Through the media, entertainment, and research there has been a constant trend that black suffering and pain, especially from Black women, is a source of comedic relief, the lack of seriousness or severity of the situation, and just not addressed as often as other racial counterparts. Black women are expected to be strong all the way around; Black women have to be fierce lovers, they have to be the voice of the voiceless, they have to be emotionless in order to make it far but not too far removed where she is deemed as harsh or non-personable. So when Black women embody these preselected expectations that usually are not equipped enough to battle unexpected curveballs and in general life. That is when they end up in situations that are toxic along with harmful to their livelihood. Women enter relationships with men that do not value them as they are deemed and or some men are intimidated by the strength that Black women possess. Then there are the situations when Black women are not strong enough and they begin to crumble which can lead them to pick up habits that only provide temporary relief with a lifetime of consequences. My passion about being a voice and an advocate for my community comes from the fact that there are many women that became victims to the people they loved and expected to reciprocate that love. And women who fell victim to a substance they sought refuge in. Seeing Black women die along with losing themselves to a world that does not take their pain seriously. Their pain that every woman from any race and age can experience. Black women deserve to be heard, and they deserved to be loved fully and truly by the masses.

Growing up in a single parent household in a low income environment I have witnessed first hand what mental health does to black families. My mother was a single mother raising three children with no support, worked multiple jobs, and attempted attending school to further her education to get out of a trying situation. My mother was never diagnosed with any type of mental health due to the stigma, uneducation, and ignorance that plagues the Black community as a whole. Not only did watching my mom navigate the world with mild signs of depression and anxiety, but also experiencing the same feelings for myself made it more personal. When I was in middle school I was living in a very toxic environment with extended family members that created a very isolating, dark, and hopeless time in my life. I knew that my life had value but at the time it was hard to see that with all the chaos around me and the feeling of becoming a product of my environment. That is when I discovered journaling, it helped me get all of the scary thoughts and feelings that were too heavy to externalize. I found my peace by addressing the hurt and the heaviness. As the years passed the depression lessened but then anxiety crept in with age. It got to a point that it started to affect my academic life while balancing the newfound freedom of adulthood, it became so suffocating and not me that I reached out for help. I started therapy and those feelings and habits that I chalked up to overthinking was given the name anxiety and everything started to piece together and make sense. For generations Black people have not been awarded the luxury of reaching out for help and having the choice to get involved in therapy or counseling. My choice in becoming a child and adolescent psychologist did not come upon me lightly, it came with the weight of my mother, the overlooked angry Black women who struggle with anxiety, the misunderstood and ultra masculine Black man that is depressed, and all of the throwaway children and elderly people that battle with severe mental health issues. My dedication to mental health is fueled by all the future Black boys and girls that are told they have to always be strong and they have to be what society wants them to be. It comes with the honor to carry the future with the demonstration that Black people deserve softness and to fully experience life with all the feelings that might come.