I first learned about the LGBTQIA+ community in sixth grade, though the term was different then and I didn’t understand what it meant. There was a classmate who had come out as transgender, and it just became a topic of conversation with everyone. Some kids just didn’t seem to take it seriously, but I do remember feeling curious and unsure how to react. I had never heard the term “transgender” before, and I didn’t know what it meant to transition. One day during lunch, that classmate explained to a small group of us what being transgender meant and why it was so important for them to live as their true self. It was the first time I realized not everyone’s experience with gender fit into the categories I had been taught. Looking back, I’m grateful for that moment because it challenged me to think differently at such a young age. Growing up, I started reading more about the community and how to be respectful or supportive. It was impactful to hear someone speak so openly about their struggles, especially at an age when so many of us were just trying to understand ourselves. It taught me to listen to other people’s experiences and to respect their identities. That experience shifted my mind to be more open to empathy and to have more curiosity that should continue to work on things like the way I approach the world today.

Growing up, mental health was just one of those things we never talked about. Within my community, illnesses such as depression or anxiety, or even everyday stresses, were looked at as weaknesses, something you had to bottle inside you or defeat on your own. And I will be honest; I am guilty of once believing the same stereotypes-that people who struggled with their mental health were somehow less capable or resilient. I lived by these assumptions ever since, feeling that if anything similar happened to me, I would simply get over it somehow. Life does not work that way, however, and finally, after a while, I ended up suffering in silence. The burden of all the things was more than I can bear, and then I realized how my beliefs about mental health had been not only wrong but damaging-too much to myself and others.

It wasn’t until I faced my own battles with anxiety and depression that I truly understood how damaging stigma could be. I remember feeling so isolated and ashamed, somehow convinced that I was failing, that I was somehow “weak” for needing help. But in time, through some therapy, support from friends, and my own reflections, I came to learn that struggling with mental health does not make you weak; it makes you human. The shame I grew up with was based on illusions. As I regained my freedom from stigma, self-compassion fostered my journey. Now, I see that there is nothing different between mental health and physical health. And for healing to take place-not just for me, but for everyone-silence and stigma surrounding mental health have to be broken.

I want to preface by saying that I have always been against the idea of children for a multitude of reasons. One main reason why I do not intend to have children is because it is what is expected of me by society. That’s the thing to do when you grow up, find a husband, get married and have children and provide for those children. I have always gone along with what society expects of me, however, this is not something I was going to given into so easily. As of recently though, I have found myself more and more open to the idea of having children. 

This new development is a slight possibility as I still sit with my many concerns that come with being a mother. One concern I would like to focus on is the maternal mortality rate for Black women. I was fortunate enough to take a Gender and Women’s studies class in highschool that has enlightened me to the struggles of women all throughout our world’s history. We discussed topics such as the women’s suffrage movement, gender equality, intersectionality, gender roles, gender and sexuality, female genital mutilation and last but not least Black maternal mortality rates. The discourse of maternal mortality rate in Black women specifically was a touching subject as I have experienced first hand how black women are ignored and pushed aside in health care. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize just how real and dangerous the situation is for Black women when it comes to maternal healthcare. The statistics are staggering—Black women are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications than white women. What’s even more concerning is that many of these deaths are preventable. It’s not just about access to healthcare; it’s about the quality of care received. Time and time again, Black women’s pain is dismissed, and their concerns go unheard, contributing to this shocking disparity.

This issue is deeply rooted in systemic racism that plagues our healthcare system. Black women are often treated as less credible when they express discomfort or medical concerns, and that bias can have deadly consequences. High-profile cases, like that of Serena Williams, who almost lost her life due to medical professionals not listening to her about her own body, highlight the urgency of this problem. The fear of being ignored or mistreated by healthcare providers is something I would constantly have to consider if I ever chose to become a mother. This reality adds yet another layer to my apprehension about having children, and it’s a conversation we need to have more openly. Every Black woman deserves to feel safe, heard, and cared for in every stage of her pregnancy—and yet, that’s still far from the reality many face today. So, with all of this weighing on my mind, I can’t help but ask myself: Would I survive childbirth?

Theories of embodiment explore how our physical bodies influence our thoughts, emotions, and interactions with the world. At its core, embodiment emphasizes that our experiences are not just in our minds but are deeply connected to our physical being. For example, when we feel nervous, our bodies react—our heart races, our palms sweat. This connection between mind and body shows that how we feel physically can impact our mental state. Similarly, the way we carry ourselves, like standing tall or slouching, can affect our confidence and how others perceive us. In everyday life, embodiment helps us understand how culture and society shape our physical experiences. Different cultures have varying norms about body image, movement, and expression. For instance, in some cultures, personal space is highly valued, while in others, close proximity is common and comforting. By recognizing these differences, we can appreciate how our bodies communicate social cues and navigate relationships. Ultimately, theories of embodiment remind us that our physical presence is a vital part of who we are and how we relate to the world around us.