My therapist is Black.
She wears headwraps during our sessions with bright colors and beautiful patterns. Her locs, her fro, her braids, her sew-in, her shaved head is familial.... and radiant... and I appreciate her variety.
My Therapist is Black.
Her skin resembles my own... she is melanated in how she exists in the world, how she shows up in her role, how she navigates with me through trauma, and how she holds space for me to be unapologetic in my healing and being.
My therapist is Black.
He understands when I use certain terms and what I mean when I say "Ion like dat".
He gets it when I talk about the aches and strains within my family dynamic and how it reverberates in so many other Black homes and families until it becomes culture that we are trying to heal through.
My therapist is Black.
They do not judge.
They has empathy without blurring the lines... she feels like home-girl, friend, Brotha, Auntie, sistah...
My therapist is Black.
She wants me to win. She wants me to do more than survive what I have been through.
My therapist is Black... and her therapist is Black...
And we continue to create chains of Black healing that are necessary.
My therapist is Black... and I am a Black therapist.
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