The Invisible Black Woman

It’s the day after the holiday and we’re back at it again: in IOP, that is. No rest for the weary, I suppose. I got here early today, hoping to snag my favorite spot—a single-person couch off in the corner. It’s a small thing, but that corner feels like a shield, a place where I can lean into the silence without the constant awareness of who’s watching, who’s coming, and who might be listening. It’s the closest thing to home in this shared space. But someone beat me to it. Somehow, they’d “claimed” it by wedging a notebook into one of the cushions—a simple notebook, just lying there like a silent placeholder, staking a claim. Rats.

I was so sure I had that seat locked down, like it was an unspoken rule. You know, like in homeroom, where after a few weeks of sitting in the same spot, everyone just knows it’s your spot? Apparently, there’s a whole etiquette to unofficially claiming a seat in a shared space, but I seem to have missed the memo. So today, instead of curling up in my usual spot, I ended up somewhere else, which honestly feels like a metaphor for everything I’m navigating right now—arriving early, thinking I’m prepared, only to find that life’s already set something down in my place.

There’s a certain rhythm to group. People trickle in, taking their seats, each carrying their own stories, invisible but palpable, like shadows stretching across the floor. Some faces are familiar; others are new, testing the waters, guarded but hopeful. We don’t need to know each other’s histories to feel the weight they bring. It’s in the way people settle into their chairs, in the quiet sighs and tentative glances exchanged across the room. Each of us here for different reasons, but bound by a shared need to unload, to be heard, even if just for a few hours.

The air is thick with unsaid things, with memories we’re all trying to either shake off or make sense of. There’s a comfort in the routine of it all—in the predictable start, the familiar voices that ask open-ended questions, nudging us just enough to speak up but never to overshare.

First up, music therapy. The ask was simple yet layered: find a song that resonates with us, one that reflects where we are or where we’ve been. As the music plays, we’re meant to write a letter to ourselves—something honest, unfiltered.

Our therapist sets the scene, doing her best with Wi-Fi issues and tech hiccups. “If you’d like, listen to the songs and discuss whatever you’d like. No pressure—just the song is fine.” She fiddles with another phone, hoping to get things sorted out.

After a few quiet moments, she asks if anyone’s ready to share. I feel my own story tugging at me, so I decide to go first.

“I’ll share the song,” I say, breaking the silence. “‘I Will Survive’ by Gloria Gaynor.”

A few people chuckle, some in solidarity, and some because who doesn’t know that quintessential anthem? The therapist gives an encouraging nod, intrigued.

“It’s not dedicated to a person.”

“Oh?”

“It’s for my job.”

There’s a hum of understanding in the room, a ripple of shared knowing. In the corporate world, survival is its own skill. That song isn’t just about bouncing back from heartbreak—it’s about facing down all the small, daily battles that try to chip away at you. It’s about standing firm in a place that feels determined to challenge or even erode your sense of self. This song choice is my declaration, my war cry. It’s a reminder of my own grit, and the strange armor I’ve had to build to withstand the workplace.

She gives me a knowing smile. “I noticed you started reading your letter during the song. Was it fitting?”

“Yeah,” I say, a bit wistfully. “Most of all, I wish I had a time machine.”

“Do you think having a time machine would change everything—the good things, too?” she asks gently.

“Probably. But not enough not to wish for one.”

There was a soft chuckle through the room as I said this.

As I sit back, I feel the weight of it all settle in—the seemingly endless cycles of resilience demanded of me, just to exist in the workplace. And yet, there’s a tension between the progress I’ve made and the longing for a different path, one not so worn down by microaggressions, quiet betrayals, and the silent but constant pressure to prove I belong.

And there’s the job that makes survival feel like an everyday battle. I think of the unending resilience required of me in corporate spaces, the relentless balancing act between staying true to myself and conforming to the expectations around me. This session reminds me that while survival is necessary, I deserve to thrive, too. I deserve spaces that embrace all of me, without demanding pieces of my soul in return.

The silence that follows feels like shared breathing, like each of us is letting our own histories settle. We’re all here to survive something: the demands of life, of work, or simply our own expectations. Writing to myself felt like pulling a thread of honesty through all of it. In my letter, I let myself speak the things I can’t always say aloud—my hopes, my regrets, my strength to keep going despite it all. In this group, we each carry our own letters, our own songs. And for a moment, we’re not just surviving—we’re understood…

Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the phenomenally amazing creature you are.