I’ve reached a point in my self-acceptance and celebration to where comments or opinions regarding how my body looks don’t really move me like they would have done in the past. In fact, I have a deeper understanding that oftentimes what folks are actually doing are trying to project their insecurities upon me instead of doing the difficult work of learning how to love themselves the way that they need.

For me, I’ve been noticing a sort of reawakening of some latent part of myself that felt both familiar and strange. Like seeing someone on the street and getting the strong sense that you’d somehow seen or met that person before. Naturally, I sat in the strangeness and I soon realized that what was emerging for me was a younger self who had somehow been left behind as I propelled into adulthood. A part of myself that always dated around, and loved being with folks who held no shame or judgment in doing the same. A celebratory and mischievous piece of me who was a natural flirt and expert at leaning into relationships that were unabashedly queer, both in the “who” and the “how” while we dated. Surprised at this discovery, I wanted to share some of my initial thoughts here with the hopes that I’ll be able to look back someday accompanied by deeper meaning and sense of self. If not that, then I hope that some of what’s put here resonates with someone else who has also found it difficult to assign language to what a part of you has always known.

My anxiety reached several peaks where I’d break down and pour myself all over the place, or recede into the depths of my mind unable to build the strength to ask for care even though my inner monologue strained itself screaming for someone (for him) to listen. This feeling of complete immobility was reminiscent of the intense pain and loneliness that I had felt after my assailant left me in the woods near my home. The difference, however, was that this time I had someone who was there to hold me and remind me that I wasn’t alone any longer.

In my opinion, if we really want to solve the mental health crisis, then we need to develop a raw awareness of how systems of oppression, racism, and anti-Blackness work in tandem to diminish access to quality resources and care. Not only that, but there are important historical contexts that have contributed to modern day cultural stigma around mental health, and an overall distrust in our healthcare infrastructure and powers at be.

Picture this: You’re just getting through a tough week at work, and are looking forward to the weekend. At first, you thought you’d stay in or perhaps go to bed early, but instead you decide to go out and let off some steam. You meet up with some friends, have a few drinks, then remember that there’s a leather party happening at a popular sex club that you’ve always wanted to check out. After some contemplation, you call an uber and make your way. You arrive on the scene, pay the required $15 cover charge, and nervously make your way inside. You enter a changing area, your nervousness changes into excitement, and right as you finished getting dressed you look up and immediately lock eyes with your therapist.

It’s been four and a half years since my partner and I decided to walk through life together, hand in hand. We’ve learned to introduce ourselves to each other, and are still working to embrace change as we transition into different stages of our lives. Our 5th year anniversary is in June 2023, and by that time, we both would have finished graduate school and subsequent training in our respective fields and will beginning the process of finally looking for a home that we can build together. This long-distance relationship has been one of the most challenging things I’ve ever experienced. At the same time, it’s been incredibly rewarding, and I look forward to the growing, holding, and loving that’s left to do.

I was, and still am, a person who is very sensitive. However expressing that sensitivity grew more difficult the older I became. There were moments in my upbringing where it was modeled to me that being sensitive and showing my emotions were not viable, despite my own mother’s attempt to show me otherwise.

For a long time, sex was something that I didn’t think that I was allowed to enjoy. It was something that was demanded from me, done to me, and left with me to figure out as my body was tossed aside just to be picked up and used by someone else. To think that there could be a fluid, non-judgmental, and welcomed curiosity related to sex wasn’t a thought that was meant for me. Other people were allowed to enjoy sex. I, and more specifically my body, was designed to provide that enjoyment.