I was in my 20s when I began my career as a childhood trauma psychotherapist on Chicago’s South Side, just down the street from the neighborhood I grew up in. As a young therapist working in an outpatient psychotherapy clinic, I was excited and thrilled to be working in a community where the majority of my clients were Black children and families.
As a Black therapist, I found it easy 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 impacts of trauma through a narrative framework. The relationships and connections I made helped propel me through the heavy, difficult, yet rewarding days.
My job wasn’t easy. I was one of the few Black therapists on my team, and the majority of my colleagues were white. I came to this job excited by the opportunity to connect and make a difference. The more I learned, the more I realized the impact of microaggressions and systemic racism within the foster care and mental health systems. No matter how hard I tried to make a difference, it seemed like the families I worked with were caught in a vicious cycle of being under-resourced and re-traumatized by a system designed to keep them in a state of chronic stress and trauma.
I questioned the system and the negative patterns that so many children and families seemed to be trapped in, but many of my colleagues simply shrugged and said that nothing more could be done. Some of them told me that they could leave their work at work and go home, separating their personal and professional experiences. They even told me, “I could never do this job if I worked with children and families in my community.” I was proud to be doing important work in my community, but I felt like I wasn’t making a visible impact. Ultimately, this disconnect was Vicarious trauma and burnoutI needed a break.
This led me to work in the private school system. In 2016, I accepted a position as an early childhood counselor, working with a diverse range of children from preschool to second grade. The young children I work with call me their “emotions teacher.” I teach children about emotion identification, emotion regulation, and identity development. I start each lesson with deep breathing techniques, teaching them how to pause and then Smell the flowers and blow out the candles.
When I took on this new role, I told myself I had a right to leave the trauma of working in the foster care and mental health systems where I felt powerless and complicit in a cycle of harmful care. Often, I would make progress with my clients, but then they would have to move to another foster home or experience another trauma. There seemed to be no end to the therapeutic work I did. Although I understood that trauma psychotherapy was the foundation of my education and professional experience, I took on this new role excited by a new opportunity to make a difference.
Turning things around
As a Black woman, coming into a predominantly white organization (PWI) is no easy feat. I was constantly getting my name wrong, interrupted during meetings, and my expertise was routinely questioned. Despite these micro- and macro-aggressions, I was able to make connections, develop authentic relationships, and feel comfortable in my role. Ultimately, I was in a position to effect change and create opportunities for myself and others to feel recognized, heard, and better valued.
Just as I was beginning to settle into this new leadership role, COVID-19 arrived in the spring of 2020 and completely changed the way we work as educators. As schools closed, we transitioned our work to online platforms and many of my colleagues were forced to gain new skills to work with computers and technology. One of my administrators looked at me with a solemn look on his face and said, “School is going to be completely different than what we know it to be.” It all happened so quickly that we didn’t have the time to stop and take things in.
That fall, many school systems continued remote instruction. But because I worked with the youngest students, my colleagues and I had to return to work in person. It was a stressful transition, distancing desks and splitting classrooms into two rooms. Teachers risked infection every day and worried about their own and their families’ safety while coordinating evening Zoom sessions designed to calm classroom parents when a student tested positive for COVID-19. I was terrified at the thought of potentially bringing COVID-19 home to my mother and young son. I thought about statistics showing that Black and Brown populations are disproportionately affected by COVID-19.This results in higher morbidity and mortality rates compared to other racial and ethnic groups.“
COVID-19 wasn’t the only thing I worried about during this time. The news was filled with stories of Black and Brown lives being disproportionately taken, social unrest, and related protests. Once again, I began each day with fear: fear for my own health and fear for the life of my young Black son. I was scared to discuss what was going on with my students, but I was even more scared of what would happen if I completely ignored my experience and the experiences of so many people like me.
Black families were experiencing multiple traumas at the same time – COVID-19 and police violence – and they were being asked to process this experience and combat fear through affirmation. So I spoke out to make a difference. I read Black-affirming books and spoke to my kids, teachers, and families about what was going on in our daily lives and the role of speaking up.
I found myself in an impossible position. I was being asked to support and care for students, teachers, and administrators during times of high stress. As a Black woman, I feared for my life and the lives of my family. And yet I showed up to work every day, putting myself at risk. I needed to address my own trauma while simultaneously helping others navigate it. Just as I had done earlier in my career working on Chicago’s South Side, I felt called to make a difference during COVID-19 because it was an opportunity for me to make positive progress, even if it was small.
At my school, we sit down with teachers and have time to remember how we were present in the midst of the pandemic. In team meetings, we empathize with each other and understand that we are not alone in our experiences. We discuss our isolation from loved ones and actions we are taking today that are directly related to our experience of the pandemic. We acknowledge that educators have always carried a heavy burden and that COVID-19 has made that burden almost unbearable. Sometimes, over a cup of herbal tea, we discuss tools that may help with stress management.
Having these conversations allows us to be vulnerable and creates an opportunity to connect in real, meaningful ways, allowing us to be more present and emotionally available for our children.
Taking care of business
Early in my career, I was young and holistically and selflessly committed to the care and well-being of the children and families I worked with. I was distracted by meeting their needs and didn’t focus on my own self-care, and as a result, I eventually experienced burnout. Now, with more experience, I have a clearer understanding of what self-care should look like, I can focus on identifying and exploring my emotions in times of crisis, I understand how my identity and lived experiences shape my worldview, and I can center the importance of building a community that affirms and uplifts my voice and identity. Perhaps if I had done this sooner, I would have been able to continue for longer earlier in my career.
I have realized that it is fundamentally important to take care of ourselves first before we can help others. When we do this, we are able to be more present, grounded and responsive to the impressionable young minds for which we are responsible. The same is true with identity formation. If we, as educators, can understand and acknowledge our own identities and lived experiences, then it will be easier for our students to do the same.
Acknowledging my experience as a Black woman was essential to my work as a school counselor. No matter what the job, this is central to who I am, how I experience the world, and what I do. Embracing the role of my identity in my work allows me to continue building the relationships and connections I have always treasured, and prepares me for the heavy, difficult, but rewarding days ahead.
