I was in my twenties when I began my career as a child trauma psychotherapist on the south side of Chicago, right around the corner from the neighborhood where I grew up. As a young therapist at an outpatient psychotherapy practice, I was excited and thrilled to work in my community with a majority of my clients being Black children and families.
As a Black therapist, it was easier for me to empathize with them; in the process, I learned a lot about the prevalence of abuse, neglect and complex trauma within our community. I focused on acknowledging and processing the daily effects of trauma through narrative frameworks. The relationships and connections that I made fueled me through the heavy, difficult, yet rewarding days.
My job was not easy. I was one of the only Black therapists on the team and the majority of my colleagues were white. I entered this role excited for connection and the opportunity to create change. The more I learned, the more I experienced the effects of microaggressions and systemic racism within the foster care and mental health system. No matter how hard I pushed to create change, I seemed to find myself in a cycle where the families I worked with were being re-traumatized by systems that were designed to keep them under-resourced and in a state of chronic stress and trauma.
I would question these systems and the negative patterns that so many of our children and families seemed to be in, but many of my colleagues would simply shrug and state that there was nothing more to be done. Some of my colleagues spoke about leaving the work at work and driving home where they could separate their personal experience from their professional experiences. They even told me, “I could never do this job if I was working with the kids and families who live in my community.” I was proud to be doing important work in my community, and yet I felt as if I was not making a visible impact. Eventually, this disconnect led to vicarious trauma and burnout. I needed a break.
This led me to work within the independent school system. In 2016, I accepted a position as an early childhood counselor, working with a diverse group of children from nursery school through second grade. The young kids I work with call me their “feelings teacher.” I teach them about emotional identification, emotional regulation and identity formation. I begin each lesson with deep breathing techniques, teaching them how to pause and asking them to smell the flower and blow out the candle.
When I began this new role, I told myself that I deserved a break from the trauma of working within foster care and mental health systems where I felt ineffective and complicit in the cycle of harmful care. Often, I would make progress with a client and then they would need to move to another foster home or experience another trauma. The therapeutic work I did seemed to have no end. I understood that trauma psychotherapy was the foundation of my education and professional experience, but I went into this new role excited for a new opportunity to create change.
A Turn of Events
Coming into a predominantly white institution (PWI) as a Black woman is no easy feat. I was consistently called the wrong name, interrupted during meetings and my expertise was routinely questioned. Despite these micro and macro aggressions, I was able to make connections and build authentic relationships that allowed me to feel comfortable in my role. Eventually, I was in a position where I was able to effect change and create opportunities for myself and others to feel seen, heard and more appropriately valued.
Just as I was beginning to get settled into this new role of leadership, COVID-19 arrived in the spring of 2020 and completely changed the way we functioned as educators. When schools shut down, we shifted our work to online platforms and many of my colleagues were forced to develop new skills in working with computers and technology. One of my administrators looked at me solemnly and said, “School is going to look so different from what we know.” It all happened quickly, and we were unable to make time to pause and process.
Later that fall, many school systems remained remote, but as I was working with the youngest learners, my colleagues and I were required to come back to work in person. This was a stressful transition as we separated desks and split classrooms between two rooms. Teachers feared for their own safety and that of their families as they risked exposure on a daily basis and juggled evening Zoom sessions that were designed to calm classroom caregivers when a student tested positive for COVID-19. I was terrified as I thought about the possibility of bringing COVID-19 back to my mother and young son. I thought about the statistics that showed Black and Brown populations being disproportionately affected by COVID-19, “resulting in higher morbidity and mortality rates compared to other racial and ethnic groups.”
During this time, COVID was not my only worry. News channels outlined numerous instances of Black and Brown lives being unjustly taken, social unrest and relevant protests. Once again, I began each day with fear — fear for my well-being and fear for the life of my young Black son. I was afraid to discuss what was happening with my students, but I was more afraid of what would happen if I completely ignored my lived experience and that of so many others like me.
Black families were experiencing multiple traumas, both COVID and police violence simultaneously, which called for addressing this experience and combating fears through affirmation. So, I used my voice to create change. I read books affirming Blackness and spoke to kids, teachers and families about what was happening in our daily lives and their roles in speaking up.
I found myself in an impossible position: I was being asked to support and take care of my students, teachers and administrators while I was in a state of intense stress. As a Black woman, I feared for my life, and for that of my family. Yet, I still showed up to work every day and put myself at risk. I was dealing with my own trauma while needing to help others through their own at the same time. As was the case early in my career when I was working on the southside of Chicago, I felt a commitment to create change during COVID, because it was an opportunity for me to make positive movement forward, even if it was small.
In my school, I am able to sit with my teachers and take time to remember the ways in which we existed when we were in the middle of the pandemic. During team meetings, we are able to empathize with one another and understand that we are not alone in our experience. We discuss being isolated from those we cared about and things we do today that are still directly connected to our pandemic experiences. We acknowledge that educators have always carried a heavy load and that COVID has made that load almost unbearable. Sometimes, we talk over a cup of herbal tea and discuss tools that might help with stress management.
Having these conversations allows us to be vulnerable and creates opportunities for us to connect in a real and meaningful way. This allows us to be more present and emotionally available for our children.
Taking Care of Business
Earlier in my career, I was young and holistically and selflessly committed to the care and well-being of the children and families that I worked with. I cared so much about meeting their needs that I did not focus on my self-care, and I ultimately experienced burnout as a result. Now that I am more experienced, I have a clearer understanding of what self-care should look like and I am able to focus on identifying and exploring my feelings in times of crisis, understand the ways that my identity and lived experience shape my worldview, and center the importance of building a community that affirms and uplifts my voice and identity. Perhaps, I would have lasted longer in my early career if I had been able to do this sooner.
I realized the foundational importance of taking care of yourself before you can help others. If we can do this, we will be more present, grounded and available to the impressionable young minds for whom we are responsible. The same goes for identity formation; if we as educators can understand and recognize our identity and lived experience, then our students will be able to do this as well.
It was imperative for me to acknowledge my experience as a Black woman to work as a school counselor. This centers who I am, how I experience the world and what I do, no matter what the work might be. Accepting the role of identity in my work allows me to continue building the relationships and connections that I have always valued and prepares me for the heavy, difficult, yet rewarding days ahead.
