Inherited Silence “You don’t need therapy; you need God. Just pray about it and keep moving.” My father said those words whenever emotions became too heavy to acknowledge. Over time, they became my inheritance. I learned early that struggle was something to endure quietly. In my Black, rural, faith-centered community, mental health was rarely treated as a legitimate concern. Resilience was often measured by silence rather than vulnerability. I grew up in rural Mississippi in a deteriorating trailer that had been passed down through generations. Roaches crawled across the counters at night, sections of the floor sagged beneath our feet, and the instability inside our home reflected the instability in our lives. My mother left when I was two, and as my father’s substance abuse worsened, our home became increasingly chaotic. By eight years old, survival had already become routine. I stood on chairs to reach the stove, washed my clothes in the sink when the washer stopped working, and tried my best to look presentable for school despite everything happening at home. Still, I could never fully hide where I came from. I still remember classmates covering their noses when I walked past and laughing at my worn clothes. Sometimes I laughed along to ease the humiliation, but it followed me home every day. What hurt most was not the trailer or the teasing. It was longing for comfort from someone who was struggling to care for himself. I spent years convincing myself that my feelings were weakness and that if I prayed hard enough, ignored things long enough, or stayed busy enough, eventually the heaviness would disappear. Graduating from high school did not feel triumphant. It felt terrifying. Survival had consumed so much of my life that I never stopped to ask myself who I wanted to become outside of it. While everyone around me seemed to be moving forward with supportive families and stability, comparison slowly became shame, and shame became isolation. I had fallen into depression, questioning my worth, my future, and whether I was capable of building a life different from the one I had known. Desperate for clarity, I rented a hotel room for two days with money I had saved from work. I brought only a notebook, a pen, and a duffel bag of clothes. For the first time in years, there was no distraction loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I wrote for hours. Page after page, I poured out memories I had spent years trying to minimize: the embarrassment I carried into school, the anger I buried to avoid becoming like my father, and the exhaustion of pretending I was okay. Somewhere between those pages, I realized I had spent years mistaking trauma for personal failure. Prayer brought comfort to many people in my community, including my family, but I began to understand that faith and professional help did not have to oppose one another. Seeking therapy did not make me weak; it meant I was finally allowing myself to heal. That weekend marked the beginning of my life. I sought professional support and slowly began rebuilding my relationship with myself. I stopped asking who I was expected to become and began defining who I wanted to be: someone grounded, compassionate, emotionally aware, and unwilling to normalize the cycles I grew up around. I also began reopening conversations about mental health within my family. When my cousin later admitted she was struggling but insisted she “didn’t need help, just faith,” I recognized my younger self in her. Instead of dismissing her feelings, I shared my story. I told her about the hotel room, the notebook, and the relief that came from receiving support. Over time, she began opening up more and healing, and even my relationship with my father became more honest. Recently, my father admitted that seeking help might have saved him years of pain. For the first time, I saw not only the man who taught me to suppress emotion, but someone who had inherited that silence long before passing it to me. I no longer wanted to inherit that silence. Prioritizing my mental health changed more than my emotional well-being; it changed what I believed was possible for my future. For years, survival had left little room to imagine higher education, let alone believe I belonged there. As I began healing, goals that once felt unrealistic slowly became tangible. Pursuing college was no longer about proving I had overcome my past; it became an investment in the future I was finally allowing myself to build. I am pursuing a career in radiologic technology because I want to be part of the kind of care I once needed but could not fully name. In healthcare, it is easy to focus only on results and procedures, but I have learned that every scan represents a person carrying more than physical symptoms. Patients often enter imaging rooms carrying fear, uncertainty, pain, or diagnoses they do not yet understand. In those moments, technical competence matters, but so does the ability to create calm, and help patients feel safe in unfamiliar or vulnerable situations. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional who makes those moments feel less frightening. My experiences with mental health taught me that the most significant struggles are often invisible. Success in my life will not simply mean professional achievement. It will mean using my knowledge, values, and experiences to advocate for others, challenge stigma, and care for people with both competence and compassion. I want to be the technologist who notices the anxious grip on the table, explains procedures with patience, and understands that care extends beyond producing clear images. For much of my life, I felt unseen. Now, I strive to help create an environment where others feel acknowledged, understood, and safe during some of their most vulnerable moments. I want patients to feel what I once needed most; recognition that their experience is real, even when it cannot be seen or easily explained.

Growing up, I often heard the words, “Just pray.” When emotions became too heavy to carry, prayer was the prescribed solution. So when I expressed that to my family I was struggling with depression and needed help or even therapy, I was told that therapy was unnecessary and that God would fix any problem worth solving. I believed that. I still do. I knew God was capable of healing me, but what I was carrying felt deeper than what silence alone could solve. I grew up surrounded by financial hardship, instability, and trauma, learning how to survive long before I learned how to process pain. There was little room for emotional honesty when survival itself demanded strength. Over time, enduring hardship began to masquerade as healing. As I grew older, I began researching mental health stigma within the Black community to better understand why seeking help felt so forbidden. I realized my family’s resistance to therapy was not rooted in a lack of love or faith, but in generations of survival, mistrust, and the belief that strength meant suffering quietly. That understanding changed my perspective, but another realization changed my life entirely: faith and professional help did not have to oppose one another. I believe God guided me toward healing through therapy. Rather than weakening my faith, therapy strengthened it. It became the place where years of hidden hurt could finally be spoken aloud instead of being buried beneath responsibility and fear. For the first time, I was not simply praying to survive; I was learning how to heal. That journey transformed the way I see other people. I became deeply aware that pain often goes unseen. The strongest individuals in a room may be carrying the heaviest burdens in silence. Because of that, I now strive to embody a life of service through empathy, emotional awareness, and compassion for others, especially those who feel unheard or overlooked. While volunteering to support unhoused individuals in my community, I learned that service is often less about having the perfect words and more about treating people with dignity, patience, and allowing God’s love to shine through me. That experience, along with emotionally supporting friends during difficult seasons and encouraging open conversations about mental health within my family, reinforced my belief that compassion can make people feel less alone. As I pursue a career in healthcare as a radiologic technologist, I hope to use both my education and personal experiences to care for people during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. Patients are more than diagnoses or images on a screen; many are carrying fear, uncertainty, grief, or emotional burdens that are invisible to others. I understand how difficult it can be for someone to ask for help. I want to be the kind of healthcare professional who helps make that step feel less frightening. My faith will guide not only what I accomplish, but also how I serve. To me, faith is not passive endurance. Faith is trusting God enough to pursue wisdom, accept help, and use the resources He places before us. Success in my career will not simply mean professional achievement. It will mean using my knowledge, values, and experiences to advocate for others, challenge stigma, and help people feel seen, heard, and cared for. I once believed faith meant waiting quietly for healing to arrive. Now, I believe God was guiding me toward becoming part of healing for others. Instagram: @dejahsdelights