Growing up in Washington, D.C., I was often reminded that I wasn’t the “artist” in the family. That title belonged to my older sister, Brandi. Her talents in pottery, doll making, and painting were praised, encouraged, and nurtured. Brandi took art classes in Georgetown—a big deal, as our mother rarely drove beyond our neighborhood, and my dad’s work schedule was demanding. Her pieces decorated our home and relatives’ houses. My southern aunties even paid her for her handmade clay dolls.
Meanwhile, I watched from the sidelines, hands smudged with Crayola markers, drawing lopsided dog faces and those 90s-era pointy “S” symbols that everyone drew. These creative outputs were usually met with laughter or dismissal. Even I’d poke fun at my “lack of talent”—and stop trying. All I could muster for a lesson on Don Quixote in Spanish class was a stick-figure horse. My “unserious” attempt received neither a good grade nor much-needed encouragement to do better next time. It was another instance that reinforced the idea that art just wasn’t for me.
Looking back at age 39, I see now that the “critiques” weren’t just playful. Over time, I internalized this so-called feedback, letting it shape my self-image and limit my creative impulses from childhood through adulthood.
While I worked hard, built a career in social work, and developed my own clinical practice, Therapy Luv, I buried any creative ideas to expand my offerings in my phone’s Notes app. My inner critic would whisper, “People will laugh,” “This isn’t good enough,” or “Who do you think you are?” So, I kept my impulses hidden, convincing myself they didn’t belong in the light. And yet, deep down, the creative part of me waited and wanted to be reclaimed. Especially after witnessing so many Black women in behavioral health be brave enough to execute things that I had thought of and buried within myself. I was just too afraid to “do.”
My internal limitations reflected broader societal messages—messages that attempt to define what Black women can and cannot be. Creativity becomes another space where we’re denied full self-expression, impacting our access to self-actualization, imagination, and, ultimately, liberation. In Imagination: A Manifesto, Ruha Benjamin posits, “Imagination isn’t a luxury. It is a vital resource and powerful tool for collective liberation…yet, society hoards imagination, allowing only some children to cultivate their creativity while others are confined by rules and limits from a young age.” Black women are often confined to roles of practicality and resilience, rarely encouraged to pursue self-expression for the sheer joy of it. This pressure starts for Black women, myself included, at a young age, when we are placed in boxes and denied access to dream.
For me, a breakthrough came when I was nominated for The Highland Project, a unique opportunity offered by a fellow school board member and friend who saw potential in me even when I struggled to see it in myself. Black women recognize other Black women when others refuse to perceive us. Highland offered “dreaming sessions” where Black women were encouraged to let our minds wander freely, envisioning our lives without limitations. Now, this is a very radical approach. Most of the Black women who raised me often never made time to stop and dream. They worked in service to others, placing themselves last, and their constant refrain was “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
So imagine my shock when I attended one session and there were beds laid out for us to sleep and dream in the middle of the day. I woke up with a vivid memory of my father introducing me to crab legs as a toddler. When we were asked to paint our dreams, my old anxiety flooded back—“I’m not an artist,” I thought. What if I embarrassed myself here? How would I ever live this moment down? But I pulled myself together quickly and gave it a shot. My painting capturing my literal childlike wonder was met with deep appreciation, igniting a new sense of possibility. “They didn’t hate it!” I told myself later in my hotel room in utter shock.
During a quiet morning in Baltimore after another dreaming session, I wrote a poem. I was stunned; I wasn’t a poet, either. I didn’t have the attention span or love for poems prior to allowing my imagination to roam as free as my dreams. These moments of creativity felt like reunions, like whispers encouraging me to reclaim dreams that others may never have had the chance to pursue. Rest and space reconnected me with a part of myself I had only partially known. I wasn’t just a social worker—I had a beautiful, complex creative spirit waiting to be liberated. Go figure.
Yet, I could only catch brief glimpses of my artistic self as my life lacked a daily commitment to rest and reflection. During a coaching session with my Highland coach, Danielle, she suggested I take a sabbatical. I’d heard the term before, and I even had a friend who took one. However, she was a professor—and white. I had never met anyone who looked like me who’d taken a sabbatical. My instinct was to resist; the idea of taking a break seemed irresponsible and out of reach. But I was reminded that rest could open space for these hidden parts of myself to fully emerge. What would that look like to have these parts unrestricted for a longer period of time? Finally, I committed to a three-month sabbatical back in Washington, D.C., free from the demands of daily work and expectations and surrounded by people who looked like me—important as I now live in a community where I do not have the ability to see myself. This move would change everything.
I began spending lots of time in D.C.’s free museums, reconnecting with art and creativity. One piece, “Intra-Venus,” 2019–21 by Marina Vargas, captured my attention. Her monumental work on breast cancer reminded me of the women in my family—my mother, who survived; my grandmother who didn’t; and the countless women who worked without rest, impacting their bodies and leaving them to fight with chronic illnesses and without recognition of their work. Seeing these stories in art made me question why some experiences are celebrated while others are overlooked. Why do we place so much emphasis on what we do as opposed to who we are? I began to realize that being a social worker is what I do but being an artist is a part of who I am.
What would have happened if my creativity was held when I was little so it could grow big and bold? What if I’d been told I did a good job? And to keep going? Could I have been a poet laureate? Maybe one of my pieces would be at a Smithsonian Institution museum or the National Museum of Women in the Arts. Or maybe I still would’ve become a social worker, unafraid to build my practice to be more expansive than I could recognize beyond my wildest dreams.
I needed to set my whole being free. So, I nurtured the creative part of me and all the other parts I met along the way during my sabbatical. I found myself creating constantly. I wrote poems, painted, cooked dishes I had never tried before, and experimented with colors and flavors. I even met my inner critic with compassion, learning that her harshness stemmed from old wounds. We agreed that perhaps we could both be gentler with ourselves. I got to watch her form change along the way as she got to express things she was holding back.
Embracing my artistic self became a powerful act of liberation, a way to color outside the lines of societal expectations that had once confined me. This journey transformed how I view creativity—not as an indulgence but as a source of power and healing. Out of this realization came my legacy project, Girlfriend Culture, a community dedicated to healing, rest, and creative self-care for Black women. This vision is my way of sharing what I’ve learned and offering Black women access to spaces that honor rest and creativity as essential.
Reflecting on my sabbatical, I see that this journey wasn’t just about peace or a break; it was about reclaiming and liberating my artistic self. For anyone reading, I urge you to challenge the narratives that limit you and silence parts of yourself. Reclaim those pieces, nurture them, and let them bring you joy and freedom as I have, with Brandi and the rest of my family proudly watching and commending how I’ve grown into my creativity. In a world that benefits from our limitations, let’s reclaim our voices, our art, and our whole selves.