when softness takes root

on building the foundation for deep healing

content warning: hey loves. this first piece explores sexual trauma, family relationships, and healing journeys. please take care of yourself as you read - get cozy, have some water nearby, and know that you can pause or stop reading at any time. your healing, your pace. 💜

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i want to share something tender with you today. it’s about breathing, about finding your way back to yourself, about what happens when we give ourselves permission to heal slowly and deeply. get comfortable. take a sip of water. we’ll go at your pace.

when we talk about healing, we often skip right to the deep work. but today, i want to share how i learned to build the foundation first - how to create the container strong enough to hold all of our pieces, even the ones we’ve kept hidden.

take a soft breath here. what does foundation mean to you? when you think about times you’ve grown or healed, what supported you? just notice what comes up in your body as you reflect. no need to change anything.

this is a story about finding breath again...

in my early years as a professor, i could feel myself suffocating. i was stuck in this cycle of giving everything away, thinking that’s what dedication looked like. every space felt heavy with anti-blackness - the meetings, the classrooms, the hallways. i kept my poly identity tucked away, afraid of being seen as “too much.” my days stretched to twelve hours, then longer. no room to breathe. no space for my spirit.

A screenshot of wisdom from the Nap Ministry Instagram @thenapministry that I took March 11, 2020. Grateful for the Nap Bishop Tricia Hershey’s ministry, it has been a major source that seeded some softness in my life during this time and now.

what i understand now, but couldn't see then, is that this pattern - this giving away of myself, this silencing of pain, this putting everyone else's needs first - it all started after an early sexual assault. i didn't feel worthy of asking for ease, safety, joy, rest, or comfort for myself.

(pause here if you need to. take care of your body. sip some water. we'll be here when you're ready.)

like many survivors, that trauma scattered my foundation. everything felt disconnected - my body, my spirit, my family. my mind created a story that made sense of the senseless: my body was meant for others, care wasn’t something i could count on. these are the kinds of beliefs many of us develop to survive. what looked like success was really just my trauma working overtime to keep me safe.

it was 2020 when i met ama, my healer. the world was in chaos - pandemic, endless anti-blackness, the exhausting work of trying to create safety for black folks in academia. but ama became my first steady ground. she held space in a way that helped my nervous system remember how to trust. she witnessed me, challenged me, reflected back to me how white supremacy had been squeezing the life from my spirit.

those early sessions were so simple. we just breathed together. she saw how tight my life had become and made space - gentle, sacred space - for air to flow again. the patterns we created still hold me up today. together, we started dreaming new possibilities. i knew pain so well, but hope? hope needed practice. slowly, new visions emerged. life beyond academia's walls. space to exist fully. i started setting boundaries. seeing doctors. eating real meals. finding moments of rest. small breaths leading to deeper ones.

by 2021, i knew i couldn’t stay in spaces that kept me gasping. i wrote in my resignation letter: “racial trauma is real. racial trauma is real. racial trauma is real. i need to preserve my wellness and create more liberation for myself and my people - black folks, queer bipoc.”

i was in my hometown, supporting and being supported by family in Aug 2020 while campus was closed due to COVID. During that time I was co-leading this huge program - Academics for Black Survival and Wellness - and built my personal website. I knew I needed one if I was going to go independent. This is from the photo shoot from the hometown homie and photographer extraordinaire Albert Cheeks www.albertcheeks.com.

leaving meant reimagining everything - especially how i showed up for my students. i had to find new ways to support them while taking care of myself. every day felt like a delicate balance between wanting to be there for them and needing to shed the ‘mammy’ role that kept me breathless.

it wasn’t easy. i jumped into the unknown carrying student loan debt, one donor’s faith, and a single contract. i had to keep reminding myself that my wellness wasn't just allowed - it was necessary for creating real change.

if you’re feeling steady, take a moment here. think about a time you chose freedom despite fear. what gave you courage? what wisdom carried you? what dreams pulled you forward?

i started building something new - not just for me, but for all of us to breathe freely. instead of fighting for small gasps in toxic spaces, i chose to create something different. i kept mentoring students, but on my own terms. i built healing spaces grounded in black feminist love. when one space couldn't align with those values, i learned it was okay to walk away.

through it all, ama held me up. without traditional support, i started building anyway. terrifying? yes. beautiful? also yes. i learned that building new foundations means trusting yourself to know when something isn’t serving you, and having the courage to create what you need - even when the world says you should be grateful for crumbs.

a moment of softness: find a comfy position. feel the air on your skin. take some deep breaths. notice how even breathing freely needs foundation - space, safety, permission. your healing journey might need some pre-work too. whisper to yourself: “i honor my pace. each small step - each boundary, each rest, each ‘no’ to what hurts me - builds the ground for deeper healing.”

remember: this work takes time, and that’s okay. before i could face my deepest wounds, i needed space to breathe, safe people to hold me, and courage to leave what hurt me. some days we stumble, some days we soar. every tiny step matters, especially in a world that rarely lets black femmes, survivors, trans and queer folks heal at our own pace. but each time we choose ourselves - even in the smallest ways - we make more room for collective healing.

wherever you are in your journey - just noticing you need air, gathering support, taking first steps away from harm, or diving into deeper work - know that every breath counts. you're held in community here.

with softness and strength,

della

✨ gentle reminder: drink some water, move your body, or rest - whatever you need after receiving this story. take care of your tender heart.