when the freedom fighter needs freedom: normalizing radical self-care

I want to say lately I've been navigating through some muddy waters. Imma pull the hair out of my face so you can see my countenance clearly. If there's anything that I've learned about living with a mental health challenge, it's knowing you have to work a little harder to regulate, breathe, and return to self. Living with PTSD with anxiety has been, at times, well, just terrible. The nightmares have stopped, reacting to big sounds doesn't startle me as much, but the dread, the pending doom sensation, and the crippling anxiety that is determined to snatch joy and a normal breath from my lungs has been amped up in this season. My hope is that my transparency will liberate someone, inspiring them to come out from their hiding and take my hand in solidarity and empathy. That you would talk to someone who cares and who loves you. You're not alone.

My most recent blog talked about being in the liminal space, the in between space. It's already the middle of March, and I still feel isolated and hidden. Aside from a few national appearances, my life and calling are under construction, a surgery if you will...and more often than not, I'm not happy about it nor is it comfortable to sit for long periods of time in the same position. Exhaling...

So what do we do when the freedom fighter needs freedom? I see so many posts, stories, and achievements from the likes of others. I can see slithers of authentic happiness and thrill for that milestone met, that hill climbed. As one who teeters on the edge of toxic ambition, I deeply connect with those announcements.

Yet, how often do we check in with others who are in a constant state of service? The ones who are constantly thinking of others, and in the case of the freedom fighter, advocating for entire communities while trying to reverse generations worth of injustices. Do you know how difficult it is to sustain this type of work? I digress. To compound the complexities of your life, your waning mental health, and surrendering to a forced period of growth and transformation is a pretty tight place to reside in. This freedom fighter needs freedom...now! Front and center, full stop--I'm talkin about me.

Sitting on my therapist's couch recently, I comb the fleece blanket she has draped across it often. The soft textures comfort me, the warmth over my legs secures me. Feeling like walls are closing in swift and hard, I returned to therapy after many years to have another tool in my toolbox to maintain wellness, to combat dark and drippy negativity that is a frequent flyer in my mind's cabin. Something surfaced this week in session. As I rummaged through the recesses and the messes of my life, something came up like a set of waves smashing against the rocks and spilling upward with foam and erected billows.

"You seem so sad," she noticed.

Silence arrested the moment.

"I miss my students, I miss the comfort and familiarity of my classroom. I miss being with them and helping them. I miss them helping me. What am I doing?" Sobs preceded this admission. It was obvious that being a teacher, being Mrs. G. was a huge part of my identity, but not functioning in it this year has brought about a sadness and a disorientation that I wasn't expecting.

I'm not leaving the classroom per se, but I feel so far from it. I feel like I'm stuck in a waiting room hoping for my name to be called, or worst yet, on a bench waiting for the coach to tap me in the game. Still in transit with my national fellowship and not having fully tapped into the purpose of my leave is sucking so much valuable energy from my spirit, creating anxiety, disorientation, crippling frustration, and imposter syndrome. Caring for my aging parent with my sibling has me in a space I've never been before either, making it hard to witness how life after multiple strokes can take a toll on the body, mind, and mobility.

To technically be unemployed and not having a FT job has been a heavy burden to carry. To be a woman of color in a male dominated space of public speaking and consulting has been grueling and at times degrading. I have fallen into the typical outcomes of getting shafted, underpaid, and undervalued as I have attempted to replace my salary in the interim with Sofia Speaks Services. While I have had a few folks honor me, compensate me, and make space for me, this is a can of worms I'm not even at capacity to open. The gender and pay gap is real, the micro-aggressions are outlandish, and misagyonistic undertones have been close by.

However, life opened up being a fitness and power-boxing trainer which has been so life-giving physically and mentally to me and the women I train. So grateful for this trace of light on my dimmed path of unknowns. In tight spaces, the heavens bring some reprieve. The servant does receive service-the law of sowing and reaping. Thank God literally for that. My faith has also been a life raft that has held my frame across choppy waters. Blessed Assurance…

Yet, on the outside, I get, "Man you're killing it G." I get inboxes that read, "Tell me how you got here in this national space making such a difference for the Latino community and our students on the margins." "How'd you get a keynote on a cruise ship?" I've experienced huge wins, and yes, I do make strides and gain access to spaces and places that are admirable. But I'm walking in so wounded, batting off anxiety, quieting the false narratives in my head that tell me I'm not safe and this is only temporary.

In the moment, when the mic hits my skin, there’s an eruption of confidence, passion, and anointing. I’m functioning at the intersection of my loudest gifts. That’s why speaking means a significant deal to me.

It's our blind spots that people hide about themselves because it's embarrassing, too personal, and it will make you too vulnerable. As I write this, I'm debating to publish it because of these exact premonitions. I do have a public presence and somewhat of a reputation. Yet, I also have been known to be openly candid and honest about my lived experiences, and I think this is another opportunity to do so.

We need to normalize radical self-care and transparency in a way that is giving to ourselves and those around us that hold us accountable and dear. I travel the country discussing teacher trauma, revealing my battle with PTSD, and the stark realities of urban education. This can't happen without pulling back the curtain and reporting the wounds, the angst, and the weight of this calling.

I'm so intentional, I mean with a lucidity of thought that is undressed...with regards to tending to my mental health as a mom, wife, daughter, teacher, and freedom fighter.

As a drink offering, I admit I need drink myself.

As a microphone, I admit sometimes I need disconnecting.

As a teacher, I admit that I need to be taught.

As someone that knows others are depending on my wellness, I have needed to tap into those who can keep me well when I have NOTHING to give them in return.

Some days are so much better than others.

When I'm really low, I tell myself, "Mrs. G., change your POV." (Laugh) I actually say that. Perspective is very liberating.

I'm still so grateful to be alive.

I want to live and not die.

I want to reach my destination.

I am at my best when I am in service of others.

I will soon be tapped in.

I will soon see why the struggle was so steep and deep for me to traverse.

The light in my soul and the fire in my eyes shall not dim.

I am safe. I am enough. I am next.

Breathe with me, it's gonna be alright.

When the freedom fighter needs freedom, she calls out for it.

Keep me lifted...

In service to you always and forever!

-Mrs. G.