Healing through the pen…
Healing Through Writing…
Some wounds never truly heal, they just learn how to rest beneath the surface until something pulls them back up again. For me, that something has been watching my children navigate a world that often refuses to see them for who they truly are. A young Black mother raising two sons and a daughter in a predominantly white suburban neighborhood, I have become both protector and teacher. But as much as I want to shield them from the pain I once knew too well, I also know that sheltering them is not the answer.
I see the way they come home from school, their shoulders lower than when they left in the morning, their voices quieter, their eyes holding an exhaustion that has nothing to do with homework or practice. They love sports, but sports don’t always love them back. They fight to prove their worth on the field, on the court, only to be met with silence when it’s time to be recognized. They see their white teammates celebrated for the same effort, the same stats, and sometimes even less. They hear the coded language “we’re going in a different direction,” “it’s not about race,” “we just didn’t think it was fair this year.” And in those moments, I recognize the sting, because I, too, have felt it.
The pain is familiar, but now, it’s theirs.
I could tell them everything I know about how the world works. I could sit them down and pour out my frustrations, my own high school memories of being overlooked, of hearing the whispers, of knowing that the game is played differently for us. But that is my story, and I don’t want to force my view upon them. Instead, I want them to learn how to see for themselves. To recognize the patterns, to feel the shifts in the room, to know the difference between a bad call and an unfair system. More importantly, I want them to know how to navigate it without letting it break them.
So I write.
Writing has always been my safe place, the space where I make sense of the things that don’t. It’s where I go when I need to scream but can’t, when I need to cry but refuse. And now, it’s where I go to heal—not just for myself, but for my children.
I write them letters, even if I never give them. I write down the words I struggle to say out loud: I see you. I believe you. You are more than this town will ever acknowledge. I document the wins that others ignore, the hard work, the resilience, the way they continue to rise even when the ground beneath them is uneven.
I tell our story, because if the world won’t give them the recognition they deserve, I will.
This isn’t just about sports. This is about life. About teaching them that injustice is real but so is their power. That their worth isn’t measured by trophies or biased coaches or applause that never comes. That they will have to work harder, but that doesn’t mean they don’t belong.
Most of all, I remind myself that my job is not to tell them how to see the world—it’s to give them the tools to see it clearly for themselves. To prepare them, not by filling them with fear, but by equipping them with strength, self-awareness, and the knowledge that they are never alone in this fight.
And when they come home, tired and weary, I will be here. With open arms, a listening ear, and always—always—a pen, ready to turn pain into something powerful.
Because healing doesn’t always come from the world changing. Sometimes, it comes from refusing to let the world change you.
This is more than just a post; it’s a movement. A reminder that creative writing is not just an outlet—it’s survival, it’s healing, it’s resistance. If you’ve ever had to find peace through words, if you’ve ever turned your pain into power through the pages of a journal, share your story. Let’s build a space where our voices are heard, where our experiences are acknowledged, and where we remind each other that we are not alone.
#BlackStoriesMatter #HealingThroughWriting #StrengthInOurWords
XOXO KAYE,