From The Archives Vol. 1

birthday tears and publishing the "unpublishable".

In the last newsletter, I shared that most of my writing has never been seen. I’m working on trying to change that. This mini-series doesn’t have any rhyme or reason and is purely me staying accountable to this exercise in vulnerability—part of “the practice and the process,” so to speak.

The piece below was written in 2021, sometime in early September, a week after my birthday. As always, join me in the comments if you have thoughts — I’d love to hear them.

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Last week was my birthday.

Every year without fail, I cry on my birthday. Celebrating with joy and ease is always the goal, and ultimately is a place I yearn to get to. In the weeks and days leading up to the day itself, I am often moody, sad and full of self-doubt.

Years of this have led to reflection on this feeling. My melancholy isn’t a fear of aging or a worry about what the next year will bring. In fact, the idea of getting older, wisened and full to the brim of experience and opportunity is one of the few things that excite me about growing older. My emotionality appears to come from a deep place of “not enoughness,” a shameful thought loop in my mind of everything I’ve done over the past year and measuring it up to some unrealistic expectation in my mind that somehow I should have been better or done more.

Despite this, I know my belief that what I’ve achieved isn’t “enough” or “significant” doesn’t mean that I won’t ever get there, or that there isn’t enough time to pursue those goals.

I am sad even though I know better. I can feel inadequate even while knowing the futility of comparison; I still sometimes sink into self doubt while simultaneously knowing my inherent value and worth.

I grapple with the level of honesty that I bring to my writing. As a black woman therapist with a public profile, I feel compelled to always show myself as collected and credible—a delicate balance of gratitude, gracefulness and strength.

But I’m tired of being resilient. I’m mindful that the world doesn’t offer me as much room for vulnerability and authenticity as it does my white counterparts.

I am weary of the burden of the presentation of self.

I am tired of the constant chaos of the world that reminds me and those that look like me that we will always be held to an impossible standard. That we must smile through the pain of feeling like second-class citizens when it comes to our mental health, our bodies and our space in this world.

My ego says that my professional role compels me to present and compartmentalize— but the real me is messy. The only people who deserve the energy and emotional labour of this are my clients and my closest community. All this to say that there doesn’t seem to be much space to just be me. Given that my work and my platform is centered around affirming others, making space for vulnerability, and prioritizing mindful self-love and self-compassion, it is ironic that I seemed to have forgotten how to make that space for myself.

If you are also someone who places harsh and unyielding judgment on yourself, while somehow finding the strength to keep giving and giving and giving — this newsletter is for you. Here lies an honest place to see yourself in words and commit to being honest about the complexity of being yourself even when you know that being yourself may come with emotional risks. I hope you too allow yourself the freedom to feel and ultimately to heal.

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