The Invisible Black Woman

Another day, another therapy session. As I entered Carrie’s office, there was the familiar feeling of trying to unpack and organize my thoughts in the limited time I had. I found a comfortable chair and settled in, knowing today’s session would be a little different.

With no formal treatment plan on the agenda, Carrie and I had space to simply talk. She started with the basics, asking how I was doing after last week. And honestly, today was one of the better days. I shared how the past few days had been a rollercoaster, but today felt more hopeful.

“I’m taking it one day at a time,” I said, feeling that familiar tension lift just a bit. “Yesterday wasn’t terrible, and today I feel more… intentional. I’ve noticed how much gloomy, cloudy weather affects my mood. As silly as it might sound, I’m definitely solar-powered. The sun just gives me energy, and when it’s not around, I feel myself wilting like a neglected plant.”

She nodded, listening intently.

“I realized that yesterday, when we were talking about the rain in group, I was already mentally prepared for it to affect my mood. So today, I got in front of it. I knew the weather might drag me down, so I decided to throw myself into writing to keep my spirits up. I lost myself in it, in the best way possible, and by the time I was done, I felt… recharged.”

Writing has always been my sanctuary. I was able to lay out plans for my next two writing projects, an accomplishment that left me feeling proud and whole. “It was a good day. I didn’t have any obligations. No one was looking for me, and my husband was still asleep. I had the place to myself, and I wrote from morning until it was time to come here.”

Carrie beamed, impressed. “You didn’t just let the day happen to you; you decided to shape it.”

I smiled back, feeling a hint of pride. “Exactly. I was determined not to be a thermometer, measuring the day’s temperature. I was going to be a thermostat, setting it myself.”

“That’s a strength,” she remarked.

I shared how it felt like a “happy accident”—a gloomy day that turned sunny, symbolizing the elevation of my mood. There was something poetic about it, something that resonated with my soul. Writing, after all, has always been my refuge. It’s where I can escape, create, and find peace. On the page, I’m invincible.

“And I’m realizing,” I continued, “the only bad writing day is the one where I don’t write at all. I’m always working on multiple projects, so if one isn’t flowing, I just switch gears. Writing for me isn’t just about the output; it’s how I heal, how I process the world. It’s an exercise for my soul.”

Carrie’s response made me think. “Writing is a way of sharing who you are with the world. So, who are you?”

I took a deep breath. “Complicated. I’m complicated. I’ve known that for a while. Sometimes I’ll get really excited about something and start sharing it, only to get that glazed look from the person I’m talking to. You know, that look that says I lost them somewhere along the way. But I don’t let it discourage me. It’s taken time, but I’m starting to feel secure in who I am.”

I explained how I’m sure of my abilities, of what I bring to the table outside of work. At work, things are murkier. There’s a disconnect between the version of myself that thrives creatively and the version that has to navigate the expectations of a corporate setting. “I know I need a paycheck, but outside of that, I see myself as unstoppable.”

Carrie listened with understanding, giving me space to explore my thoughts. The disconnect at work felt more manageable when I acknowledged that I’m a work in progress. “There are parts of me that are well-baked, and others that are still baking. Some of it’s at different temperatures. It’s… a lot.”

Carrie encouraged me to reflect on what it means to affirm myself and give myself the love and validation I crave. We talked about how I’ve started being more open with hubby, letting him see the parts of me that worry and struggle. It was freeing to tell him that I worry too, that sometimes I need him to step in and hold space for me.

“He responded in such an understanding way,” I said. “He told me he was sorry I felt like I had to carry it alone and reminded me that we’re supposed to lean on each other.”

The relief I felt was indescribable. I realized vulnerability is what opens doors to deeper intimacy. I had unlocked a new level in our relationship simply by being honest about my struggles.

Carrie chimed in, “Vulnerability creates spaces where people feel safe and heard. It’s powerful.”

Our conversation drifted to Christmas, where my husband and I had felt a bit “meh” about celebrating. We ended up watching Candy Cane Lane, a feel-good movie that gave us some much-needed laughter. “It’s funny,” I said, “sharing something light-hearted with him felt like sharing a piece of who I am.”

Carrie was thrilled to hear about the little victories. We laughed over the idea of putting the therapy tools I’ve been learning into practice—how things are slowly starting to click. “But I wish there was a similar formula for work,” I joked, half-seriously.

“Unfortunately, not everyone at work is on the same journey,” Carrie replied. “And some people might not even be on the same planet.”

I laughed, but it was true. The perspective I gained in group therapy helped me see that. Listening to others share their struggles was grounding. “I feel like I was given a dose of reality. Some people are dealing with things I can’t even imagine. It didn’t make my problems feel small; it just gave me perspective.”

She encouraged me to hold onto that perspective, to keep reminding myself that I’ve come a long way and that there’s power in the journey I’m on. The sun was shining outside, and I couldn’t help but feel like it was shining inside, too.

Then Carrie hit me with a question that lingered: “How can IOP continue to help you on this journey?”

It was something I’d been thinking about. I was heading into my fourth week, and typically, people stay in the program for four to six weeks. Did I need more time? Was I ready to step away? I admitted I wasn’t sure. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to rush the process or let school obligations make me feel pressured to check a box.

She gave me time to reflect, assuring me it was okay to take it one step at a time.

As the session ended, Carrie reminded me, “The journey isn’t about perfection; it’s about progress. And you’re doing an incredible job at staying open to that.”

We wrapped up with a shared laugh over something as simple as a lunch bag—a small, silly moment that reminded me of the joy in the mundane. I left the session feeling lighter, with a renewed sense of purpose. These small steps, the little shifts in perspective, were adding up. I was learning to embrace every part of my journey, complicated as it might be.

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