Healing Words: Resilience Rooted in Community and Solitude
There was a moment in 2022 when I thought I wouldn’t make it. Depression pinned me to my bed—my body ached, my soul was depleted, and the world felt impossibly large and unforgiving. My only tether to reality was driving my daughter, Charlie, to daycare. Beyond that, I was immobilized, shattered into so many pieces that putting myself back together felt impossible.
Each daycare drop-off felt like I was scaling a mountain, every step weighted with exhaustion. But even in the fog of those hills, somewhere between the pain and the endless fatigue, a spark began to flicker within me.
Books became my lifeline, their pages grounding me in resilience and offering a mirror to truths I had long ignored. The works of Audre Lorde, James Baldwin, and bell hooks were like salve to my wounds, reminding me my struggles weren’t isolated but part of a larger story. Their words didn’t just comfort me; they cracked me wide open.
And with that breaking came clarity.
I began to understand the weight I was carrying—not just personal grief, but the sharp edges of systemic racism, the gaslighting that eroded my sense of self, and the relentless burden of being a Black woman in a world that rarely allows us to breathe freely.
This wasn’t just exhaustion; it was the weight of inherited trauma, layered with daily micro-aggressions that chip away at your spirit.
That clarity was both a gift and a burden.
It was overwhelming to see everything so clearly. The tears and tremors came in waves, unearthing years of grief, anger, and pain I had suppressed. And yet, in those emotions, I found an unexpected liberation. It was the beginning of healing—not a neat, linear process, but a messy, winding journey with no clear destination.
Fast forward three years: I’m not broken anymore. I can say that with honesty and conviction.
But am I tired? Exhausted? Absolutely!
(I’m the mother of a 4 year-old! Lol.)
The Practice of Resilience
The difference now is: Awareness.
What I once mistook for survival was actually resilience—a deliberate act of finding strength amid chaos.
Resilience has always been there, anchoring me. It showed up as I rebuilt my life after family abandonment, enduring toxic relationships, navigating loss, and battling postpartum depression. Even in my darkest moments, I made choices—whether consciously or not—to keep going, to seek light in the darkness.
Now, on the other side of healing, resilience is no longer an instinct I unknowingly rely on; it’s a practice I intentionally nurture. It’s about shifting from reactive to deliberate, from fight-or-flight to clarity and purpose.
This shift in understanding has changed everything.
I no longer deny the storm. I navigate it.
Resilience is now my superpower, allowing me to bend my branches toward possibility and uncover beauty in the process of becoming. It leads me to a life built on intention, where I can thrive rather than just survive.
The Power of Community
Interestingly enough, as I nurtured my inner resilience, I began to see how it was fortified through connection.
Resilience isn’t built in isolation; it flourishes in the embrace of community.
Over the years, I’ve co-created or been accepted into spaces where Women, most often Black Women—and yes, sometimes men—can gather, breathe, and simply be. These gatherings, often informal but deeply intentional, are spaces of liberation. They’re places where we can shed the masks we wear in the outside world and be fully seen by others who understand the weight we carry.
In these circles, we laugh, cry, and share stories over food and wine. We speak truths we’re often forced to swallow in professional spaces or around those who don’t share our experiences.
These aren’t just conversations; they’re acts of collective healing. When one of us speaks their pain aloud, it’s met with nods of recognition, with me too. That simple act of validation is transformative. It reminds us that our struggles aren’t isolated, that the burdens we carry are often systemic and not reflections of personal failure.
My extended community and ‘chosen’ family have been my sanctuary, where I’ve drawn strength in my weakest moments. It’s where I’ve seen resilience in action—not as a solitary endeavor, but as a shared, reciprocal practice.
We lift each other up, not out of obligation, but because we understand the transformative power of being lifted. In these sacred spaces, we’re reminded that we don’t have to carry the weight alone.
These gatherings don’t follow any formal ritual, but they offer something rare: safety, belonging, and the radical affirmation of our humanity. They are where we replenish our strength, face the world again, and remember that no matter how heavy the load, we’re not carrying it alone.
The Case for Solitude and Self-Reflection
But even in the safety of community, some burdens require solitude to unravel.
In those moments, I’ve turned to books for sanctuary. They’ve surrounded me like old friends, offering solace and lending words to truths I hadn’t yet found—and they continue to do so.
Recently, I read All the White Friends I Couldn’t Keep, by Andre Henry, and it reignited that familiar spark of connection. The author articulated experiences I’ve carried but rarely had the words to express. His framing of Black rage as valid and necessary struck a chord I hadn’t fully acknowledged. That rage, he argued, is more than a reaction—it’s a sign of hope, a visceral reminder that we’re still alive, still fighting, still daring to believe in change. Those words landed with the weight of truth, affirming emotions I’d long been told to suppress.
What struck me most was the author’s reflections on the exhaustion of explaining racial realities to people who should have understood, on the slow unraveling of friendships that couldn’t withstand the truth of my lived experience. I saw myself in his frustration, in his heartbreak, and in his decision to prioritize self-preservation over maintaining connections that no longer served them. I felt the sting of those moments again—the ones where I questioned whether I was asking too much or simply asking for what I deserved.
He also spoke about the power of reclaiming space, of setting boundaries and refusing to shrink for the comfort of others. In his words, I felt a deep affirmation of the choices I’ve made—to walk away from friendships that drained me, to honor my anger as a form of self-respect, and to protect my joy as an act of defiance.
This book didn’t just offer validation; it gave me language for emotions I had buried and permission to hold space for my own complexity. It reminded me that my story, though deeply personal, is part of a larger, shared experience. Through Henry’s reflections, I felt connected—not just to their journey, but to a network of writers and thinkers who, like me, are navigating the complexities of identity, anger, and hope.
Resilience is deeply communal, woven through shared stories that remind us our strength is one thread in a vast tapestry.
Solitude gave me the quiet I needed to self-reflect, but the experience felt communal—a bridge between my private reflections and the shared wisdom of others navigating similar challenges. It affirmed that resilience is cultivated in stillness but ultimately thrives through connection.
A Life Rooted in Resilience
If you take away only one thing from my Garden of Thoughts, let it be this:
Resilience isn’t the absence of struggle—it’s the quiet resolve to rise, evolve, and transform brokenness into beauty. Through community, solitude, and storytelling, I’ve learned that resilience is a bridge—connecting pain to healing, despair to hope, and isolation to belonging.
My journey hasn’t been linear, and the struggles of every day life haven’t disappeared. But I now live with intent, finding joy in the midst of chaos, and reclaiming the parts of myself that once felt lost. Whether through the unwavering love I pour into motherhood, the collective strength I draw from community, or the truths I uncover in solitude, resilience remains my guide.
By sharing my journey, my hope is that you’ll find strength in your own story, too. That you’ll see resilience not as a destination, but as a practice—a daily commitment to growth, healing, and possibility.
Because even in our darkest moments, there is light to be found, and the journey toward it is where we grow.