finding my way back
the birth of something new
dear ones,
as we continue our journey of seeding softness together, i want to share a story about what becomes possible when we create tender spaces for one another. a tender space helped me dive back into my body in a deeply needed way.
take a breath with me before we begin. place a hand on your heart if that feels right. please know, this contains both deep pain from sexual trauma and powerful healing. you can pause at any time. take care of you as you move with me through this story.
my lil healing cocoon
there are wounds that time alone cannot heal. traumas that embed themselves so deeply in our tissues, our nervous systems, our being, that they require intentional, sometimes unconventional paths to reclamation.
in the gentle embrace of mérida, mexico's sun-drenched afternoons, i found such a path. the rental home became my sanctuary, holding my tears, fears, and unfurling. after four years of building trust with my coach, i finally found the courage to share the story i'd buried for decades: what happened with ray and mo during my sophomore year of college.
when i finished telling her, her response landed with both compassion and stark honesty: “that’s the kind of trauma that leaves people strung out on heroin. many lose their minds or their lives. but you're here, and i'm so proud of you.”
her words carried no judgment, only recognition of my resilience. in them, i heard what i’d been unable to acknowledge myself: the magnitude of what i had survived.
sometimes the most transformative moments come when we allow ourselves to be truly seen, when we drop the armor and allow ourselves to be held.
It was in the safety of our retreat space that i embarked on a healing journey using mdma. if this makes you raise your eyebrows, i feel you, but know this: carefully guided psychedelic-assisted therapy can be incredibly helpful for treating ptsd and complex trauma. white folks have been exploring these healing modalities for decades while we (or was it just me?) got fed the lie that every drug’s the same. i can tell you, they’re not.
our setup was intentional, tender. outside, two mattresses arranged like a cozy backyard lounge with the pillows and blankets creating a cocoon. my coach (whose name i am only not saying here because yea, not tying her to this explicitly, but you know, she) administered my dose and took her own smaller one. soon, i was transported back to the scene of harm, the throes of it engulfing me.
but this time, i wasn’t alone, small, or frozen. at 40 years old, i fought back with every ounce of strength. kicking, screaming, lunging at the attackers who seemed to materialize before me, i pushed them away. my loving coach’s whispered reassurances: “i’m here. you’re safe,” echoed in my ears as she held my hand.
she later revealed that during the experience, i’d placed myself in the position of giving birth. rocking, clutching my stomach, i repeated “no, no, no, no, nooooooo” - a primal refusal to accept the pain.
i was, perhaps, birthing a new version of myself. one who could fight back. one who could howl no. one who could finally tell the whole truth.
this experience embodied what i’ve been exploring in this series - the necessary work of building softness both within and around us. softening internally by learning to breathe again, to rest deeply, to allow vulnerability. this seeding work is also about creating soft environments - finding the right healer, carving out time for intensive care, and literally arranging physical spaces that cradle us in our healing. these are essential foundations that give us the strength to transform rather than simply endure. when we’re perpetually braced and armored, we can only withstand. but when we build these layers of softness in and around our lives, we cultivate the sacred ground where transformation becomes possible.
pause here, beloved. consider a moment in your life when you had to be reborn in some way. how might you honor the pain of that process, but also the courage it took to emerge anew?
the story i had never told
it was only afterward, still under the medicine’s influence, that i shared with my coach - the first person ever - the truth of what happened that night. and now, i share with you, if you have capacity to go there with me now?
ray and mo were fine fine, big fine. they should’ve been a rap duo because ray looked kinda like a young method man but with locs, and mo had the look of nelly. they weren’t a rap duo, but they were a trap duo, moving weed and boosted technology like dvd players and speakers between DC and NY. both were from harlem, and their accents and slang made me melt. they were sharp, good with numbers, athletic, knowledgeable about politics and fashion, and mo had a deep love for baseball. he wasn’t just wearing that yankee cap for no reason. he knew all the stats for all the players and made real good bets. i used to love riding out to atlantic city with them.
those trips were our favorite escapes, our moments of freedom. the hum of the car engine, the mix of hip-hop and laughter, the thrill of the journey, everything felt electric. ray would be behind the wheel, his locs swaying to the beat, while mo would be in the back, cracking us up with his latest stories. the city lights would blur into streaks of color, and for those hours, the world was ours.
i invite you to take a moment to remember your own young, free self. that version of you who was filled with excitement about possibilities, who was discovering new parts of yourself. send some tenderness back to that person.
we met at pentagon city mall one day when my girl erin and i were out window shopping, killing time on an uneventful sophomore year saturday. we had all hung out at first, trying to split off into two couples, but erin didn’t connect with either of them. i, on the other hand, had a delightful, easy flow and real chemistry with both. so, eventually, the three of us just kept dating.
i was the one who, on love and hip-hop nights, wondered why stevie j just didn’t live with both joseline and mimi. i didn’t have the word for or a real understanding of poly or throuple. i had been dating ray and mo for about three months before my exploration of poly possibilities was abruptly halted. initially, though, i was happy. it was exciting and fun, and i felt sexy and free, yet also dizzy and unsure of what I was doing.
my boos would come to dc every other week for work, and we spent a lot of time together. they spoiled me, weren’t possessive but were about me. despite being as fine as they were, they weren’t hollering at other women when we were together. they weren’t trapping while we were together or exposing me to that directly. they doted on me in their nyc way, with compliments, money, attention, and affection. they hyped my dreams of having a culture mag for black girls. i was so into them. and yeah, i had been also so embarrassed to be dating two guys together. but when i wasn’t thinking about how i looked to others, inside, i felt pleased, special, and grateful for this new configuration that was fitting me so damn well.
that night, we were getting ready to go to a reggae club in nw. i felt fine as fuck in my jean skirt, black sequined halter with my girls all the way perked, both from rainbow. i had on the fresh j’s they had bought me, and my lil fro was shiny, golden, and the curls were popping. i met them at the apartment they had not too far from my dorm at howard and joined in the pregaming.
i was turned all the way up. i remember dancing on the green and white tiles in their bright-ass kitchen, twirling and falling into ray's arms for the juiciest kisses, and us all deciding to not go to the club. mo grabbed me from behind by the waist and whispered in my ear, “sharing is caring, right? sharing is caring.” i turned, kissed him on the neck, and moved up toward his ear and said, “sharing is caring.” i didn't know where that came from, but i thought it was cute.
the atmosphere was fire, filled with the kind of energy that makes you feel invincible and untouchable. the music was loud, the bass vibrating through our bodies, amplifying our excitement and the sense of intimacy that was growing between us. the three of us moved seamlessly together, like we were choreographed by some unseen force. we decided to stay in, making our own party. the living room became our dance floor, the kitchen our bar. ray and mo took turns showing off their moves, making me laugh and feel alive in a way that only their presence could. i felt free, unjudged, and utterly myself.
eventually mo and I made our way to the bedroom. we had sex and as always, i was satisfied but still hungry for ray, who had just come in with the tequila bottle. “sharing is caring” he said and poured us all double shots. i was surprised mo hurried and got up as they don’t usually separate like that. Before I could be bothered ray had turned me over on all fours and was talking his shit as we started to fuck. i don’t know if we even climaxed. i was fucked up and ready to go to sleep. i fell out, forward on the bed and he didn’t crash down with me.
instead, he left … and someone else i didn't know came in.
in the room. inside me.
and then another followed.
and then another followed.
and another person coming in after the last.
i stopped counting.
i don’t remember fighting, moving, crying, nothing. just lying frozen. being manhandled. feeling dead as i left myself that night.
when ray and mo spoke to me after, i couldn’t hear them. they took me home and i don’t know what we said to one another. i just know i crashed – hard. stopped going to classes, couldn’t face my friends, couldn’t feel safe anywhere.
mid-semester, sophomore year at howard – the dream school i’d worked so hard to attend – and i was drowning. failing. barely functioning. the trauma had stolen my voice, my focus, my sense of self. but something in me somewhere still wanted to live. even with all that pain swirling through me, some tiny part of me knew what to do: call mom and dad.
one thing my parents would always do is bring me home. no questions asked. and they did. thank you mom and dad. even though i couldn’t tell them what really happened – how could i, when they’d shamed me so deeply for loving my body and exploring my sexuality back in middle and high school? those memories/wounds were still fresh. but even with that past between us, i needed and trusted them. so i let them hold me, love me in the ways they could. let them help me withdraw from howard and find me another path to my degree – one that wouldn’t require me to walk past that apartment, to risk seeing those men, to sit in classrooms trying to learn while my body was still frozen in that night. they helped me persist.
some kinds of care we can receive even from imperfect sources. some kinds of love can hold us even when understanding isn’t fully there.
breathe with me now. if you need to pause, do so. place a hand on your heart, another on your belly. feel your breath move through you. you are here, now, safe in this moment. know that i am, too.
reclaiming my poly identity
what i didn’t realize then was how deeply this trauma would affect my relationship with my own identity. for many years afterward, i denied a fundamental part of myself: i have the capacity to love more than one person at a time - your gworl is poly. and i had mistakenly attributed my pain to the relationship structure rather than to the unhealed harm-doers who had violated my trust and my body.
avoiding anything that reminds us of our pain is a common response to trauma, even if that means cutting off parts of ourselves that brought us joy. i had felt so natural in that relationship before the violence, so authentic in my connection with both ray and mo. There had been a rightness to it that i couldn’t explain at the time, a sense that i’d discovered a way of loving that aligned with my true self.
but after that night, i buried those feelings deep. i convinced myself that polyamory was dangerous, that it had led to my trauma. i forced myself into monogamous relationships that never quite fit, always feeling like i was trying to thrive in soil that wasn’t mixed for my specific roots. surviving but never fully blooming.
i wonder how many of you have disowned parts of yourselves after trauma? how many identities, desires, or ways of being have you locked away, believing they were the source of your pain rather than the context in which harm occurred? can you send some love and compassion to that part of yourself now? you deserve, sweetheart.
it would take decades before i could separate the violence of that night from the authentic joy i’d felt in loving more than one person. before i could understand that the problem wasn’t polyamory, or my sexual freedom, it was betrayal, violation, and the absence of consent. before i could reclaim that part of my identity without shame or fear.
seeking sanctuary
those five transformative days with coach changed everything. besides processing this specific trauma, i learned crucial truths about myself: i never want to be on substances when I have sex, and that i need a pace that’s slower than others in most things - I move and process slow, and that’s just that. such good work happened.
the most important lesson might be this: pay attention to how black femmes create soft spaces for black folks to heal. seek out those spaces when you need them. but here’s the key: you want the real deal, the kind that stitches your soul back together. you want to find the people and pathways that are going to align with who and where you are. how? observe the black femmes around you. the ones who exude wellness, groundedness, wisdom, and love, for themselves and other black folks. who are they?
for me, it was shena, then a “work” friend (cackling at this title now, more on this friendship journey later). In the summer of 2020, as we collaborated on a project, i asked her about healers. she recommended her most recent one. I reached out, felt her energy, and sensed something different. my coach stood apart from every mental health professional i’d encountered (and trust me, as someone with a master’s in school counseling and phd in psychology, i’d met quite a few). yet, I trusted her enough to begin this journey. over time, we delved deep.
take a moment now to reflect on who in your life exhibits this kind of healing presence. perhaps it’s someone you already know, or someone you’ve observed from afar. notice what qualities draw you to them. these are clues about what you need in your own healing journey.
in life, we don’t always have friends like shena, who can introduce us to people like my coach. however, even if these black femmes aren’t part of our immediate circle, we can still find them. my social media feeds are teeming with these healing baddies. i’m convinced that if i dm’d them and asked about their healers, some would respond - even without knowing me - because that’s what well, grounded, wise, and loving black femmes do when we have capacity. we show up for each other.
coming home to ourselves
i say it all the time cause i mean it: the journey to healing isn’t linear. y’all know that. it's messy, sometimes unconventional, and deeply personal. but it’s possible. even from the most unimaginable wounds, we can find our way back to ourselves. different, yes. forever changed, certainly. but whole in ways we never thought possible.
part of that wholeness, for me, has been reclaiming my poly identity and embracing it as an authentic expression of how i love. it’s been about remembering i deserve pleasure. and learning to separate the violence done to me from the loving relationships i’m capable of creating. understanding that the harm came not from loving multiple people or being open to pleasure in this way, but from people who violated trust and consent.
in the quiet aftermath of that healing experience, the truth settled deep in my bones: sweetheart, we deserve healing spaces made for us, by us. most conventional therapy wasn’t built with our fullness in mind. it wasn’t designed to hold our polyamorous hearts, our complex family dynamics, or the specific ways gendered racial trauma lives in our bodies. we need healers who don’t flinch when we bring our whole selves - who don’t see our identities as “interesting case studies” but as beautiful, complex realities. i needed coachycoach's cocoon because it was a place where i didn't have to translate myself or shrink to fit someone else’s understanding. and we all deserve that kind of space.
as we continue to seed softness together, i invite you to dig deeper:
what voice inside you has been silenced the longest that now feels closer to ready to speak?
if you could create the perfect healing space, what would it contain? who would be there?
when you imagine yourself fully reclaimed and whole, what are you doing? how do you move through the world?
before we close, place a hand on your heart if that feels right. feel its steady rhythm. this is the rhythm of life continuing, of resilience in action. you have survived everything that has happened to you so far. you are still here, still breathing, still capable of healing and joy. i honor that in you, as i hope you can honor it in yourself.
remember, dear ones, that in sharing our stories, we can create ripples of possibility for others. your healing matters, not just for you, but for all of us who are learning to come home to ourselves, fully, authentically. without leaving any essential parts behind.
from the sweet home of my own reintegrated body,
della
Wow thank you.
“some kinds of care we can receive even from imperfect sources“