I was in my early twenties when I began my career as a childhood trauma psychotherapist on the South Side of Chicago, just around the corner from the neighborhood where I grew up. As a young therapist in an outpatient psychotherapy practice, I was excited and thrilled to be working in my community, where the majority of my clients were Black children and families.
As a Black therapist, I found it easier 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 recognizing and processing the daily effects of trauma through narrative frames. The relationships and connections I made propelled me through the heavy, difficult, but rewarding days.
My job was not easy. I was one of the only Black therapists on the team, and most of my colleagues were white. I came into this role excited by the 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 tried 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 without resources and in a state of chronic stress and trauma.
I questioned these systems and the negative patterns that many of our children and families seemed to be in, but many of my colleagues would just shrug and say there was nothing else to do. Some of my colleagues would talk about leaving 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 children and families who live in my community.” I was proud to be doing important work in my community, and yet I felt like I wasn’t making a visible impact. Ultimately, this disconnect led me to Vicarious trauma and burnoutI 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 kindergarten through second grade. The young children 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 started this new position, I told myself that I deserved a break from the trauma of working in foster care and mental health systems, where I felt ineffective and complicit in the cycle of harmful care. I would often make progress with a client and then need to move to another foster home or experience another trauma. The therapeutic work I was doing seemed to never end. I understood that psychotherapy for trauma was the foundation of my education and professional experience, but I came into this new position excited by a new opportunity to create change.
A turn of events
Entering a predominantly white institution (PWI) as a Black woman is no easy task. I was consistently called by the wrong name, interrupted during meetings, and had my experience consistently 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. Ultimately, I found myself in a position where I could create change and create opportunities for myself and others to feel more appropriately seen, heard, and valued.
Just as I was beginning to adjust to this new leadership role, COVID-19 hit in the spring of 2020 and completely changed the way we functioned as educators. When schools closed, we moved our work to online platforms and many of my colleagues were forced to develop new skills to work with computers and technology. One of my administrators looked at me solemnly and said, “School is going to look very different than what we know.” Everything happened so quickly that we were unable to pause and process the situation.
Later that fall, many school systems continued to operate remotely, but because I was working with the youngest learners, my colleagues and I had to return to working in person. This was a stressful transition as we spaced out desks and split classrooms into two rooms. Teachers feared for their own safety and that of their families as they risked daily exposure and juggled nightly Zoom sessions that were designed to calm classroom caregivers when a student tested positive for COVID-19. I was terrified at the thought of possibly bringing COVID-19 home to my mother and young son. I thought about the statistics that showed Black and Brown populations were disproportionately affected by COVID-19,resulting in higher morbidity and mortality rates compared to other racial and ethnic groups.“
During that time, COVID was not my only concern. News channels were describing numerous instances of Black and Brown lives being unjustly taken, social unrest, and relevant protests. Once again, I began each day in fear: fear for my well-being, and fear for the life of my young Black son. I was afraid to talk about 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 going through multiple traumas, both from COVID and police violence, which required addressing this experience and combatting fears through affirmation. So I used my voice to create change. I read books that affirmed Blackness and spoke to children, teachers, and families about what was happening in our daily lives and their role in speaking up.
I found myself in an impossible situation: I was being asked to support and care for my students, teachers, and administrators while I was in a state of intense stress. As a Black woman, I feared for my life and the lives of my family. Yet, I continued to go to work every day and put myself at risk. I was dealing with my own trauma while also needing to help others deal with theirs. As I did earlier in my career, when I was working on the South Side of Chicago, I felt a commitment to make a change during COVID because it was an opportunity for me to make a positive step forward, even if it was small.
At my school, I can sit down with my teachers and take time to remember how we existed when we were in the midst of the pandemic. During team meetings, we can empathize with one another and understand that we are not alone in our experience. We talk about isolation from people we cared about and about the things we do today that are still directly related to our pandemic experiences. We recognize that educators have always carried a heavy load, and COVID has made that load almost unbearable. Sometimes, we talk over a cup of herbal tea and discuss tools that can help manage stress.
Having these conversations allows us to be vulnerable and creates opportunities to connect in a real and meaningful way. This allows us to be more present and emotionally available for our children.
Take care of business
Early in my career, I was young and selflessly and holistically committed to the care and well-being of the children and families I worked with. I was so concerned with meeting their needs that I didn’t focus on my own self-care and suffered burnout as a result. Now that I’m more experienced, I have a clearer understanding of what self-care should look like and can focus on identifying and exploring my feelings in times of crisis, understanding the ways my identity and lived experience shape my worldview, and focusing on 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 critical importance of taking care of oneself before being able to help others. If we can do this, we will be more present, more focused, and more available to the young, impressionable minds for whom we are responsible. The same goes for identity formation: if we as educators can understand and acknowledge our identity and our lived experience, our students will be able to do so as well.
It was imperative for me to acknowledge my experience as a Black woman in order to work as a school counselor. This centers around who I am, how I experience the world, and what I do, no matter what my job is. Embracing the role of identity in my work allows me to continue to build the relationships and connections I have always valued and prepares me for the difficult, yet rewarding days ahead.
