Hair, Healing, and Higher Ground
Oh my mother's hands
how they moved through my hair with determination, how they struggled to part it just right, how they smoothed a thick layer of grease into my scalp as if that alone could shield me from the world.
My mother did what she could. She pressed, she permed, she braided, she burned. She handed me the same tools that had been passed down to her, tools meant to tame, to discipline, to make presentable.
I remember sitting between her knees, and later, between the knees of a family friend—the “basement beautician.” The tug, the pull, the sting of a comb too fine for coils too thick. The smell of hair grease, of Pink Oil Moisturizer, of Just For Me Perm. The fear of scratching my head—how still I had to be so it wouldn’t burn. The shampoo, after rinse and combing to style, watching strands fall to the floor even then knowing this was more than just hair.
Whew, as Black women, we do not play about our hair. It is cultural. communal. Spiritual. It is history. It is inheritance.
Growing up, my mom didn’t always have the money to get my sister’s or my hair done. She tried, but whew, chile—she nearly broke all my hair off because she didn’t know how to perm properly (Love you, Mom.).
After years of childhood hair trauma, in high school, I taught myself how to do my own hair, and for 15 years, I’ve done it completely on my own.
Society has conditioned generations of Black women to believe our hair is only beautiful if it’s straight. We have burned our scalps, poured chemicals onto our crowns, and contorted ourselves into acceptability just to be seen as presentable.
Ever since I learned how to do my own hair, it has always been a form of expression and I’ve never let anyone dictate what my hair should look like. For fifteen years, I was the only one who touched it. I twisted, I parted, I braided, I conditioned, I protected. I worked hard for years to grow my hair past my shoulders, something I was proud of, something to prove that I had done something right.
But transformation is a funny thing. It asks you to let go before you’re ready.
And so, on July 19th, 2024 I did just that.
I walked into a beauty salon for the first time since I was a child and let a stranger hold the thing I had guarded for years—
The length of my hair and a pair of scissors.
I was nervous but ready. I let the beautician wash it, shampoo it, condition it. Then she cut it—first just a little, then more.
She hesitated, asking me Why? every time I told her to keep going.
“It’s personal,” I said. “It’s a marker for me.
Because I needed to honor my journey.
Because new growth deserves space to flourish.
Because sometimes, before you become, you must release.
And because, as my good sis Karessa reminded me, every inch of my new growth will grow with me through the beautiful memories and experiences I create.
I was so nervous. I had spent years growing my hair past my shoulders—this wasn’t a decision I came to lightly. But I also knew that transformation requires surrender. Growth requires release.
And that’s the lesson: You can always start again.
You can decide to grow again.
You can decide to love again.
You can choose to trust God again and again.
You can choose to BE. Again and again.
But here’s what they don’t tell you about growth—sometimes, it starts with breaking.
I think often of my mother’s hands. Hands that worked, that held, that braided and broke, that tried. Hands that smoothed the edges of my hair with a warmth that felt like love but carried the weight of struggle. Hands that stretched, that made do, that gave until they trembled.
I think of my mother’s mother, and her mother before her. Of women who learned to survive in silence, who mastered the art of endurance. Of women who worked themselves to exhaustion but never stopped moving.
I think of the way Black women have always made something out of nothing. The way they have carried more than they should have. The way they have passed down resilience like a family heirloom, something sacred, something costly.
And I wonder: Where do we go to rest?
I did not always know that I was tired.
I thought exhaustion was just a part of being.
I thought survival was the same as living.
I thought love was something you earned through labor,
that rest was something you had to deserve.
Burnout isn’t just exhaustion.
It’s blurred vision from carrying too much.
It’s brain fog from code-switching all day.
It’s the tightness in your chest from holding back your truth.
It’s panic attacks misdiagnosed as “just stress.”
It’s the unspoken rule that you must be everything to everyone—except yourself.
Burnout, as defined by Psychology Today, is “a state of emotional, mental, and often physical exhaustion brought on by prolonged or repeated stress. While typically associated with work, burnout can also affect other areas of life, such as parenting, caretaking, or relationships.”
Black women know burnout like we know survival.
We push through because we’re taught that rest is a privilege, not a right. We smile because we’re taught that our sadness makes others uncomfortable.
We achieve because we’re taught that our worth is in our work. And we shrink because we’re taught that to take up space is to invite scrutiny. According to the 2022 Black Women Thriving Report by Every Level Leadership, “88% of Black women sometimes, often, or always experience burnout.”
I am part of that 88%.
I was one of the ones overachieving as a trauma response. One of the Black women performing resilience while falling apart inside. One of the ones trying to prove my worth in a world that only values our labor, not our light.
In 2020, amidst a global pandemic and the unjust murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, the world was thrown into unprecedented turmoil. As a young Black woman navigating corporate life, dealing with microaggressions, code-switching, masking, feeing the need to tone down my Blackness while starting a new role deeply impacted me. Five months into my new role, the pandemic hit. The fear of contracting the virus, coupled with the continuous cycle of racial injustice, triggered severe anxiety and panic attacks—something I had never experienced before.
It took a TV commercial for me to realize what I was truly experiencing after months of worrying I might be having a heart or pulmonary issue. Doctors dismissed my concerns, attributing them to my weight. When I realized what I was experiencing were panic attacks, I started therapy for the first time, confronting the stigma that often surrounds mental health care in the Black community.
At the same time, I co-founded an employee resource group at my workplace, which became a vital space for authentic conversations about the injustices we were witnessing. This experience helped me find my voice and advocate for meaningful change. Inspired by Maya Angelou’s words—”Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning”—I gained the courage to speak up, knowing my voice mattered. This group gave me and others a sense of community, a space for empathy, and an opportunity to learn, grow, and invest in one another.
2020 forced me to see myself clearly.
The world was burning, and I was burning with it.
Burnout didn’t arrive all at once. It came in spurts.
In the way my body felt heavy even after sleep.
In the way my breath caught in my chest during Zoom meetings, in the way my heart raced, my vision blurred, my mind refused to quiet.
I sat in the dark of my apartment and realized:
I did not know how to stop.
I did not know how to exist without proving.
I did not know how to be without doing.
Entering 2021 and 2022, I appeared to be thriving professionally.
They called me Rising Star.
They gave me awards for my advocacy.
I was booked, busy, and burning alive from the inside out.
So I unraveled.
Slowly, painfully.
Therapy became a doorway I didn’t know I needed.
I sat with the weight of my story, the silence I had swallowed, the shame I had mistaken for truth.
I let the pain speak.
I let myself feel what I had been taught to suppress.
And in that breaking, I began again.
I learned to rest.
I learned to listen to my body before it begged for relief.
I learned to pray—not just for guidance, but for grace.
I learned that healing is not a moment; it is a practice, a choice, a revolution.
I learned my burnout wasn’t personal—it was systemic.
It was the weight of being the only one in the room.
The pressure of being the first, the best, the example.
The exhaustion of being called “a natural leader” but never supported as one.
The soul-crushing realization that Black women break glass ceilings but bleed alone.
Black women are in crisis.
There’s a pattern—one we whisper about, one we carry in our bodies, one that’s breaking us.
Black women reach the pinnacle of their careers, only to burn out.
To resign.
Or, in the most heartbreaking cases, to lose their lives to the weight of it all.
Like Dr. Antoinette Candia-Bailey.
These are not isolated stories. They are alarm bells.
We are the first.
We are the only.
We are the token.
And we are exhausted.
They tell us we are resilient, but they do not tell us why we have to be.
They celebrate our excellence but do nothing to sustain it.
They put us at the table, then withhold the structure.
I know this intimately.
I have felt the sting of being questioned.
The exhaustion of overperformance.
The despair of feeling unseen.
And for years, I made myself small to fit into spaces that weren’t built for me.
I silenced my voice.
I carried shame that wasn’t mine to hold.
I worked myself into the ground trying to prove I was enough.
But the truth is, no amount of achievement can protect you from environments that are hostile to your very existence.
I marked that moment the way Black women have done for generations—
I cut my hair.
Because for us, hair is more than hair.
It’s cultural. It’s spiritual. It’s a reclamation of self.
I let go of who I was to make space for who I am becoming.
And in that space, I built Mind Your Higher Ground.
Higher Ground represents a sacred space, a place where mind, body, soul, and spirit unite. To “mind your higher ground” means to nurture these aspects of yourself, enabling you to thrive. Like tending to a garden, we must cultivate every part of ourselves to step fully into who God has called us to be.
This is not just a program,
but a sanctuary.
A love letter to every Black woman who has ever felt like she had to be twice as good just to breathe.
A space for high-achieving Black women to break free from survival mode.
To step off the hamster wheel of overperformance.
To take off the mask and breathe, exist, and thrive—without apology.
Because we are not here to just survive.
We are here to thrive AND dismantle systemic oppression.
We are here to lead AND protect our peace.
We are here to take up space AND take care of ourselves.
We are fearfully and wonderfully made.
Here, you don’t have to hold your breath.
You don’t have to break yourself to belong.
You don’t have to carry what isn’t yours.
Here, you are enough.
You are whole.
You are worthy of rest, of healing, of being.
If you’ve ever felt like you’re losing yourself to the world’s expectations—
Sis, you are not alone.
I created this because I needed it, too.
I built a toolkit for thriving, and I can’t wait to share it with you.
Join me.
Let’s rise.
Let’s reclaim ourselves.
Let’s mind our Higher Ground.
8401 Moller Rd Unit 68847,
Indianapolis, IN 46268
