I remember sitting in the hospital bed immediately after my diagnosis, completely devastated, wondering what in the world I was going to do. The entire left side of my body had gone numb and walking without assistance had become unreliable. I had three children, two of whom were underage and one who was of age but still financially dependent on me. I had no idea how I was going to take care of them if my limitations kept me from working. But in the midst of that fear was a quiet resolve to figur

Each time I cut my locs, I watched my hair grow back up and out the way natural black hair does, and each time I felt that same pull to tame it. I told myself both times that relocking was an act of pride. And part of that was true.

She had been dealing with mobility issues for months and struggling to see her cane as anything other than an assault on her independence. I validated her feelings and thought to myself how much I could relate to her inner turmoil. I initially tried to help by suggesting an exercise in perspective taking, and when she pushed back at every reframe I offered, I stopped reaching for clinical language and chose, instead, to transparent about my own health challenges.