The Invisible Black Woman

As I stepped into my second one-on-one with Carrie, I felt a sense of dread mixed with a strange kind of comfort. I’m not one to unload my baggage on others—it’s just not my style. But something about Carrie made me feel like I could. And more importantly, that I should. This was a woman who got it. She had a way of seeing beyond the surface, piercing through the cracks of my “everything is fine” facade with gentle but unrelenting precision.

I settled into the chair, feeling the weight of everything that had piled up over the past few weeks. It wasn’t just one thing; it was all the things. I was emotionally spent from work and what I’d do next, financially stressed, and struggling with the deep-seated sense of betrayal that comes when you realize a place you’ve poured so much of yourself into couldn’t care less about your well-being. My mind kept drifting to the lawyer I’d recently consulted and the sobering realization that, while I might have a case, it wasn’t a “slam dunk.”

Oh, did I forget to mention I consulted an attorney? Several actually.

Carrie sensed my reluctance to start, and with her usual calm, she asked, “Is there anything you want to talk about before we jump into the treatment plan?”

I hesitated, knowing that once I opened up, there’d be no going back. “I’m in a weird place today, so I might be a little off,” I admitted, trying to find the right words for the emotional storm brewing inside me.

Carrie nodded, offering a gentle, “That’s okay.”

I found myself telling her about my recent call with the lawyer, how I’d clung to the hope that this would be my way out, only to be told that my case wasn’t clear-cut.

“It’s not bad news, but it’s not the ‘yes’ I was hoping for. So, we’re starting with a demand letter to see if I can at least get a severance package. I just… I can’t go back.”

Well, that’s what I told myself that day anyway.

Her eyes were sympathetic as she listened. “That sounds like a lot to carry.”

It was. The uncertainty, the frustration of fighting for myself in an environment that clearly didn’t value me—it was all taking a toll.

“I keep thinking, logically, they’d just want me to go away,” voicing the doubts that had been swirling in my mind, “but logic doesn’t always apply in these situations.”

She nodded, letting the words sink in before responding. “It sounds like you’re holding a lot right now. And it’s understandable that you’d feel frustrated and discouraged.”

I took a deep breath, steadying myself as I prepared to share more. I could feel the lump in my throat.

“I’ve been working on my writing,” I said, hoping to shift to something positive, yet even that topic was tinged with disappointment. “I’ve been so focused, trying to get my work out there, connect with people, but… it’s not going how I hoped. People love the free stuff, but the paid content? Not so much.”

Her empathetic gaze didn’t waver, and she encouraged me to keep going.

“It’s just hard,” I continued, the words spilling out more freely now. “I feel like I’m doing everything right. I get good feedback, my reviews on Amazon are solid, but… the sales aren’t there. And if my writing could take off, then I wouldn’t feel so tied to that job. But here I am, with all these dreams, and nothing’s happening.”

Carrie’s voice was gentle, reassuring. “It sounds like a crisis of faith.”

I nodded, feeling that damn lump again. She had hit the nail on the head. This wasn’t just about a job or even a career path. It was about my sense of purpose, my self-worth. And right now, both felt dangerously close to slipping through my fingers.

There was a moment of silence, and then she said, “I know you feel like you have to be strong all the time. But what do you have left for yourself?”

The question cut through me, sharp and unyielding. “Whatever’s left, if anything,” I murmured, feeling the exhaustion settle in deeper, more uncomfortably.

And then, before I knew it, I was telling her about my husband, how I hadn’t even shared my fears with him because I didn’t want to add to his stress. “He has a heart condition,” I explained, my voice breaking slightly. “He worries enough as it is. So, I just… I keep it to myself.”

Carrie didn’t press, didn’t offer empty platitudes. She simply listened, creating a space where I felt safe enough to admit what I hadn’t even admitted to myself: that I was terrified. That I didn’t know how much longer I could keep going.

“Being scared is okay,” she said softly. “You’re human.”

The words lingered in the air, both comforting and painful. I was so used to being the strong one, the reliable one. But maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to be.

As the session continued, we talked about my need for control, my impatience with the unknown. I told her how, when I’d been on PTO, I hadn’t been able to relax, constantly worrying about what would come next. And then there was the relentless voice in the back of my mind—the “bad roommate,” as she called it, always whispering doubts and fears. “What if they don’t accept the demand letter? What if I can’t make ends meet? What if…”

Carrie encouraged me to challenge that voice, to acknowledge it but not let it dictate my every move.

“Imagine it’s an actual person. What would you say to her?”

“I’d tell her to shut the hell up.”

Carrie laughed, surprised by my bluntness, and I joined her. The idea resonated with me. This nagging, doubting voice didn’t deserve control over my life.

At one point, she asked, “What would it look like to pause, to stay in the moment instead of constantly worrying about the future?”

I didn’t have an answer. Pausing, being still, these weren’t concepts I was familiar with. My life had always been about pushing forward, fighting for every inch. But maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe I’d been fighting so hard that I’d forgotten how to simply be.

I shared with her how I’d been using voice memos after group sessions, capturing my thoughts and emotions in real time. It was a way of staying present, of processing everything instead of letting it fester inside me. “I think it helps,” I admitted. “It forces me to focus on what’s happening right now, rather than spiraling into all the ‘what ifs.’”

Carrie smiled. “That’s a great start. Writing things down, speaking them aloud… it’s a way of grounding yourself, of staying connected to the present.”

As the session drew to a close, we returned to the topic of boundaries. Those pesky, pesky boundaries. This was something I’d struggled with, especially at work, where I’d always felt obligated to take on more than my fair share. And now, as I faced the prospect of leaving that job, I found myself wondering how much of my exhaustion was a result of my own inability to say no.

“Boundaries are okay,” Carrie reminded me. “It’s okay to protect your energy, to say ‘this is what I need, and I’m not willing to compromise that.’”

Somewhere along the way, as I recounted exactly what it was that I was really feeling, the tears began to fall. Normally, I wouldn’t care so much, but if you will recall from the opening paragraph, I still had group session to attend to.

“Okay, you still have a good 20 minutes before group. Why don’t you grab some water, get some air and then join when you’re ready?”

All I heard was, “girl, you’s a mess right now, go get it together and come back.”

As I walked out of her office with my head down and avoiding eye contact, knowing full well by now my nose was beet red, I wondered if the better plan wasn’t to make a hasty exit and try again the following week.