may i be blessed, may i feel safe (thoughts for 2017)

I’ve written about positivity before.

I’ve written about positivity lot, actually. A quick search of this blog for the topic brings up about twenty entries in one form or another, from the happiness project I did last year (to moderate success?) to assorted musings on self-care, acting with kindness, self-care, making transitions–etc, etc, etc.

Being positive doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s always been something that I’ve had to work at–left to its own devices, my brain trends towards assuming the worst possible outcome in any given situation, or to self-deprecation, or to all sorts of other unpleasant things that I’ll skip over here for the sake of space, time, and a lack of trigger warnings. The point being, positivity, to me, is work.

(Sometimes, because humor is my very favorite coping mechanism, I make a game out of it. Which mental illness is acting up today? Anxiety? Depression? Some super-fun combination of both? Whee!)

(My husband does not find this game as amusing as I do.)

But I like to work at it, because honestly, the alternative sucks. My dad likes to say I’m an idealist, which is a nice way to phrase it, but I think it’s more that if I don’t work at it, then there I am, just kind of sitting in this swirling pool of negativity that might start out as a reflection of reality but will, thanks to my brain chemistry, very quickly devolve into something much darker.

So we work on positivity instead.

You may have noticed that we started a new year recently–2017, woo! (And none for 2016, you absolute shitshow, oh my god.) Last year, I spent some time setting actual resolutions, which I never do, and for a pretty good reason: they stress me out, and then I get overwhelmed when I don’t keep them. Amazingly enough, I managed to not get super anxious about not keeping all of the resolutions I set last year–and I actually probably ended up keeping about half of them in one way or another. Which, for me, is pretty good.

But it’s a new year. And it’s going to be a rough one.

We’re coming into a new political administration in the US, one that’s heightening anxiety for just about everyone I know. It doesn’t feel like a safe time to be a queer person, a Jewish person, a woman, a disabled person. I have the benefit of being white and financially stable, but so many people don’t. My sense of safety is shaken.

It’s hard to think about positivity right now–and even harder to think honestly about self-care when it kind of seems like the world is collapsing around us.

At a recent retreat for work, I participated in a meditation based around Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing. In Jewish communities, this blessing is recited on a number of holy days, as well as on Shabbat, when parents recite it over their children. The prayer goes as follows:

May the Eternal bless you and keep you
May the Eternal’s light shine upon you, and may the Eternal be gracious to you
May the Eternal’s presence be with you, and give you peace.

As we sat together, we focused on the sensations of feeling blessed, and feeling kept. They were warm feelings, I thought: warm like climbing into bed after a long day, warm like an embrace, warm like a guiding hand. And they were cool, too: cool like the dip of your toes into the ocean on the first day of summer, cool like the breeze that comes after a rainstorm, cool like fresh, clean sheets. Focusing on those sensations, we repeated the phrases: May I feel blessed. May I feel safe. 

Tonight I lit Shabbat candles while my social media feeds exploded about Donald Trump’s inauguration. I kept my notifications off.

My blessing practice for this terrifying new world is to surround myself with a resistance that is working to keep justice and safety alive. I’m going to begin with a march for women, alongside some of my closest family members and most loving role models. People who make me feel held, and kept, and safe. I’m going to wrap myself in sensations of warmth. Of coolness. Of calm.

I don’t know if this will be a year of positivity. That might be too much to ask. But it can be a year of practicing blessing.

A year of repeating:

May I be blessed. May I feel safe.



when happiness is work

One of the odd roles I’ve taken on in a lot of my friendships and other relationships has been “the happy one.”

The first time someone told me that I was the “happy one” in our particular group of friends, I was…well, let’s say “confused,” rather than “offended,” because it sounds nicer. It wasn’t that being happy is a bad thing–it’s obviously not, and the work I’ve been doing on my happiness project is part of my effort to move toward the whole happiness thing–but that I’ve just never thought of myself as an especially happy person. I didn’t (and often still don’t) think of myself as unhappy, either, just not super happy.

At the time, I asked my friend what she meant by that, and she shrugged. “You look on the bright side of things,” she said. “You find good things in people. You smile a lot. You just come off as a happy person.”

Okay. All fairly true things–I will totally admit to being the sort of warm and fuzzy person who hopes that the person tailgating me on the highway is speeding to deliver a baby and not just being a dick, I have one of those weird smiles that seems to prompt people to talk to me and tell me about their feelings (basically the opposite of resting bitch face. Resting therapist face?), I don’t like cutting people off when what they’re saying seems important. But does that really make me seem like a happy person?

Apparently yes, because over the course of the next several years, more people in various walks of life–coworkers, friends, clients, relatives–commented on my positivity, my bright mood, my smile, my idealism, all that jazz. Meanwhile, there I am, looking around in confusion, because my head feels like a jumble of depression, anxiety, chronic pain, and brain fog, and all the happiness that everyone else seems to see coming off me just doesn’t feel visible to me. In fact, I usually feel like I have to force it to show up.

Spending most of my working years in various “helping” fields, from childcare to higher education to mental health, means that I’ve rather inadvertently put myself in professions that require me to be more emotionally “on” than, say…I don’t know, working in accounting or something (sorry, accountants. I just assume that spreadsheets don’t bring that many feelings to the game). For most of my day, whatever my actual mood might be, I needed to be plugged in to the feelings of the people around me to offer support, advice, problem-solving, insight, etc. I’ve been lucky to work at places where I can be a little more “off” when not interacting with whoever the client base happened to be (students, campers, mental health clients, etc), but it still involves a significant amount of emotional labor on a day to day level that can get incredibly draining, especially when the positive emotions you’re expected to display might not be entirely reflective of your genuine feelings. But when people start taking your manufactured happiness as real, they start to expect it, and then you start to assume that you have to project that happiness at all times.

Being and looking happy, then, turns into a job. This is a problem that other women have talked about all over the internet and I won’t repeat their very good points, mostly because this is more about my personal experience than about my feminism, but then, it can be hard to separate the two. Would I be feeling so nervous about not feeling the happiness I project if gender norms didn’t expect me to be smiling and cheerful to every person I meet? I don’t know.

The big question I’ve always had for myself, though, is whether there’s a difference in my mood when I’m not making the effort to act positive compared to when I am. There is something to be said for the “fake it till you make it” effect, and I found that out the hard way over the past few weeks.

I haven’t been shy on this blog about my struggles with chronic pain and depression. Living with chronic physical and mental health issues isn’t a walk in the park, but they’re my everyday existence, and I find myself generally able, for the most part, take a bunch of meds, put some product in my hair, smack a smile onto my face (HELLO HAPPINESS IT’S SHELLY HOW ARE YOU TODAY) and get out the door. But that’s the thing about chronic issues–they’re chronic. You get used to them. You know what to expect, you know what they feel like, you get a feel for your bodies aches and pains and occasional-oh-hey-it-feels-like-there’s-acid-on-my-skin moments. But when you get something else on top of your usual chronic illness (for example, the ass-kicker of a flu I came down with two and a half weeks ago and am still getting over), all bets are off. The things that usually work stop working. All the energy you’ve saved up to get you over the hump of compensating for crummy joints or nerves or serotonin receptors is suddenly gone, and the spoons you’re used to having to get through your day promptly disappear.

Over the last two weeks, all of the positive energy I usually try to summon up to project my happy attitude–to be “the happy one”–went out the window. No more Shelly happy face. I was stuffy and cranky and sleepless and exhausted; I was coughing constantly and couldn’t breathe through my nose (my nose! the only part of my body that I can usually rely on to work! wtf??), I was, in conclusion, a mess. I meandered from my bed to my couch to my bathtub, I slept constantly, I mustered a few smiles for my nephews and family but overall didn’t really even try to be sociable during our Passover seders with my in-laws. I was cranky toward my husband and often asked to just be left alone, and didn’t take much of time to ask how he was doing (except for the occasional thank-you for the many, many sweet things that he did for me while I was being a brat toward him).

It sucked.

But now that I’m finally on the mend and had a bit of my spark back yesterday and today, I’ve started to realize that what sucked about it wasn’t that I felt like crap, but that I was wallowing in feeling like crap. Don’t get me wrong, the flu is miserable, and I think everyone’s entitled to a few “woe is me” days through the worst of it. And in all honesty, throwing a crappy flu on top of an already messed-up body should probably earn me a few extra days. I didn’t bother with any of the usual self-care I took on even on my worst fibro flare days, and losing that probably made things worse. I took baths, but spent them just staring at the wall instead of lighting something that smelled nice and putting on an audiobook or some music. I put the same pajamas on again and again. I didn’t brush my teeth. I didn’t eat and barely drank any water. It felt a lot more like a bad depressive episode than a physical illness, and I think that my total lack of attempt to do anything to take care of myself because I was just in such a bad mood could have very nearly turned it into one.

It’s still strange to think of myself as the “happy one,” as I continue to struggle with the same health issues (both physical and mental), but the past few weeks gave me some insight into just how much I miss that positivity, mostly manufactured or not, when it’s not there. I don’t know if the positive attitude and forward-focused mindset I project are becoming parts of my personality that I like more than I resent, but my time spent feeling miserable and sorry for myself certainly didn’t help me with my healing process.

When we’re kids, no one really tells us that happiness can feel like work, and that sometimes you have to make your own, and that sometimes it sort of feels forced. But I think that I’ll take a little bit of manufactured happiness over my self-sustained misery bubble any day.

It might be faking it until I make it, but I think the faking it helps.

settling in (happiness project, part 6)

Remember all those posts I made over the last few months about my upcoming move, and all the related feelings and freakouts and meltdowns?

Well, it happened!

In the past few weeks, Husband and I have completed the first leg of our move from the boonies of Western Massachusetts to the suburbs of New York City. Needless to say, it’s been a pretty big adjustment–we’ve gone from a single-family house on a quiet dead-end street to a small apartment in a large complex on a busy road. My commute has gone from a five-minute drive to a forty-minute train followed by a twenty-five minute walk, which, for obvious reasons, means I’ve had to make some drastic changes to my morning and evening routines to accommodate a much longer journey to and from work. That means, to my sadness, less time for writing and internet-ing in both the morning and evening, and, since I’m now held to a train schedule, much less flexibility in that routine from day to day. The last few weeks have been a pretty constant jumble of adjusting to new routines, unpacking, organizing, hanging, decorating, and rearranging. It’s been an adventure.

And the best part? In just over two months, we’re going to do it all again when we move into the housing that Husband’s job provides for us starting in June. Woo!

A few people–okay, a lot of people–have asked us why we’ve bothered to put as much time and energy into settling into our current apartment, given that we’ll only be there about three months. And honestly, it’s a fair question. Unpacking clothes and kitchenware is one thing; hanging artwork and arranging books feels like creating a much more “permanent” space.

For me, though, creating something that feels like a permanent home is what makes this process doable. Husband and I have moved approximately a bajillion times since we’ve been living together (okay, so maybe it’s more like seven, but still!), and one of the things that I’ve realized in the process of all these moves is that I need to feel like I’m home, not in a temporary or uncertain space. The extent to which I’ve been able to do that over our different moves has varied, from having only a few of our books and pictures to being able fully furnish and settle into a home for over a year, and I’m fully aware that it’s been a privilege to be able to make each place we’ve lived feel at least slightly like ours for the time that we’ve been there.

As nice as it is to stay in a hotel for a few nights, most of us wouldn’t want to live in one if we can avoid it, and the reason why is the same reason that college students decorate rooms they’ll only inhabit for four months at a time and kids at overnight summer camps set up their bunks with pictures of home and bring along a favorite pillow or stuffed animal. There’s just something about being surrounded by familiar things that brings a sense of peace and serenity that we just don’t have in temporary spaces, and those feelings of serenity are crucial to our brains’ ability to adjust after a major transition. Hundreds of thousands of dollars have been spent on studying transitional and resettlement traumas–a number I suspect will go up over the next few years, as millions of refugees are resettled across the globe–as sociologists and psychologists and other social scientists examine the ways in which people create homes in new places and work to find familiarity in the unfamiliarity. From a less academic and extreme perspective, online outlets from Buzzfeed to Reader’s Digest have put together articles (listicles, whatever) about adjusting to a new place and making a new location feel like “home.” Clearly, this is a pretty common phenomenon, which shouldn’t be surprising: the average American can expect to move 11.4 times in their adult lifetime. No wonder we’re looking for as many ways as possible to make the process smoother.

I’m a confident enough person to be able to admit that I don’t, and will probably never, have the temperament needed to enjoy moving. And I’m okay with that. This happiness project has never been about changing my core personality, but rather understanding the ways I can change my perspectives and needs to increase the amount of happiness I feel on a day to day basis. I’ve made my peace with the fact that my moves will require more work because I’m determined to make my space–however temporary–feel like home as quickly as possible. This particular time, this has worked out in our favor: Husband and I went from “no unpacked boxes” to “everything unpacked, art on the walls, internet installed, fresh-baked bread cooling on the counter” in a week and a half. It helps that by this point we’re pretty much a relocation dream team, but in all honesty? Knowing that we’re getting damn good at this makes the fact that we’ve got yet another move coming up in June feel a little less scary.

But for now, at least, I have an unpacked apartment that feels like home.

And at the end of the day, even if we didn’t set everything up right away, I know that sometimes, happiness isn’t the stuff you have in your home, but who you share it with.

10 things a year as a therapist taught me about life, work & growth

As of 6pm on Friday, I am no longer a therapist.

It’s a strange, bittersweet feeling. For over a year, being a therapist was more than just a job–it was part of my identity. Work didn’t get to stay at work; it was part of my life in a deeply profound way. My co-workers became my supporters in ways that were unlike anything I’d experienced at any other job; the concept of a “mental health day” took on an entirely new meaning, being present in my work became more important than ever.

Looking back on the past year, it’s hard to pick out the things that I learned from being a therapist as opposed to things I learned simply by getting another year older (and maybe a few months wiser). But that, I suppose, is why self-reflection has become such an important part of my growth process. I’ve written before about journaling and how daily reflective practice has changed the way I spend my time, but it really has made a huge difference–not just in my ability to look back at moments of gratitude, but to watch myself experience learning and growth. It’s also allowed me to read old entries and see the places where I learned hard lessons and received some painful reminders of my own limitations–limitations that, thanks in part to that active self-reflection, I was sometimes able to turn into strengths.

But not without challenges, and not without luck, and not without help.

For better or worse, I’m a lists person, and I do my best memory collection through organization. So, here we are:

10 Things a Year as a Therapist Taught Me about Life, Work & Growth

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listening to the wise mind

Readers, it may have come to your attention, as you’ve followed me throughout this blogging adventure, that I’m a bit of a feelings person.

I mean, I’m a therapist, so it makes sense that I’m a feelings person in the sense that I understand feelings. I get feelings. I can look at someone’s face and body language and figure out what emotions are bouncing around their head. I can pluck an emotional heartstring like the prettiest darn harp you’ve ever heard. I can sit down and process emotions with someone in my sleep (not that I would, since it wouldn’t be very nice of me, but still: doable). But there’s more than that when it comes to being a feelings person.

When I talk about being a feelings person, I tend to mean that I listen to my feelings first and my thoughts second. I get vibes. I look for emotional energy in a room. I tend to trust my gut instincts over a logical argument. If my feelings are stuck somewhere, it’s hugely unlikely that any amount of thought or logic is going to change them, much to the annoyance of my therapist, who likes to tell me that there’s a breakdown in my cognitive triangle.

My husband, on the other hand, is totally a thoughts person. This dude is thought-oriented like you wouldn’t believe. He likes logic. He likes reason. He spent a few months as a philosophy major just so he could hang out and talk about logic and reason with other logic-and-reason-minded people for hours on end. He gets very confused when I flail around about feelings and he doesn’t understand why I can’t grasp simple concepts of logic, and then gets much more confused when I explain that I understand his logic perfectly, my feelings just don’t care about it.

So, fellow therapists, the feelings person and the thoughts person–sound familiar?


The Wise Mind idea is a concept that comes out of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, a treatment approach that combines cognitive and behavioral therapies. It was originally designed to treat borderline personality disorder by Marsha Linehan, a psychologist who developed the model based on her own lived experience with mental illness and suicidality.

The idea of the Wise Mind is simple: When we make decisions based only on reason, we miss out on the impact of emotional experiences. When we make decisions based only on emotional impulse, we miss out on the knowledge and logic that the rational mind provides. The Wise Mind combines both of these intelligences, and allows a person (or, in our case, a family) to take the logical experience of the rational mind and the sensitivity and feeling of the emotional mind to approach an issue with serene, informed confidence.

DBT is designed to be an individual approach, but I’ve had the luck of watching it apply in my marriage as well. This past weekend, the Husband and I went out to Westchester to explore the place where we’ll be living come April, and I just about had a panic attack in the car. I didn’t really like the apartment we had already decided (in a previous Wise Mind conversation) that we were going to take. I didn’t like how far we were from town. I didn’t like that I couldn’t walk to work. I didn’t like so many things.

But while I was flailing, Husband was thinking. And when I stopped flailing long enough to come up for air (and also to take some more migraine medication, because that was just adding insult to injury on a rough day), he gave me the rational mind approach. But he also listened to my emotional mind, and gave me room to have all of my feelings (and there were many). And what we ended up deciding, once again, was that yes: this was the right choice. This was the right, wise choice for our family–not just the family we have now, but the family we hope to have in the future.

Listening to the wise mind isn’t easy. As an emotional mind person, I tend to dig my heels in. I latch, stubbornly, onto anxiety and fear and worry, onto nervousness and apprehension. I don’t like change, and I fight tooth and nail against all logic attempting to remind me that change is, in fact, a part of life. The wise mind, as far as I tend to be concerned, can screw right off.

Fortunately, I’m not the only one in charge of making sure I listen to the wise mind. Until I learn how to do it myself, I have plenty of help. And I’m even learning to step away from my insecurity over needing to be independent, and accepting the help that’s being offered.

Maybe I’m learning to be wise after all.

the light at the end of the tunnel

There’s a weird sort of thing that happens when you get close to an ending that’s still just out of reach.

Right now, I’m very close–but not quite there–to arriving at a number of big accomplishments. I start a new job two weeks from today. In just about a month, my family is going to be moving to a brand-new city, leaving behind the roots we’ve put down in Western Massachusetts over the past year. I’m just about 12,000 words from the ending of the first draft of the novel I started for National Novel Writing Month back in November 2015.

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and won. because I’m great.

It’s weird to be coming up on so many changes at once and to not be rolling in absolute anxiety attacks 24/7. That’s not to say I’m not totally freaking out (so many freakouts, team. so many.) but rather that I’m trying, actively, to remind myself that this transitional time is temporary, and is going to end in things I’ll be able to be proud of and excited about.

That said: Endings suck, a lot. I’m coming to the end of a job where I’ve met amazing people and been able to make a visible difference in the lives of kids and their families. My husband and I are leaving our first “real” home as a married couple, and the first place we’ve lived for more than a year since we both left our parents’ houses at the end of high school. I’m inching closer and closer to completing a novel draft (something I haven’t done in…yikes, four years? and that last one was a mess, so we won’t even count it). I’m excited about moving on to what’s next, but saying goodbye to these people and places and projects is hard. Perhaps the hardest part is that these endings are close, but haven’t quite arrived, and in a lot of ways, I’m still in the slugging, logistical drudgery of transitions: finishing all of my paperwork and client transition documents, looking for new apartments and making packing lists and booking travel arrangements, outlining scenes and cross-checking character arcs to make sure everything gets at least wrapped up at least moderately nicely. Hardly the romantic wrap-up I like to daydream about, where I step out of one section of life and into a beautifully set-up and organized next section.

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If this picture represented me, I would crash into the far cliff and fall down.

A gal can dream.

In an attempt to deal with all of these transitions and keep my eye on the light at the end of the tunnel of these projects rather than getting stuck in the muddled middle of the tunnel, I’ve been trying to find ways to bring a bit of that end-of-the-tunnel light to where I am now. Because I’m obsessed with planning and lists, part of what’s keeping me sane is just keeping track of what needs to be done by what point helps me to not only look see what I need to be working on, but also how much time I have to complete each task (and, of course, gives me that thrill of victory when I cross something off the list).

I’ve also–and judge away, y’all–finally caved and indulged myself in a Pinterest account and started pinning all manner of interior decorating things. Part of this is because I am absolute trash for Apartment Therapy, but I also just really like to be able to visualize spaces. The down side of this is that we actually don’t have a new apartment/home yet (which makes me do this a lot) so I really have no idea at all what kind of space we’re going to be in–so any kind of design planning is pretty hugely premature. But whatever, guys. It makes me feel better. Picturing a new home with our own furniture and books and blankets and dog toys, maybe with a few new design pieces or bits of art, helps the interim anxiety of packing and moving and unpacking feel a little bit overwhelming.

As much as I’ve been trying not to indulge my inner packrat, I’ve also started looking for mementos–solid, actual ways to commemorate these places and experiences. Going through my office, I’ve found pictures that my clients have drawn and asked me to keep, collages that I made with them as we explored the therapeutic process together. I’ve started looking at key memento ideas as a way to hang on to our house after we leave, and my inner crafting brain is already hard at work.



But most of all, and as odd as it sounds, I’m trying to enjoy this process. This point of almost-but-not-quite-there in a transition is usually the point where I start regularly looking longingly at bottles of wine, but this time around, I’m making a conscious effort to step back and listen to what my body and feelings are telling me. My goal isn’t to cruise through these endings, but rather to savor them: to be present in each moment, listening to my clients process their transition between clinicians, appreciating the textures and sounds and scents of my house before it’s time to say goodbye, enjoying the time I spend working on this novel and getting to know these characters and settings as their stories come to an end. I’m hopeful–not positive, but hopeful–that leaning into the transition and listening to my limits as I go through it, I’ll be able to enjoy the process, rather than burying my head in the sand and just waiting frantically for it to be over.

I’m not going to be the kind of person who learns to enjoy transitions overnight. But I’m trying. I’m trying.

And maybe that’s a light in the tunnel all on its own.

#readingwednesday: black girl dangerous


The third and last full book I picked up for my Black History Month challenge of only reading books published by Black authors was Mia McKenzie’s Black Girl Dangerous, a collection of posts originally published on, a (seriously amazing) collective writing project that works to “amplify the voices, experiences and expressions of queer and trans people of color.” The book itself features posts that are no longer available on the site, and are presented, to some extent, with the context of their publication and some follow-up notes about how the posts were originally received and if McKenzie’s thoughts or positions had changed since the original post went up.

I downloaded the eBook of Black Girl Dangerous to read on a trip to New York to participate in a two-day staff meeting with my new job, and I think this ended up being a perfect time to read this book. I ended up reading the majority of the book on my train ride home, after participating in two days’ worth of strategic planning, organizing, and discussion around mindfully Jewish spiritual practice. This wasn’t just mindful in theory, but in practice–we engaged in mindfulness meditation, constant check-ins about what was happening with our feelings and bodies, and an intentional focus on creating a safe space for everyone in the room to be heard and to reflect on their on thoughts and processes.

Coming off two days of this sort of meeting, I was extremely conscious of my responses, both physical and emotional, as I read through this book. I started my reading already acknowledging that I was in a place of physical and mental weariness (as well as fairly substantial physical pain), which I do have the presence of mind to recognize is probably not the best frame of mind and body to approach a text that is insightful but entirely (and rightfully!) unapologetic in its approach to exploring intersectional issues of race, gender, queerness, and class. But coming from that mindful place, I was able–more than I usually am–to listen to the responses of my body and mind as I moved through the text. I recognized the times that I felt defensive (“‘Whack Jobs’ Are Not The Problem. You Are.”, certain sections of “4 Ways to Push Back Against Your Privilege”, “Hey, White Liberals”), the times I felt moved but wondered if I was co-opting feelings that don’t belong to me (“You Mad Yet? On the Murder of Trayvon Martin and the Question of Tipping Points”, “Resistance Is The Secret Of Queer Joy”, “To The Queer Black Kids”).

It would, I think, be very easy to read this book, get defensive, and put it away. And the reactions that McKenzie discusses that she received to the initial publication of these posts speaks to that–people who could not acknowledge their role in perpetuating these harmful systems and instead pushed back against McKenzie for her tone, her (intentional) word choice, her anger. Even as someone who likes to think that she tries her best to be open to being called out and told to check my shit at the door if I’m welcome in the room at all, I found myself responding to some of the book with a knee-jerk “wait, but–” and had to call myself back to a more mindful, receptive state of being. Once I re-centered myself, I could look at those reactions and try to examine why I was responding in those ways, and in what ways those responses were in and of themselves a reflection of my privilege.

If I’d had the time this month, there are so many other texts I wish I could have read: Sister Outsider by Audre Lorde, Paradise by Toni Morrison, The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander–the list goes on, and I have all of these and more on my bookshelf and can’t wait to tackle them. But as I reflect, I think that Black Girl Dangerous was the perfect closing text for this month. It reminded me, more explicitly than Bad Feminist or Between the World and Me, that it is part of my ongoing work as a person who (regardless of my own marginalized identities) benefits from the tremendous privilege of whiteness to intentionally and mindfully direct my energies to dismantling these systems of white supremacy.

Pirkei avot, the words of the fathers, tell us that it is not for us to complete the work, but neither are we free to ignore it, and the call-outs of Black Girl Dangerous reflect this. I don’t believe that Mia McKenzie is telling me that it is my job as a white person to single-handedly take apart systems of institutional white heteropatriarchy, because she’s a damn smart woman and knows that’s not how it works. But I sure as hell believe that she’s telling me that if I claim at all to fight for racial justice, I am not free to ignore the ways that I benefit from my privilege, and to fight back against the systems that give it to me.

Black Girl Dangerous began as a response to a trauma that was both personal and political, as so many such things do, and became a transformative movement, dedicated to raising up silenced voices and building up black queer communities. In her final essay, “How To Be Black In America,” McKenzie ends her book with this reminder: “Don’t forget about love.”

Put defensiveness away, fellow white people, because that shit is not helpful. Acknowledge it if it comes up, and then move past it. Move forward. Build up this movement, and quiet the inner voices that tell you to speak over others when it is their time (because it has always been their time, but we have never listened) to be heard.


to support Black Girl Dangerous, donate here.