’s the white coworker who says she doesn’t want any more “diversity” in her classroom

·         It’s the white male coworker who asks me when I am going to get my hair ready for school

·         It’s the family member who offers words like well, you’re the real racist when discussing issues of police brutality on brown and black communities.

·         It’s the deafening white silence white silence white silence.

·         It’s the sibling that will consistently shame you in front of other (white people) about your hair with offhand comments like, “nice wig,” “nice fake hair,”

Or, my personal favorites,

·         “I bet I could just pull that off of you right now.”

·         “Are you really going to keep wearing that on your head?”

As, I spent this past year reflecting on Charlottesville, I started to make deeper discoveries about myself, Love, God, and the importance of my own mental health. The effects of living with racism holds a very real and a very damaging toll on the mental health of POC, but are often overlooked within communities of color because everyone has PTSD and we are tired. I like the way the Combahee River Collective Statement puts it:

…The psychological toll of being a Black woman and the difficulties this presents in reaching political consciousness and doing political work can never be underestimated. There is a very low value placed upon Back women’s psyches in this society, which is both racist and sexist. As an early group member once said, “we are all damaged people merely by virtue of being Black women.” We are dispossessed psychologically and on every other level, and yet we feel the necessity to struggle to change the condition of all Black women. In “A Black Feminist’s Search for Sisterhood,” Michelle Wallace arrives at this conclusion:

We exist as women who are Black who are feminists, each stranded for the moment, working independently because there is not yet an environment in this society remotely congenial to our struggle – because, being on the bottom, we would have to do what no one else has done: we would have to fight the world.  

And, this statement from Monica Morris’ critical book, Pushout:

Through stories we find that Black girls are greatly affected by the stigma of having to participate in identity politics that marginalize them or place them into polarizing categories: they are either “good” girls or “ghetto” girls who behave in ways that exacerbate stereotypes about Black femininity, particularly those relating to socioeconomic status, crime, and punishment. When Black girls do engage in acts that are deemed “ghetto” –often a euphemism for actions that deviate from social norms tied to a narrow, White middle-class definition of femininity – they are frequently labeled as nonconforming and thereby subjected to criminalizing responses. It has been speculated that Black girls’ nonconformity to traditional gender expectations may prompt educators to respond more harshly to the negative behaviors of Black girls. For example, a 2007 study found that teachers often perceived Black girls as being “loud, defiant, and precocious.” And that Black girls were more likely than their White or Latina peers to be reprimanded for being “unladylike”

I would advocate that the same is true for black women in the workforce. This past week, a white male colleague, around my age, stopped me to ask me when I was going to get my hair ready for school. He is often a jokester and has a habit of saying ignorant things that I push back against.

He likes to be that guy.

But, I have been rocking my natural hair for the past few years. Sometimes, I wear a weave, sometimes I don’t, sometimes I put it in braids, but I had finally taken out the braids and had decided to pull it back in a neat, tidy, afro puff.

I didn’t have a response to his comments. And, ya know that this girl usually has a plethora of words and comebacks.

But, I realized that I was afraid.

I was afraid of how I might come off.

I was afraid of using Ebonics that may label me as “sounding ghetto.”

I was afraid…. of him and being told to calm down…to not play the race card…to relax because it was just a joke.

But, words have power. And, as educators, our words have a unique sort of power.

As a black educator, I remain increasingly aware of the importance of racial representation in the workforce, particularly in the education system. I know that it has been over 60 years since Brown v. Board of Education but in a 2017 reportby Education Week, 80-82% of the nation’s teachers are white females.

As a black educator with natural hair, I also remain increasingly aware of the importance for natural hair representation.

When I wear my hair in a natural puff, my black kindergarten students often greet me with a, “hey friend! Your hair is just like mine and mommies.” When, my 5th grade girls see my hair in a natural puff they ask me if it people are cool with me wearing my hair like that because they have already begun to recognize and internalize what is deemed as “professional” hair and what is not.

I tell my fifth graders that I love my natural hair and that I am proud of it.

The last month of school, some of them started wearing their hair out in its natural glory. And, when we would see each other in the hallway, we would compliment one another.

Representation matters.

Advocates matter.

But, I didn’t know what to say.

So, I walked away. And, that was enough. Sometimes, there are situations that we have to walk away from. And, that is okay and valid and enough. I think as activists, we are often pulled into the idea that we always have to be battling.

What if I told you that some days just standing or sitting or laying in bed and crying, is enough?

This week, as I begin to unwind and also gear up for the beginning of another school year, I am holding myself lightly. I am speaking to myself gently. And, I am loving myself and my natural hair.

And, I am saying that I am enough.

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All the Light Within Part III: Bonita

Posted on July 26, 2018

Reading Time: 9 minutes

In the past few years, it has become increasingly important for me to connect with other transracial adoptees. In the wake of reconnecting with my biological mother two years ago, I have found comfort and solace in the shared connection of the transracial adoption experience, and a renewed commitment to amplifying the adoptee voice utilizing my blog platform.

I have dedicated the month of July towards telling transracial adoptee stories through a series entitled: All the Light Within, by featuring 4 different transracial adoptees. If you missed the Part I and II, please click on the appropriate numeric link for access.

So, full disclosure? I had four adoptees lined up for this interview series, but due to unexpected circumstances, two needed to decline at the last minute. That being said, I try not ask others to do something that I am not willing to also do, so this last and final adoptee series will be on yours truly. The following piece will be written Q&A style. I will answer the same questions used for the first two interviews.

How do you racially identify?
I identify as a black woman with a biracial experience. 
When were you adopted and were you placed with any foster families?
I was born in October of 1992 in Philadelphia, two months premature, and placed into the first of three foster care homes. The third foster care home, which would become my forever family, received me in December of 1992, and, four years later, I was adopted in December of 1996. 
Do you have any biological siblings and, if so, were you adopted with any biological siblings?
I have three older biological siblings, though it seems silly to say older because one is my twin sister, and I was adopted with my twin sister. 
How do you think your adoption journey has been shaped by being adopted with a biological sibling?
I think that being adopted with a biological sibling has allowed me to have a sort of comrade in the journey. It helps to know that there is someone whom may be experiencing similar emotions and feelings. But, to be honest, we process everything so differently, that, maybe as strange as it is to say, it sometimes feels even more alienating. 

You know, because if I experience something racist and she doesn’t…I feel like we are sometimes “pitted” against one another…and then, you know, I am told that I’m just playing the “race card” or something BS… But, overall, I am really grateful to have been adopted with a biological sibling. 
What was the best thing about your adoption?
Well….being adopted was the best thing. 
But also, I think that one of the best things about my adoption has been the relationship I have cultivated with my adoptive mother. We went through a lot of pain and struggle together, and there is something so sweet and sacred about our journey. She has taught me a lot about unconditional love and forgiveness, and, I think because of that (and our personalities) we are able to speak frankly and hold each other accountable in ways I wouldn’t have expected otherwise. 

I am also really grateful for my relationship with my dad. I don’t have a biological father – he passed before I was born and didn’t know about me – and so, one of the things that I really appreciate about my dad is that he has really been intentional in being a part of my life and letting me challenge him on issues of race and politics. 

Oh, and my oldest sister. She likes to say that she always wanted two sisters, and I have always really admired her…I think that she is really strong in ways, perhaps, that she doesn’t even know. And, I really admire that she is willing to say hard truths and stay committed to relationships. 
What values did your parents instill in you?
I think that my parents both instilled similar and different values in me. They both instilled the value of hard work, and by that I mean, the importance of doing a job thoroughly and making sure it is correct the first time.

I think that my dad has instilled in me the value of service and doing things for others without seeking recognition and to always have a sense of humor. 

My mom has instilled in me the value of curiosity and wonder and the ability to not discount my own ability to do hard things, particularly if those things are mechanical or industrial. I’ve learned to surprise myself by gaining new skill sets just because I allow myself to try things that I don’t always think I can do. 
Did you, if at all, recognize early on that you were different from your adoptive family?
I’m not sure. I think the first time I realized that I was racially different was when I received my first black doll. I think that was the first time I had something racially representational, and that was really important. 

Another memory I have and will always hold onto is the moment I went on a 1st grade visit to the Waldorf School. A girl, who ended up being one of my early childhood best friends, was watching out the windows when I arrived. And, as soon as I entered the classroom, she ran up to me, picked me up and yelled, “YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL.” 

Up until that point, while I hadn’t really heard negative things about my skin, I knew it was problematic. Mostly because my skin was so different than my white families and it required constant attention. You know, ashy knees, easy scars, stuff like that. I remember my mom always yelling at me if I didn’t lotion right after a bath, and here to have this young, white girl just not even caring…that was really special. 
Did you live in a racially dominant area?
I grew up in a predominately white, rural area in, what I would now consider would have been, a conservative, semi-Bible Belt area. But, kind of a weird, anomaly thing was that a close neighbor friend was married to a black woman. They each had had kids through their previous marriage, but I remember that her daughters offered to do my hair. 
Did your parents/family discuss your differences with you?
To be honest, I don’t remember a formal conversation with my parents about race. At some point, I think race became more important to them because I started to notice that the literature in the house suddenly started to become more racially representational. We had this one book, ‘Brown Angels,’ and then all of a sudden we started to have books like ‘Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters’ and ‘I Love My Hair,’ but I don’t remember my parents ever having explicit race talks…

I guess when I was still in foster care, my mom learned how to do black hair and she did a really good job because I remember how sometimes I would get these compliments and people would ask me who did my hair, and I would just point at my white mother and they’d look kind of dumbfounded. So, I guess we talked about race by the way we talked about hair…

But, I think for the most part my family and extended family kind of adhered to a colorblind ideology, which has the unfortunate effect, I think, of racial erasure. Or, at least, looking back…it seems maybe more like a convenient colorblind ideology. I think this ideology has been the most difficult one to, now as an adult, confront because then I’m seen as the problematic, unreasonable, dramatic, emotional black girl. 

So, it feels complicated and exhausting to recognize that family won’t always mean ally, and that has been a really hard truth to grapple with, particularly because it feels so alienating…but also, as strange as it sounds, it is so empowering and healthy for me to confront and recognize. But even vocalizing and admitting that feels hard because, as an adoptee, society conditions you to think so much about being grateful for being “rescued” that it is easy to just “ignore” the rest. 
Was race an issue for your family?
I think, and maybe this will sound weird, but the more I lean into my own double consciousness and my own truths, the more I realize how much race was and is an issue for my family. 

Let me explain. I think that in order to be anti racist and an ally one has to intentionally commit to 1) seeing race and injustices and 2) committing to a intentional anti-racist action. 

I think race was and is an issue just in the vernacular I hear used in my family (extended included)…you know the white hair grab and the casual toss of “illegals” and “ghetto walmart” and “those blacks” etc, kind of tossed into everyday conversation. But, that is how it happens, right? Race colors our understanding of whom has value and whom is worth protecting and believing and whom is viewed as a truth teller. I want my kids to be loved and to have allies in their family. And…some days…I just get really sad thinking about the comments that are said to me and how I refuse to have them said to my children.   
In your neighborhood, was race an issue?
I don’t recall specific racial events in my neighborhood…then again, it was a rural area. I remember being mistaken for a Fresh Air Kid, and racialized incidents at school and in other the larger community, but not specifically in my neighborhood. 
What was your first negative racialized moment?
I think my first negative racialized moment was the first time I was called a nigger by a classmate in third grade. I don’t remember hearing that word before then, and I remember that when I came home, I was just crying. I ran to my dad’s office and climbed up on his chair, grabbed this big old dictionary and just searched and searched for the word and my mom came and like, took the dictionary away and just held me for a while. 
What was your first positive racialized moment?
Well, I think that moment with the first grade classmate might have been the first one. But, I honestly think that other than that, I don’t really remember having a positive racialized moment until much more recently…probably in the last few years..and that sounds really sad.. 

Something changed within me and I realized that I deserve to be proud of my skin and my body and that I can be a powerful black woman. I had a teacher in college, I will never forget her, and she really pushed me and believed in me. She kept telling me that I could become anything, and that has really impacted me. 
Do you feel like race impacts you?
Absolutely. And, I believe that race impacts all of us…just not everyone realizes it or is ready to realize it. I think…perhaps because I came into believing my own double consciousness at a later time in my life, that things feel more acute to me. And, it’s my personality to speak up and out about things. and to feel things rather intensely. 

It feels lonely though, particularly, because I still struggle with the tension of allyship and family and a history of other things that complicate the familial relationships. 

But yeah, I think understanding how race impacts me and has shaped my childhood has made it even more important for me to speak out for others and other injustices. Personal experience, perhaps mixed with my own unique personality, has made intersectionality with other injustices really important. 

When, if at all, did you begin to identify with the black community?
I think that as I grow (and grew) older, I continue(d) to realize how much my struggles with racism aren’t a lone, solitary story but part of a much broader narrative in a much larger framework. That feels hopeful because there is a solidarity and a community that knows the pain and that have a historical record of resisting. 

When I think about that and lean into my friends whom have resisted, I feel heard and known in ways that I don’t in other spaces. 
Did you feel isolated or lonely growing up? And, if so, how?
I think that as a child, I wouldn’t have told you I felt lonely, per say, because I always was pretty popular and had friends. But, it strikes me as an adult that one way I did feel lonely was that I often experienced a lot of microaggressions and dog whistle comments by the same “friends.” 

You know, if I got upset or something, they would mock me with stereotypical “black” anger by snapping their fingers at me and saying something they thought was “ghetto.” I could never be “reasonably” angry….and that in and of itself had its own personal and mental consequences.

So, I remember, by the time I got to late HS, I just stopped trying to show too much emotion at school…because one if the unfortunate effects is that you start to doubt your own reasonability. And, I know the statistics about black women and mental health, but there usually isn’t space for black women’s anger or feelings…and it feels even more compounded in predominately white spaces….
I remember there was this one guy in Middle School who was a real piece of work, and he would constantly harass me by putting stuff down my pants like pencils and erasers… and just saying really awful sexual stuff to me and like, microaggressive stuff too. I remember reporting him and the Mennonite Administration put him at the front of the bus for a week, and that just made it all the more worse because then I had to walk past him every day…

I remember telling my girlfriends about it and we got him back by coloring these two huge maxi pads with red marker, soaking them in water and then putting them in his brand new basketball sneakers. At the time…that felt so empowering…the solidarity.

 But like, there were the other stuff too. The stuff that you just keep to yourself. You know, there was this one 8th Grade track meet, and I was walking in front of the bleachers and all of these skinny, Christian, white boys started yelling stupid racial stuff at me and spat on me. 

I remember just being humiliated. And, I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to be further embarrassed and I didn’t think anyone would help me….I guess this is the first time I’ve told that story….

Or like, the classmate that lifted up my field hockey skirt because he wanted to see if I had a big butt…because “black girls have big butts…”

There are a lot of stories that I’ve just kept to myself that I guess complicated and compounded the loneliness…because, it’s always like…if I speak up will people believe me? And, what if they accuse me of “playing the race card?” I feel like I often chose silence because I was so afraid of what might happen if I spoke up. Would I be believed? What if I wasn’t? Could I deal with that? What if I had to prove why it was racist? I think what really complicated the matters were some of the worst moments happened in Christian settings and so…like, everyone was already a Jesus follower and that felt trickier.
What, if anything, would you tell someone about your adoption journey?
I think I would tell them that my adoption journey continues to be a journey that shapes my ideology. I don’t think adoption journeys, like most journeys, are linear…I think they all just kind of follow an upward spiral where, at the beginning, things may feel really hard and intense, but that with each upward spiral things feel less painful and more manageable. 
As always, thanks for entering this journey with me. I tried to tell this story in ways that would not infringe on my family’s privacy, so if you are curious about things, please know that I may not be able to answer all of your questions. But also, these stories are also just glimpses of a much larger biography. 
Again, my most sincere thanks to Jasmine and Star whom dared to be vulnerable with me and with you. 
Shalom always,

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On the Subject of When You Need to Trash Your Mantra

Posted on May 31, 2018

Reading Time: 3 minutes

What drives you to panic and despair? What keeps you grounded?

In a world that is increasingly polarized, hate rhetoric and intentional polarized positioning are often unconscious defaults. Compounded by internalized media messages and individual bias, it can be hard to keep a positive individual mantra. Does your subconscious mantra need to be trashed?

This week, as I have been meditating and practicing self-care, I found myself revisiting recent events that haven’t quite healed yet. My mind kept returning to them again and again, and I found myself at one point, leaning over, hugging my knees tightly to my chest as I felt this huge weight in my stomach.

I was carrying all of these things that kept reinforcing my own innate propensity of relying on old lies.

Somehow, I was still carrying the foster care Bonita with the you are all alone and nobody cares.

I was the little girl whom didn’t know why her mother left.

And, I realized that I needed to re-trash one of my unconscious mantras.

See, while I thought that relying on individual self-care and self-healing were critical pieces of my own self-care journey (and they are), I was acting like these characteristics were solely enough to buoy and support me. And, I had to investigate the underlying truth that a journey into racial strength and self-care and healing cannot be an individual journey. It requires community. And, community, like the self, can be hard, messy and hold that ever-fun possibility of pain potential.

This past weekend, when my friends reached out to me and listened after a rough conversation with a family member. I realized again that my community could hold and carry my imperfect truths and I could hold and carry theirs.

I wasn’t alone and I could say that to all the old parts of me and all the old hurt in me. 

My community cares and loves me.

 I speak those truths to the foster care Bonita and to the girl wondering why her mother left her. 

My community cares and loves me.

I speak these truths to the Boni who is hurt and disappointed in and by family members.

I speak those truths as I read the paper and as I commit to doing the work of racial reconciliation. 

I declare these truths when I am feeling frustrated and drained and unconnected.

I declare these truths with and to my community so that my community can remind me of these truths when I need a gentle reminder.

However, I also speak this truth as well: I am known and named and loved by the Creator.

I speak this truth and breathe.

I speak this truth and, when I find I have the space to in a stressful disagreement, I try to intentionally ask a clarifying question.

I speak this truth and I lean in.

I invite you to speak your own truth too.

What are your own truths that you use to reconnect and ground yourself?

When we speak truth over ourselves and to others, I think we intentionally center ourselves into the sacred space of healing. And, this reorientation fundamentally impacts our capacity to be effective positive change makers. 

Reorientation isn’t easy. And, speaking truth isn’t always easy. Sometimes we get stuck in a rut. Sometimes the lies can sound like truths. But, when we intentionally commit to learning and knowing what truth is, it becomes easier and easier to pick out the lie.

For me, the lie will always be abandonment. That nobody-loves-you-nobody-cares-about-you-you-are-all-alonetype shit.

While, I couldn’t declare that it was shit as a ten-year-old, or even as an 18-year-old, I can declare that as shit now. Because, I have learned to strengthen myself with the truth.

Part of this strengthening required that I had to investigate the ways in which I heal.  For me, I had to own that I was picking up so much grief and pain and trauma that instead of finding the capacity to heal, I was actually re-traumatizing myself and convincing myself that it counted as healing. 

I needed to be able to take a step back and acknowledge the good work that was already taking place as well as distance myself from the constant intake of trauma, which – for me – includes the constant exposure of violence and trauma to black and brown bodies. I had to own that the daily trauma I live didn’t and doesn’t need to be intensified with or by national violence. Instead, I needed to take a step back and heal. And then, re-strategize how to practice affirming, self-care and self-love practices while staying intentionally engaged with national events. 

What have you learned about how you hold trauma? What mantras might you need to trash?

I can’t wait to hear how you affirm and trash your own unconscious mantras.

Shalom always,

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