The title of this post is a lie, most of the time. Usually I’m happy to write more open-ended things; dealing in the land of theory and abstract. I enjoy the many little things, as many creatives do, and want to make sense of all that life has to offer. I make use of myself to help others see things; holding up mirrors and windows for people to look out in and in. This past week though, I am continually reminded that we aren’t taught what to do when we see ourselves in the mirror; facing the you inside of you, our underneath truths surfacing in the expressions of our faces.

I didn’t want to write this blog post because I could not bear to face my grandma. Her life was cut short by the very industry she gave it too; years worked as a nurse in the same hospital, only to pass there too. Helping black women and children through years of health, and yet she could not help herself. Working constantly by the condition of her upbringing; she avoided the aches in her body, the tiredness in her face, her hands battered by years, her mind overwhelmed with worries. She was alone in her struggles; I was still too young to help nor understand when she went. I am thinking of her voice when I hear the way the medical complex treats black women and I sigh a deep sigh, one I’m sure I share with ancestors long past my time .

I didn’t want to write this blog post because I could not bear to face my mother. Her aspirations were dimmed with my birth; she worked herself so hard inside and outside the home to provide for her kids, resulting in a myriad of medical issues she left undiagnosed until now. The worry she has when getting new doctors, praying the next one will believe her and continue her medicine. Glossing over minor hiccups because what other choice could she have? Health hinders progress; A lesson she’s finally beginning to reverse.

I didn’t want to write this post because I couldn’t bear to face myself; a culmination of the experiences of the women before me. How much have I learned? I avoid the horrors of reproductive thoughts, only to fall into the trap of overwork again. “Health does not hinder progress!” I say. But I know that if I go to the hospital for that ache, how much of my life will I lose? If I so choose to start a family, how much of the work will fall on me?