Sometimes we move through life carrying stories we never consciously chose. They come from our families, our churches, our culture, and the quiet expectations placed on us as Black women. We watch the women before us hold everything together, rarely rest, and push through pain with prayer and grit, and without ever being asked, we inherit their script.
Be strong.
Don’t fall apart.
Handle it.
Keep going.
Before long, it stops feeling like a story and starts feeling like identity.
Narrative therapy creates room to pause and gently ask, “Where did this belief come from?” Not with blame, and not to dishonor the women who survived before us, but to understand. Because a lot of the things we carry were once protection. Silence kept families safe when speaking truth was dangerous. Strength kept women going when they had no backup. Hyper-independence was dignity in a world that didn’t offer support.
Those stories made sense then.
They may not fit the same way now.
There comes a moment in healing when you realize: the armor that protected you might be too heavy for who you are becoming. You don’t have to throw it away — you just get to decide whether you still need it every day.
That’s narrative therapy.
Not forcing a new identity, but slowly remembering you have a say in your story.
It might sound like:
“I didn’t choose to always be strong — I learned it.”
“This belief helped me survive, and I appreciate that.”
“And now, I’m allowed to write something different.”
That shift isn’t loud or dramatic. It often feels like sitting on a porch with an elder — someone who asks gentle questions that help you hear your own truth again. Your body softens. Your breath deepens. You begin to notice that strength and softness can coexist. You realize rest isn’t weakness; it’s restoration. You remember you deserve care just as much as you give it.
Nothing about your past is wasted.
But your future does not have to be limited by it.
This work is slow, sacred, and deeply personal. It’s not about erasing who you’ve been — it’s about reclaiming who you were always allowed to be. The story continues, but now the pen rests in your hands, not in survival’s grip.
If this speaks to something in you — if a part of you feels seen or relieved — my book At Mama Feely’s Feet walks in this same spirit. It’s for the woman who’s tired of being strong by default, who wants healing without losing her heritage, and who feels God calling her back to herself.
Whenever you’re ready, it’s there — not to rush you, but to walk with you as you reclaim your story, one page at a time.