The Invisible Black Woman

After my big dramatic reveal to myself that I had no intention of returning to work, it was time to return to IOP. It was the second IOP session of the new year, and I must admit, it wasn’t what I expected. Picture this: a room full of adults handed cups, plates, tape, paper, and a handful of other random materials, tasked with building a structure that was stable, creative, and (ideally) tall. On the surface, it seemed like an exercise better suited for a third-grade classroom than a therapeutic setting. But, as with many things in life, what started as a simple activity quickly unfolded into a deeper lesson about collaboration, and embracing the unexpected.

When I arrived and headed to our usual meeting spot, I saw a sign on the door: “Meeting next door.” Hmmm. My curiosity was piqued. When I walked in, I saw folks sitting across a number of smaller tables in the room. Carrie, who was leading the session, directed me to find a table to join. Instinctually I cringed. The tables were much smaller and held at max four individuals. That could only mean one thing: talking and teams. I did my best to sigh internally. Despite my misgivings, everyone seemed excited. I myself was curious about the items that were in the center of each table: four plastic cups, four paper plates, a small roll of tape, several sheets of construction paper, pipe cleaners and other items I cannot quite recall at the moment.

Armed with our instructions to create a structure that was sound but also tall—tallest one would win the game—we got to work. The structures that made it through the first round would advance to the second round of the contest where Carrie would fan our structure to see how it would hold. Our group dove headfirst into planning, sketching out ideas, debating the merits of one approach over another. Should we use the cups as a base? What about the plates? Could we roll the paper into cylinders for added stability?

Some of us leaned into our inner architects, drawing elaborate designs. Others immediately got hands-on, trying to test stability by taping things together before we even had a solid plan. What struck me most was the sheer variety of approaches. No two people thought the same way, and yet somehow, we all managed to rally around a shared goal.

As the clock ticked down, our structure took shape… and then fell apart. Again and again. More tape, more adjustments, more falling apart. If you’ve ever been part of a group project, you already know the kind of energy this creates: a mix of frustration, laughter, and frantic problem-solving.

One of our team members joked, “This is a representation of capitalism under pressure.” And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Each attempt to reinforce our structure felt like a metaphor for the constant balancing act of life—trying to hold everything together with whatever resources you have, knowing full well that the smallest gust of wind could knock it all over.

Yet every time our structure fell, we rebuilt it. Every single time. It wasn’t perfect, but it stood long enough for us to keep going, to tweak our approach, to find a better way. I think, despite my general aversion to the word, that is what resilience is all about. Not about never falling, but about getting back up, dusting yourself off, and trying again—sometimes with a little more tape.

There’s something magical about watching a group of people come together to solve a problem. Sure, there were moments of chaos and miscommunication. Someone would suggest an idea, only to have it overridden by another. We’d agree on a plan, only for someone to suddenly shout, “Wait! What if we try this instead?”

But through it all, there was an undercurrent of respect. No idea was dismissed outright. No person was sidelined. Even when things got tense, we laughed. Even when the clock ran out, we clapped for what we’d accomplished.

And that what stuck with me: the quiet strength of teamwork. The realization that even in the messiest, most imperfect collaborations, there’s beauty. There’s growth. There’s hope. If only my job could be like that most days. Maybe I wouldn’t have to make the decision to walk away permanently.

I’ll be honest: I went into this session skeptical. I didn’t see how an arts-and-crafts exercise could possibly tie into the bigger work of emotional and mental health. But as I looked at our finished structure—leaning slightly to the left, decorated with bits of tape and random doodles—I realized how much the process mirrored life itself.

Life is messy. It doesn’t come with instructions. Sometimes you’re handed materials that don’t seem to make sense, and you have to figure out how to make them work. Sometimes the people you’re working with bring perspectives you don’t understand, but if you lean into the discomfort, you might just discover something beautiful.

Most importantly, sometimes things fall apart. And that’s okay. Because every time they do, you get another chance to build something better, even if you have to build it somewhere else.

As I left the room to take our break, I admit I felt lighter. Recharged. Inspired even. Not because our tower was the tallest or the most stable. Fun fact: my group’s structure was one of the first to fall; we flew much much too close to the sun and focused on height rather than overall stability. I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere. But to the point at hand, I was inspired by what this whole exercise represented.

In the end, it was about connection. About bouncing forward—I think that’s how the therapist couched resilience the last time. About finding joy in the process, even when things don’t go according to plan.

And isn’t that the ultimate goal? To keep building, keep growing, and keep showing up—even when the pieces don’t seem to fit, even when the structure falls apart, even when the wind blows a little too hard. Because the real victory isn’t in never falling. It’s in the courage to keep building, no matter what. Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the terrific you are.