I Am We.

I never saw me living past 18, but I'm still here.

I am in a writing class and felt led to share this journal entry.

My cultural position is shaped by a mix of survival, love, loss, and learning to hold my own. It’s unique in the details, but not uncommon in this country. Like many Black Americans, I grew up in poverty, raised by people who were doing the best they could with what they had—even if that best still left some deep gaps. I share a lived experience with other eldest daughters who were expected to mother before they got to be mothered. I relate to people raised by emotionally unavailable or narcissistic parents, and those who stepped into caregiving roles as kids without even knowing what childhood was supposed to feel like.

My standpoint aligns with single mothers and those raising only children. I carry the shared grief of women who have lost their brothers to gun violence, and the complicated legacy of daughters whose fathers were locked away by systems that never had space for them in the first place. I'm also part of the group that society likes to label as “first-generation college students,” but that label doesn’t capture how we navigate higher education not just for ourselves, but in hopes our families will finally see us and show up. So far, mine hasn’t—but I’m still here.

I also share community with people who had to leave their hometowns in search of safety or self-discovery, and with those who decided not to return. I’ve even cut ties with family members I still love, because peace costs too much when it’s built on pretending. I’ve found my own form of healing, joining the 85,000 yoga teachers in the U.S. who’ve completed 500 hours of training—but I’ve done it as a Black woman with a disability, which shifts the entire experience. I don’t show up the same way. My journey isn’t about luxury wellness—it’s about survival, clarity, and reclaiming joy. My cultural position is complicated, layered, and deeply rooted—but I know I’m not alone in it. That’s what makes it both unique and shared at the same time.

What makes my cultural experience unique is how all of these layers intersect—and how I’ve chosen to move through them. I’m not just a product of hardship or loss. I’m also an artist, a teacher, a healer, and someone who made the choice to keep living when it would’ve been easier not to. I survived a stroke at 30, something most people don’t think about until they’re old—if ever. That alone shifted how I view time, health, and purpose. I use painting as meditation, yoga as reclamation, and motherhood as a daily act of resistance and renewal. My voice doesn’t just come from what I’ve been through—it comes from how I’ve alchemized it. I don’t see myself reflected in many spaces I navigate, but I show up anyway, and I speak plainly so others like me feel seen, too.