The Invisible Black Woman

The processing part of IOP feels like walking into a room where everyone’s holding their heaviest baggage, unsure whether to unpack it or just sit on it and hope no one notices. The vibe is equal parts vulnerable and cautious, especially when new faces appear. Today was no different. The circle had that familiar buzz of nerves mixed with unspoken support, and the session opened with a loaded question from a person in group who was recently handed a pretty heavy diagnosis:

“How do I move forward with this diagnosis? How do I work with it?”

One of the members in group weighed in. “I think it’s important to remember we’re more than just a diagnosis. What I mean is, don’t let the diagnosis eat you. That probably came out weird.”

“No, it didn’t. In a lot of ways, it can feel like that. Like it consumes you, but it doesn’t have to.”

“Talk to your therapist about it. Google can give you the broad strokes, but your therapist can tell you how it actually applies to you.”

Nathan, our therapist for the session, looked around the room like a proud papa. “There’s a lot of wisdom in this room.”

He wasn’t wrong. These weren’t platitudes or canned responses—this was real, lived experience being shared in real time.

Something interesting begins happening right at about the halfway-ish point of your mandatory outpatient therapy: the group pulls you in. Maybe it’s the vulnerability, the honesty, or the fact that everyone is essentially a virtual stranger to each other. But ultimately, you can’t just sit back and observe forever. So when Nathan asked if anyone wanted to share, I decided to speak.

“This has been a good week in terms of some major decisions I’ve made about my life.”

For those keeping track at home, I decided I wasn’t going back to the hellhole masquerading as my job.

“But I’ll also be honest—being here has been intimidating. My problems feel so small compared to what a lot of you are dealing with. But I’ve learned so much listening to you all, finding commonalities in what I struggle with and what you’ve shared. It’s grounding. And I just want to say how much I appreciate everyone’s courage in sharing.”

The response was immediate, and it was like a warmth spread through the room.

“You’re awesome, too.”

“Your feelings are valid. Don’t downplay what you’re dealing with. It’s just as heavy and important.”

“Everyone’s struggles are different, but they all matter.”

It’s funny how hearing those words can simultaneously lift a weight off your shoulders and place a new responsibility on them. Yes, my feelings are valid, but that means I can’t use invisibility as a crutch anymore.

The conversation shifted to boundaries—how to navigate them and what to say when people ask questions you’re not ready to answer.

One group member, Keith, was nervous about going back to work after taking time off. “The younger guys are going to ask, ‘Where’ve you been?’ And I don’t want to tell them my business. But some of my friends will want more of an explanation.”

“You don’t owe anyone a detailed response,” Nathan said. “A simple, ‘I took some personal time’ is enough. If they push, just repeat it.”

I jumped in, eager to share one of my favorite strategies. I know, right? Me, eager? To share?

“When I injured my leg and had to wear a brace, people kept asking what happened. I’d deflect with a joke—‘You should see the other guy.’ Or, ‘I went bungee jumping.’ Everyone knew it was a joke, but it worked. It made it clear I didn’t want to talk about it without making them feel uncomfortable for asking.”

The room erupted in laughter. Someone quipped, “You could say you were underwater basket weaving.” Another added, “But then they’ll ask for a demonstration!”

The jokes kept flowing, and for a moment, the heaviness of the room lifted. It was a reminder that even in the midst of processing our pain, there’s room for humor—a kind of collective exhale.

As the session progressed, Nathan brought us back to a central theme: the importance of sharing. “Don’t be afraid to share and take up space,” he said.

One group member rephrased it: “Be brave and take up space.”

Those words hung in the air, and I felt them settle somewhere deep in my chest.

It’s not easy to take up space, especially when the world has conditioned you to shrink yourself. But in that room, surrounded by people who understood the weight of that challenge, it felt a little less daunting.

The session ended with a discussion on coping skills. Someone asked how to deal with fear—the kind that feels all-consuming.

“Sometimes it’s about exposing yourself to your triggers gradually,” a group member suggested. “It’s like building tolerance. The more you face it, the less power it has over you.”

Another added, “For me, it’s been about recognizing what’s me and what’s my symptoms. That clarity helps me figure out how to move forward.”

It reminded me of something Nathan said earlier: “Processing is about more than just the individual. The work you do here—the courage you show—ripples outward. It impacts everyone you interact with, and it can even change generational patterns.”

That hit me hard. The idea that this messy, uncomfortable work isn’t just for me—that it has the potential to create something better for the people I love—felt like both a burden and a gift.

As the session wrapped up, I found myself reflecting on what I’d learned, not just today but throughout my time in this group. Processing isn’t just about talking—it’s about listening, connecting, and finding the courage to take up space, even when it feels impossible.

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