Ain’t I Still HUMAN?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the one checking in on others—“Are you okay? Do you need anything? How can I help you?” I’ve always known not to expect anyone to be me for me. But in a world where people lean on you without ever asking how you are holding up, it cuts deep. So, shout out to my best friend, Armani Dae, for over 15 years of friendship and for making me write this post. It’s been over three years since I’ve sat down and written anything meaningful—three long years spent battling trauma and trying to heal from the emotional scars of community and social justice work.

Let me give you a quick update on my life: I’m working, finishing up my master's in psychology in December. My son is 4, and I’ve dipped my toes back into the dating world. I’ve also been in therapy for the past four years, fighting to heal what’s been shattered. But I carry a heavy weight from the work I’ve done in community spaces—an unspoken hurt from being used for my body, my intelligence, my gender, and my access.

It’s hard to trust people anymore.

It’s hard to see people for who they are—flawed, imperfect humans.

It’s hard to love others without worrying if they’ll turn around and use you when it suits them. During some of my darkest moments, those who I thought had my back, the ones I fed, supported, and helped navigate their own storms, went silent. They didn’t reach out. Not once. The transition out of that space wasn’t what hurt—it was the silence from those who knew my struggle but chose to stay quiet.

And that’s where it gets confusing: how can we talk about community, about solidarity, when the ones holding it all together are never asked if they’re okay? Never asked if they need help, if they need support—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. We’re supposed to check on each other, right? But when it’s my turn, silence. The questions I asked others never got asked of me.

I lost everything. Over the last three years, I’ve worked tirelessly to rebuild myself mentally. I had to claw my way back just to be able to say, “This is how I’m doing.” It showed me that people only see toxicity when the person standing in their way becomes inconvenient to their goals.

I could’ve done so much differently, I know that. But I wasn’t given the time, grace, or space to learn, to grow, or to heal. I had a son, went through life-saving surgeries, and had gender-affirming surgery—all within two years. And by December 2021, I hit a breaking point. A full-on mental breakdown. I spent 2022 in therapy, coming to terms with the realization that this work—the work I had dedicated so much of my life to—wasn’t for me anymore.

I cried because I knew people would talk. They’d whisper about how I left. After everything I’d done to support, help, and build up our community, I was left to fend for myself. We preach restorative justice—no one should be disposable—but no one wants to talk about why that’s false. In the world of social justice, image is everything. You can’t be too blunt, too real. No toxicity allowed. It has to be all rainbows and butterflies.

But the reality? It’s hell. It’s lies.

People lie about funding. They lie about the people they claim to love. And if you’re not part of the in crowd, you’re banished. So call me the Blacq Sheep 🖤🐑—I never cared about being the villain in someone else’s story. I stood firm in my truth. I helped people in my truth. I wasn’t for everyone, and once I started saying “no,” putting up boundaries, and protecting myself, folks couldn’t handle it. They got loud—who does she think she is? Why is she acting different? What’s she doing? And a lot of it came from people I thought were my inner circle.

“If 10,000 snakes were coming down that aisle now, and I had a door that I could shut, and in that 10,000, 1,000 meant right, 1,000 rattlesnakes didn’t want to bite me, I knew they were good… Should I let all these rattlesnakes come down, hoping that that thousand get together and form a shield? Or should I just close the door and stay safe?” - Muhammad Ali

I didn’t realize how deep I was in with vampires, people sucking the life out of me while I dug my own grave.

But you know what? I’ve grown into someone I’m proud of. Someone who is blunt, someone who has boundaries, someone who is free from the community’s expectations of who I should be. I’ve become the person I need to be for me and for my family.

I’ve sat down and rethought how I want to support the people I love—those who love me authentically, in all my humanity.

I switched my degree to behavioral psychology, and medical school is on the horizon. This has always been close to my heart—not only because I live with ADHD and dyslexia, but because I watched my mother struggle with mental health issues. Mental health is always left behind, especially in our communities. And I’m determined to change that.

As I continue on this journey, I hope you’ll stick with me. Turning 40 in two years, navigating life as a Black, trans woman in the Midwest, I’m constantly unraveling the myths and fake standards that hold us back.

This is my journey—raw, real, and unapologetic.

Stay with me as I rediscover what it means to love authentically, live unapologetically, and thrive in my truth.

We’re just getting started.