The Invisible Black Woman

It was that time again: time for IOP. Amber, our therapist for the session, welcomed everyone with her usual warmth and cheery disposition. She’s always given off “70s vibes”: peace, love, and Woodstock.

The first task was familiar: share a high and a low for the day. The room buzzed as people began to share their stories. Richard was the first to speak, his voice steady but slightly hesitant. “My high today was getting to sleep in, and my low? A job interview canceled on me.” His eyes darted around the room, searching for acknowledgment. “It’s like, every time I feel a little momentum, something slows it down. But, you know… I’m trying to stay positive.”

Amber nodded. “It sounds frustrating, but good for you for keeping the positivity.”

Next was a Macy. Her cadence was brisk, as though she’d rehearsed what to say. “My high is getting some stuff done around my apartment. It’s been super disorganized, but I’m chipping away. My low is… well, I haven’t heard back from my job yet about when I can return. I turned in everything, including my medical release, and they said it was fine, but… it’s been radio silence.” She paused, trying to sound nonchalant, but her fingers fidgeted with her water bottle.

Amber smiled gently. “It’s tough when you’re in limbo, but you’re doing all you can. Positive vibes coming your way.”

When it was my turn, I hesitated. Sharing felt heavy today. “Hi… today’s been a pretty low day for me. I’m trying to sort things out, but it feels like every step forward is met with ten steps back.” The words landed like an albatross in the room, and I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to catch them. But they were out now.

Amber offered her usual support. “Thank you for sharing. That sounds heavy, but I’m glad you’re here.”

A few more check-ins followed before Amber introduced the day’s activity: blackout poetry. She explained how it worked: we’d pick a song from a stack of lyric sheets, cross out words we didn’t want, and turn what remained into a poem.

The room’s energy shifted as songbooks were handed out. Some people dove in enthusiastically; others, like me, flipped through pages cautiously.

Richard, ever the joker, grinned as he scanned the pages. “I’m gonna pick the laziest song I can find,” he joked.

We all chuckled, his levity a welcome contrast to the seriousness of earlier discussions.

Amber passed around lyric books. I flipped through mine cautiously, not expecting anything to jump out. But then I saw it: “You Say” by Lauren Daigle. It wasn’t just a song; it was the song. A lifeline during some of my hardest moments. My fingers lingered on the page. Could I really work with this without falling apart?

The room settled into focused silence. Pens scratched on paper, markers squeaked as they blacked out lyrics, and occasional murmurs broke the stillness.

“Does anyone else feel like they’ve got too many words to work with?” Macy asked, looking up from her page.

Amber reassured her. “It’s all about what resonates with you. Don’t overthink it.”

I blocked out words slowly, deliberately. The process felt less like writing a poem and more like peeling back layers of myself. The refrain “I am loved, I am strong, I am held” stayed. The rest? Gone. What emerged wasn’t just a poem—it was a declaration.

As we neared the end of the session, Amber asked if anyone wanted to share. Silence hung heavy for a moment until Macy raised her hand.

“I chose ‘Feeling Good.’” She read aloud:

It’s a new dawn,
It’s a new day,
It’s a new life
For me.
And I’m feeling good.

The group murmured in approval, and Amber smiled. “That’s powerful. It sounds like a fresh start.”

Richard couldn’t resist sharing his “lazy” creation. “Okay, here goes:

I’m gonna stare at the face of the couch.
I’m not doing anything,
and I don’t plan to.

The room erupted in laughter, his irreverence a breath of fresh air.

Amber looked around the circle. “Anyone else wanna go?”

I hesitated, but something inside me pushed forward. “I can go,” I said, my voice steady but soft.

“Let’s go for it,” Amber encouraged.

I took a deep breath and began:

I keep fighting voices that say I’m not enough,
Every lie that tells me I will never measure up.
More than just a sum of every high and every low,
Remind me who I am—I need to know.
I am loved. I am strong. I am held. I am yours
And I believe. I believe what you say of me.
The only thing that matters is everything you think of me.
In you, I find my worth in you I find my identity.

The room broke out in snaps, the sound gentle but affirming.

Amber smiled. “How did you come to pick ‘You Say’?”

I shrugged, a small smile creeping onto my face. “Actually, when I opened the book, it was the first song I saw. And it’s one of my favorites, so I kind of took it as a sign.”

Amber nodded thoughtfully. “Would it still be ‘You Say,’ or would it be something else?”

I paused for a moment, then replied, “No, it would be called ‘I Am Enough.’ That’s what this feels like to me: I am enough.”

Amber’s smile deepened. “Thank you for sharing: ‘I Am Enough.’ Who else would like to share?”

As the session wrapped up, Amber asked for reflections on the activity.

“It’s harder than it looks,” Macy admitted. “But it helped to have a structure to work within. I don’t know—it felt freeing.”

Richard chimed in. “I liked how I could just mess around with it. No pressure, you know?”

I stayed quiet, letting their thoughts swirl with my own. Blackout poetry wasn’t just about crafting something new—it was about finding pieces of yourself in what remained.

As we wrapped up, Amber reminded us to bring any songs we wanted to add to the playlist to let her know. She smiled as we shuffled out for break, and I walked out feeling a little lighter, the weight of the day not entirely gone but shifted. In the words of my song-turned poem: I am enough. And for now, that was good enough for me.

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