This is a nationwide directory that helps Black women find culturally competent therapists. You can filter searches based on specific needs, including trauma expertise.
We empower Black mothers to redefine resilience beyond survival. In a world that equates Black strength with endless labor, we honor rest as sacred resistance and healing as intergenerational warfare. We firmly believe true strength isn’t measured by how much you endure but by how boldly you reclaim rest—whether that’s a 10-minute meditation or refusing to apologize for prioritizing sleep over societal expectations. We equip mothers to replace “tough love” parenting with honest dialogue, teaching children to protect their peace and yours.
This stack of books looks like it’s trying to audition for a circus act. If balance were a sport, these books would definitely need some serious practice! They seem to be saying, “We’ve got stories to tell, but first, we have to survive this juggling act!” It’s a hilarious reminder that life can often feel just as chaotic and unpredictable. These books piled high are like my kids: a mix of excitement, messiness, and untold potential. But they’re also full of lessons I didn’t ask for but now have to sort through. As a Black mother, I’m juggling more than just bedtime routines and spilled milk; I’m untangling generations of survival instincts that sometimes masquerade as love. The harsh tones, the extra sternness—they’re not just mine. They’re remnants of what came before, passed down like unwritten rules.
In a world that often feels overwhelming, I want my children to understand that it’s perfectly fine for things to be a bit out of order. Just like this mountain of stories, it’s normal for our dreams—and our healing—to look a little scattered before they make sense.
Each book on that cart holds a different tale, and they’re all important in their own way. So are the messy parts of parenting. The moments I snap because fear whispers, “Make them tougher than the world will be.” The times I overcorrect, trying to rewrite my own childhood in theirs. But resilience isn’t about perfection; it’s about showing up, even when the script we inherited doesn’t fit. If this wild stack can stand tall despite the chaos, so can we. All we need to do is keep moving forward, one page—one apology, one hug, one deep breath—at a time.
I want my children to realize that falling down is just part of the journey. Just like this heap of books, we can always find our footing again. With every story we explore together, we discover more about ourselves—and unlearn the parts that no longer serve us. Because the greatest act of resilience isn’t balancing it all; it’s teaching them how to drop the weight when it’s too heavy.
Look at this face—painted in bold strokes, crying but frozen in place. That’s the performance we’ve perfected. Generations taught us to swallow tears, to let them pool inside until we’re nothing but hollowed-out vessels, smiling through the rust.
The downturned mouth? That’s the lie we tell: "I’m fine." The tears? They’re the truth we never let fall. Because somewhere along the line, we learned that Black women don’t get to be fragile. We’re the strong ones, the ones who hold up the sky while our own backs break.
This graffiti isn’t just art—it’s a relic of survival. The orange behind it? Not warmth. A warning. "Don’t let them see you burn." So we smother ourselves in composure, pass down the lesson like an heirloom: "Don’t cry. Don’t flinch. Don’t give them the satisfaction." But what happens when the mask becomes the face? When we forget how to take it off? The shutter is closed—just like the doors slammed in our faces, the opportunities withheld because we were "too much" or "not enough." The metal ridges? The scars from bending but never breaking. And still, the tears stay suspended. Never falling. Never free.
Because the greatest denigration isn’t the pain—it’s being told we shouldn’t feel it at all.
Tangled cables, broken twigs, rusty pipes isn't just junk. It’s a flashback. Every time I see a switch, an extension cord, or a belt coiled up like a snake ready to strike, my skin remembers.
Grandma called it "correction." Said it was love. But does love leave marks that fade slower than the guilt. "I’m doing this for your own good," she’d say, like the sting was a lesson and the welts were homework. The switches came from the backyard tree, the cords from the junk drawer, the belts from the closet.
Now, looking at this mess, I see the leftovers of what they called discipline. The debris of "tough love." The cables? Remind me of the cords that bit harder than words ever could. The twigs? Just like the switches we had to pick ourselves—"Go get your own whooping," like we were signing our own punishment slips.
Funny thing is, nobody ever asked if it worked. Just assumed pain built character. But all it built was a reflex—flinch at raised voices, tense at sudden movements.
I 'm not mad at my Grandmother. She was taught the same. But this image? It’s proof that what’s left behind ain’t just scraps. It’s the weight of what we carry, even when the whippings stop.
I remember the way my mother’s voice could cut through me like a blade, sharpened by generations of unspoken hurt. "You think you’re special?" she’d snap, her words laced with a bitterness I didn’t understand until I became a mother myself. The echoes of her frustration, the way her love sometimes felt like a clenched fist—I see it now, the legacy of trauma masquerading as discipline. It wasn’t just the words; it was the tone, the way her eyes would narrow as if daring me to defy her. She’d learned it from her mother, who’d learned it from hers, a lineage of sharp tongues and raised hands. And now, sometimes, I catch myself—the same edge in my voice, the same reflexive need to shrink my child’s spirit before the world does it for me.
The mural on the side of that gray building haunts me sometimes. Those grinning faces, frozen in exaggerated joy, their mustaches curling like sneers. They remind me of the masks we wear—how we perform happiness, toughness, indifference, even as the old wounds fester beneath. The lights strung across the bushes flicker like half-hearted apologies, pretty but insubstantial, just like the "I’m doing this for your own good" that followed every harsh word.
I hear my grandmother in my mother’s voice, and now my mother in mine. The phrases are familiar, almost ritualistic: "Don’t get too big for your britches," "Nobody likes a show-off." The lessons aren’t about guidance; they’re about survival, about preemptively dimming our light so others won’t feel compelled to snuff it out. I watch my daughter flinch at my tone, and for a moment, I’m a child again, small and stung. The shame is thick, but so is the helplessness. How do you unlearn what’s been etched into your bones? How do you love softly when hardness is all you’ve ever known?
The cycle doesn’t break; it just wears new faces.
The loops in this art? That’s me talking in circles. Pick up your socks. Please pick up your socks. I swear if you don’t—! I slam cabinets instead. My hands shake. My son mimics me now—huffs when his cereal gets soggy. I hate it. I’m his mirror, and I’m cracked.
That big black smear in the corner? That’s last Tuesday. My boss emailed at 8 PM, my toddler bit the sitter, and I hissed “Why can’t you just behave?!” through clenched teeth. The quiet after tasted like pennies. She’s three. She doesn’t even know what “behave” means. But I do. It means shrink. Take up less space.
The kids watch me like I’m a YouTube tutorial on How To Explode. They’ve learned to tiptoe when I’m scrubbing floors too hard. “Mama’s just… tired,” I say. But we all know tired doesn’t make your voice sound like a slammed door.
Somewhere in this mess of lines, there’s a mom who lets her kids eat popsicles for breakfast. Who doesn’t care about muddy shoes or the silent judgment at the park. I’m trying to color outside these dark, drippy lines. But damn—these loops keep connecting back to where I started."
Look at this mummified head, all wrapped up in rags like it’s holding onto secrets tighter than a mama holding onto her last nerve. That’s me some days—preserved in frustration, cracked under the weight of "do this" and "don’t do that," my patience stretched thin as the cloth clinging to this old soul.
Motherhood got me feeling like I’m on display too, trapped behind glass where everybody peeks in but nobody really sees. The kids holler, the bills pile up, and the village I was promised? Gone like last week’s leftovers. I’m out here weathering storms with no umbrella, my love wrapped around these babies like those tattered strips, frayed at the edges but still holding on.
And the cracks in this face? Honey, that’s the weight of "I told you so’s" and "why won’t you listen?" etched deep. Some nights, I’m just like this relic—dried up, dug up, and put on a pedestal I never asked for. They say it takes a village, but what if the village left you standing in the burial ground?
Here, staring at this wall of chaos—the scribbles, the locked-up plywood, the doors stacked like unsolved puzzles. It’s a mirror, ain’t it? It reflects all my almosts, the moments where I almost didn’t hold back. The times I bit my tongue raw to keep from hissing, “Why can’t you just—?” when my kids fumble their shoes or fight over tablets, their small frustrations becoming my own unspoken battles. Old words itch my throat like smoke. But I swallow 'em down, push them away into the recesses of my mind where they can’t leak out and hurt anyone.
The cross on that face? I see it clearly. It symbolizes all the generations of us carrying burdens we never chose, traumas layered like paint streaks on this wall. My boys don’t need another scar to add to the ones they’ll inevitably inherit. They already tilt their heads when my voice gets tight, their eyes wide like, “Who’s that?” It’s as if they’re waiting for the mom they know to come back from behind my clenched jaw. Kids are not dumb. They can sense the storm brewing long before it breaks, and I see that dawning realization in their faces—fear and confusion clouding their innocence.
And that padlock up top? That’s me jamming the key in my pocket when I wanna scream. Locking up the “Act right!”s and “You’re embarrassing me!” The weight of those words presses down until I can hardly breathe. Some days, my temper feels just like that corrugated metal—all jagged edges, ready to slice through the air and leave scars. But I know better than to unleash it. So, I sand it down, smoothing those edges until they’re fine enough to hide in the guise of calm. I let my “Hey, let’s fix this” be louder than the clatter of old hurt.
Still, the chaos surrounds me—like the graffiti on the wall, it’s unsettling but also vibrant, full of stories waiting to be told. I want to channel that energy. I want to show them that even in the mess, there’s beauty. When they fumble their shoes, I catch myself before the storm erupts. Instead, I laugh; I say, “Hey, let’s make it a game!” I teach them to find humor in the chaos, to embrace the bumps along the way rather than shy away from them.
That door isn’t just wood and hinges—it’s a mouth, gaping wide, swallowing all the words that ever cut me down. My mama used to say, "Close it tight, girl. Don’t let nobody see your mess." But the cracks in these walls? They tell the truth. This room’s seen more tears than it has furniture.
I remember standing there, small as an ant, listening to her voice slice through the air like a blade: "You ain’t never gonna be nothing." The bedframe creaked under the weight of her disappointment, and the floor, cold and hard, held me up when my knees couldn’t. This was where I learned to fold myself into silence, where harsh words piled up like dust in the corners.
But here’s the thing about doors left open—light gets in. And one day, I realized: her words weren’t mine to carry. The cracks in the walls? They let in air. The empty space? It meant room to grow.
When I look at this image, I don’t just see a broken-down room. I see the place where I learned to bend but not break.
"Close it tight, girl." Nah. I leave it open. Let the world see what I survived.
This street lamp, with its yellow and green glow, isn’t just lighting the sidewalk—it’s a mirror of my life as a Black mother. One bulb burns steady, a warning light flashing, "Slow down, overthink everything."
It’s the voice in my head that reminds me to measure my words twice before they leave my lips. The other bulbs flicker, softer but stubborn, whispering, "You’ve got this… maybe." Because Black motherhood is a dance of defiance and tenderness, a balancing act between wrapping them in love and preparing them for battles they didn’t choose.
And that dim sky? It’s not just nightfall—it’s the weight of history, the quiet hum of generations before me who walked this same tightrope. I move forward anyway, guided by something deeper than light: the unshakable knowing in my bones, the stories of women who turned struggle into strength.
The barren trees? They’re not just winter-stripped—they’re the parts of me that had to wither so my children could bloom. The social outings I skipped, the sleep I traded for worry, the pieces of myself I tucked away to make space for their dreams. But here’s the thing about trees: they know how to wait. Roots dig deeper in the silence.
So I stand here, under this mixed-signal lamp, a living contradiction—exhausted but relentless, afraid but unbroken. Because Black motherhood isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about showing up, even when the path is dark, and trusting that the love you plant today will grow tall enough to shade them tomorrow.
This fallen mannequin, lying on the floor like a discarded memory. It speaks to me, a silent reminder of resilience and the fight to keep standing tall despite life’s challenges. Seeing it like this, I think of all the times I have felt broken or out of place, the moments when the weight of the world pushed me down.
In my journey as a Black mother striving to lift up my children, I face my own struggles. Like the mannequin, I sometimes feel the pressure of expectations, as if I'm supposed to hold everything together. But just as the mannequin can be put back in its place, I know I can rise again. Each setback pushes me to find the strength within, to gather my pieces, and to stand tall for my kids.
The faint reflection of the store behind me reminds me of my community. We’re all connected, holding each other up, even when times get tough. I find beauty in our shared struggles and victories. Every time my children laugh, every memory we create together, I am reminded that we can rebuild ourselves stronger than before.
I want my kids to know that it’s okay to fall; what matters is how we rise. We can reshape our story, just like that mannequin can be placed back on its feet.
Fear lives in me like a second pulse. Fear that my love won’t be enough to shield my children from this biased world. Fear that my own exhaustion, my own wounds, would spill into their lives, staining their innocence with my unresolved battles.
The fear of this partially opened door, neither shut nor fully welcoming. Its walls were cracked and discolored, like the parts of me I try hard to hide.
I want to be soft, to be present—to always know the right words But fear makes me stiff like the darkness in this room.
I wonder if my children would one day trace their fingers over my scars and mistake them for instructions. Would they inherit my fears the way I’d inherited my parents’?
This is me, a two-headed monster especially in white spaces. One head whispers, assimilate. Smile. Make them comfortable. The other roars, But what does that cost you? What does that teach your child? I fear the split in myself: the version of me that code-switches to survive, and the one that wants to scream "when can I be me!
In playgrounds, PTA meetings, pediatrician’s offices, I fell the weight of it—the fear that my child would inherit this fracture. Would they learn to fold themselves into palatable shapes? Or would they wear their anger like armor, risking the world’s backlash? The monster’s heads never agree. One screams, Keep them safe. The other hisses, but safety isn’t freedom.
I feared the day you’d ask me why I flinched at certain tones, why my voice changed in certain rooms. I fear the answer: Because I’m still learning how to exist in a world that sees me as either too much or not enough.
But then I’d watch you play, unburdened, and wonder: What if love is the thread that makes this two-headed monster think as one?
Here’s an active list of Black therapists and resources specializing in trauma or intergenerational trauma.
A directory specifically for Black women seeking culturally sensitive mental health support. Check their resource page for therapists familiar with inherited trauma. Contact: Therapy for Black Girls Directory, Therapists in the Melanin & Mental Health Network
This platform connects individuals with therapists who are culturally competent and experienced in trauma work.
Contact: Melanin & Mental Health
Certainly! Here are several additional resources and statewide directories where you can find Black therapists familiar with trauma or inherited trauma:
These resources can help you find qualified Black therapists across various states, particularly those who specialize in trauma or have an understanding of inherited trauma within the Black community.
This section aims to help you reflect on your experiences as a mother, particularly in relation to intergenerational trauma. Below are some common narratives associated with parenting behaviors influenced by historical trauma. Click on each area to explore tips, resources, and advice tailored to your situation.
We invite you to participate in a photography project that reflects your experience as a mother navigating trauma. Use the prompts below to capture images that tell your story:
Here’s an active list of Black therapists and resources specializing in trauma or intergenerational trauma.
A directory specifically for Black women seeking culturally sensitive mental health support. Check their resource page for therapists familiar with inherited trauma. Contact: Therapy for Black Girls Directory, Therapists in the Melanin & Mental Health Network
This platform connects individuals with therapists who are culturally competent and experienced in trauma work.
Contact: Melanin & Mental Health
Certainly! Here are several additional resources and statewide directories where you can find Black therapists familiar with trauma or inherited trauma:
These resources can help you find qualified Black therapists across various states, particularly those who specialize in trauma or have an understanding of inherited trauma within the Black community.
This section aims to help you reflect on your experiences as a mother, particularly in relation to intergenerational trauma. Below are some common narratives associated with parenting behaviors influenced by historical trauma. Click on each area to explore tips, resources, and advice tailored to your situation.
We invite you to participate in a photography project that reflects your experience as a mother navigating trauma. Use the prompts below to capture images that tell your story:
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