The Invisible Black Woman

Let me set the scene for you. We’re in the final session of the day at IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program). The energy? That perfect mix of end-of-day restlessness and camaraderie. The task? A game of “I don’t remember what it was called,” but it’s Jenga with a therapy twist. Each block pulled invites us to dive into questions that are as lighthearted as they are revealing. It’s like a team-building exercise, but instead of just figuring out who hates PowerPoints the most, you’re finding out who would rather have salad over pizza as their one meal forever. There are heavy questions, too, but having played this game before, I now the group does a good job of steering clear. Honestly, it’s the perfect way to end group.

Our game host walks through the premise of the game for any newcomers. It’s basically Jenga, but with a slew of prompts. Icebreaker questions, mindfulness reflections, and peer-written nuggets of wisdom stack the deck. Some prompts, we’re warned, might seem juvenile—thanks to “the kids upstairs” who’ve played before us—but the heart behind each one is universal. To this day I have no idea who “the kids upstairs” are.

We begin. Our host kicks it off with a question that feels plucked straight out of an existential comedy sketch: “Would you rather have the hands of a baby or the neck of a giraffe for the rest of your life?”

Without hesitation, the first participant up says “Neck of a giraffe.” The room erupts in laughter.

“Why?” asks our host.

“I could take my show on the road and make money, plus I’d always have the best view in the house.”

Already, the game is doing its job—melting tension and inviting us to just be. Laughter fills the room, and for a moment, the heaviness of why we’re all here takes a backseat.

Now it’s Giraffe Neck’s turn to pull a block and find their victim. They’re looking right at me, which I’m fine with. I’m not one to shy away from participating—well, not anymore. At first, I wasn’t sure if I’d even stick around after that first week. I mean, who walks into a room full of strangers and immediately wants to talk about feelings?

Lots of people, actually.

That said, as we’ve built trust, or at least what I’d call an understanding, I’ve developed a level of comfort with my group mates.

So, they ask the question: “How can you be kind to yourself by putting your interests first?”

Gross.

In that split second, I think back to how often I’ve put everyone else’s needs before my own. While I’m thinking that, someone opines that they think, “that’s a good one.”

Instinctually and before I can even retract the words, I retort, “I’m glad everyone else likes it.”

I was doing so, so well.

The host can see I need a lifeline and they lob it to me. “You want something lighter? You don’t have to answer if you prefer not to.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass.”

I wasn’t at all ready to process my feelings in what was meant to be a somewhat lighthearted activity. Nope!

The alternate question was right up my alley: “if you could make up a word, what would it be?”

That was an easy question and one reserved for those I hold in the utmost, highest disregard. It wasn’t at all a PG term, but it would have made my sister beam with pride since she introduced me to it.

And just that quickly, the room went from slightly awkward to erupting into laughter. My tried and true, laugh to keep from crying struck again.

As we went around the room, each turn revealed something new. One question invited someone to describe their dream birthday party: a trip to Japan’s Harajuku district, surrounded by friends and fashion. Another dared someone to pick the best thing with no legs (the humble slug) and four legs (a hedgehog).

The game dances between lighthearted and profound. Someone shares how they’ve helped others by praying the rosary every night, while another reflects on the life lessons they wish they’d known a decade ago—better health habits, more patience, less Monster energy drinks. Every answer adds a layer of humanity to the tower we’re building together.

At one point, the blocks teeter dangerously, and everyone holds their breath. It’s a metaphor, isn’t it? The fragility of it all. The room bursts into cheers when the tower stands.

The questions keep coming. Someone admits they’d rather sneeze for five minutes than hiccup, and we collectively shudder at the idea of a week-long hiccup marathon. When someone asks, “If you could combine two animals into one, what would it be?” the answer is both terrifying and fantastic: a grizzly bear and an eagle. A regal beagle, but the terrifying kind? In my humble opinion, that should exist nowhere, not even in nightmares.

What strikes me most is how safe it feels to share in this space. Vulnerability isn’t easy, especially when you’ve been conditioned to hold it all together. Yet here, among strangers turned confidants, we speak freely. We laugh at the absurd. We lean into the serious. And we remind each other that no struggle is too small, no triumph too trivial.

As the game winds down, I reflect on the power of these moments. Therapy isn’t always about breakthroughs or profound realizations. Sometimes, it’s about playing a game, pulling a block, and answering a question that makes you laugh or think—or both.

I’m not yet at all ready to confront that earlier moment. In fact, I make a mental note to file it away for a day far, far, far away…

When the tower finally collapses, it’s met with applause. Our host hands out candy—a sweet reward “for the courage it takes to show up, day after day,” he says. As we pack up to leave, there’s a lightness in the air that wasn’t there when we started.

This session wasn’t about solving all our problems. Or in my case, if anyone is keeping track, any whatsoever based on my earlier reaction. It wasn’t about deep analysis or heavy processing. It was about connection. About finding joy and meaning in the small things. About remembering to laugh, even in the midst of it all…

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