My sister watched for my reaction with large, watery eyes. Depression wasn't a topic I hadn't heard of before--I'd seen it pop up in comment section arguments or schoolwide bullying interventions. I just didn't expect it to be so close to me in the form of my bubbly younger sister. It came to me quickly, masked in the shape of laughter and playful punches on the walks home from school. The part that hurt the most following this revelation would be the expectation for her to be the "strong Black woman". The fact that she would need to push her emotions to the side to continue playing this character that wasn't allowed to be sensitive. To be hurt. To feel. There wasn't much I could do financially as a junior in high school, so I did what I knew best: I opened an Instagram account. On the first day of its life, I made it clear that I was a Black woman. I wanted it to be a safe space for other girls like myself to vent their frustrations about anything and everything. No expectations or any stigma were hanging over our heads--just long entries about the day's toil and hopes for tomorrow. It's something small, but it meant everything to me, my sister, and the audience I curated. Creating such a space wouldn't entirely solve the issue, but I figured it would be a start. To be strong is to be vulnerable--one cannot exist without the other.