My anger ties like a rope around my neck Slowing choking me until my words leave my lips in a whisper I wish I knew how to be angry I wish I knew how it feels for my breath speed up and my hands throw stuff Causing damage the way it was caused to me But I can’t .. ..I won’t My anger finds comfort in my bones, making them ache My back bends and breaks at the constant restraint of holding my rage Anger looks like alcohol bottles Shiny Seagrams, extra dry Anger looks like droopy eyes Hunched shoulders and stacks of medical bills Anger looks like kept secrets lunchmeat, and bible study Anger looks like denial, delusion, and despair Anger looks like me If I could picture how angry looks, it would be five feet tall. It would have a full face, bright eyes, and a smile It would leave early while others stayed a while Anger feels like a long lost friend I remember how it looks, never truly understood how it felt, and yearned for the day it comes back to me

stay with me when I say that I am angry, Black, and a woman but i am not an angry black woman I am not the caricature America created to fulfill its own capitalist needs but a result of the people's acceptance of who America has written me off to be so if you hear a growl in my voice, don't use it to fill your own biases from my course, curly roots to the curve of my hips before I speak, my words and tone are already dismissed so sometimes my growl is the only way you'll hear me you don't blame the bear when it is poked but you constantly blame me my ancestral rage has become my super power working its way into my voice when I speak making my words scream to be free

Coleman, Bre'Anna, "GOD’S GOT ME:THE INTERSECTION OF FAITH AND MENTAL HEALING" (2025). Honors Theses. 3241. https://egrove.olemiss.edu/hon_thesis/3241

I pray that God release people from the shackles of feeling the need to remove me from the pedestals they placed me on when I never asked to be there. Recently, I started my podcast, Divine Intervention, which has been a breath of fresh air regarding where I currently am in life. The transition from college to the workforce has been a whirlwind experience, and as I learn, I realize that this phase of my life will be dedicated to learning how to navigate myself. During my episode, Grounded & Rooted in You, I talked deeply about how I've spent most of my life struggling to navigate others. I went into spaces, situations, relationships, and opportunities, prepared to navigate through other people's mess while placing my own to the side. Now, I use the word mess to describe emotions, dynamics, and, honestly, anything that comes with interpersonal communication and working with others towards a collective goal. I prioritized the comfort of other people and left my needs to the side, genuinely believing that they would be kind enough to ask me as I asked them. After taking time for myself, I realized that the true birthplace of this space, my blog and podcast, was created before I even knew it existed. It was created back when I was growing up in the Mississippi Delta, when I would journal about my day and write poems and songs about the things on my mind. This space was created when I submitted poems to literary magazines under an alias in middle school and spent my days listening to music and building stories and worlds in my head while teaching myself yoga and gymnastics in my backyard. This space is a result of being tired of waiting for others to see me, being courageous enough to see myself, and being bold enough to dare anyone who wishes to take a peek into the inner workings of my thoughts. For a long time in my life, I thought I struggled with pedestals and perception. Pedestals represent the reality of growing up as a little Black girl who was called smart or intelligent before you truly understood the weight of holding the title. When I first picked up a book, it wasn't to score high, but to escape into a world where my reality no longer existed. Over time, I fell in love with storylines, plots, and characters and began building worlds of my own. Perception, to me, represents the assumptions, ideals, and expectations placed on an individual based on someone else's belief of who you are or what their vision allows them to see. Since I was younger, I was always told who I was. I never really felt like I was allowed the space to exist as myself. I was always seen as extensions of other people, or simply as the academic awards I received. The parts that people labeled as "good" were allowed to stay, and they soon transformed into the very thing I was later insulted for. And the parts labeled "bad" were tucked away for only me to experience in sweet solitude. I thought I struggled with pedestals because I always seemed to find myself placed on one, whether I wanted to or not. Growing up, I remember adults and other kids feeling the need to humble me and show me I wasn't as smart as I believed myself to be. I was smart when it was convenient for others, but I could never say those words about myself because then I'd be seen as vain. Being a high achiever, I was consistently placed in groups or conversations that I didn't resonate with. I have repeatedly had to sit through, " You should really rest. You work so much all the time," and "You're always reading or doing something. You should really take a break." I've heard many lectures on burnout, been given advice I've never asked for, and have been frequently told that I "aim for perfection," which was enough to make me believe I had a problem I've never identified with. Frequently, I have been told that I crave perfection when it was a goal I never set for myself, but a goal others believed for me to have for myself. It gets to a point when it genuinely starts to feel infuriating, like the world is set on defining me for me, and for a long time, I allowed it. I understand that some gentle touches come from a place of care, but often, I feel subjected to conversations that are the equivalent of someone telling you about yourself while simultaneously knowing nothing about you or even caring enough to ask. I began my own personal journey with mental health and disconnected my self-worth from my achievements in middle school, so each conversation after this self-realization just felt like a conversation to endure rather than a genunine hand for help. I began my journey early because I noticed that my whole identity was attached to this idea of being "smart," and no one ever asked about my favorite color, TV show, or what I genuinely liked to do. Whenever someone wished to insult me, my intelligence was also the first thing to be attacked. This is probably why, even as an adult, nothing frustrates me more than when people first meet me, and my resume is the first thing they wish to discuss. Quite frankly, I feel like my personal interests are much more facilitating than an internship or the many areas I've studied. If you ask me, my interests behind the studying are what make it worthwhile. But the irony isn't in the lectures. The irony is that people give speeches and advice when they actually don't mean it. They tell you not to tie your identity to accolades while simultaneously making your accolades the foundation and center of their perception of you. It wins first place in each conversation and briefly follows every introduction. Our society's value system makes it hard not to conform to allowing achievements and external validation to consume you. It is the core of their idea of who you are, and they expect you to beam at their compliments, while also listening sternly to their lectures on self-worth. Throughout college, one of my largest struggles was understanding how one can act unaware of how ingrained this is. You can try to cover it with false self-care conversations, but until the society we live in changes, conversations are empty promises. We can start there, but surely, I won't be satisfied if that is where it ends. Words that aren't backed by action are simply gestures to seem kind, and that does more for your subconscious than anyone else. It creates a moral blanket to cover the conversation and make you feel less materialistic or vain than if it were never mentioned. I left conversations feeling like I had problems to solve when the problems were never ones I had for myself, but ones given to me by other people's idea of who I am. There are so many friendships and relationships I've been in where the primary topic of conversation would be my "work habit" and how I need to "stop doing so much," when I was doing perfectly fine. My frustration has never come from the work I do, but the people I have to engage with in order to do it. It is interacting with people who think they know me without having a conversation or even caring enough to see me beyond the mold they mentally created for me to live in. I frequently feel weighed down by conversations and projections rather than the weight of my personal projects or efforts. My writing, photography, poems, stories, and community work are my purpose. I do the things I do because I love them, not because I'm searching for a medal or driven by external validation. I am blessed enough to be actively working towards my goals, and it feels like a gift given to my soul for being on this earth and navigating my time here. I don't aim for perfection, but to know that I tried my best and put my best foot forward is all I've ever needed for myself. I just need people to understand that I don't need to be managed, but simply allowed to exist.

When I was a little girl, my uncle always called me Cinderella. Ever since, I have wondered what my version of the ball is and when I would finally be recognized as the woman with the blue shoe. Since I had never dreamed of marriage or meeting a man, I always figured it would be the moment when all the pieces seemed to make sense, and I realized what everything was for. At first, I thought it would be going to college. It is funny how the moments we seem to wait our entire life for breeze by in a matter of seconds. I went from awkwardly using Apple Maps to my classes to being able to find the closest parking spots while avoiding the parking and transportation van, all quicker than I realized. ( Sometimes I couldn't dodge them well enough and ended up paying for parking tickets, but that is neither here nor there.) But today, in Little Rock, Arkansas, I think I finally realized what my version of fitting my blue shoe is. As I sat in the Robinson Center, wiping my eyes and watching a live ballet version of Cinderella, the realization hit me. Cinderella's time at the ball was when she was finally able to let go and be herself. She no longer held the label of who her stepmother or sisters told her she was. She was no longer a servant or one forced to live the life forced upon her by circumstance. She was free. She was happy. She was simply being herself, and that was how she met the Prince. Meeting the prince for Cinderella wasn't a moment of truth for her or everyone else in her life. Cinderella's stepmother and her siblings always knew the truth. They were aware of her value, but rather than uplift her, they decided to make her their servant. It took the prince one introduction to remember Cinderella, and the memory was enough for him to search the whole village for her. But Cinderella reverted to her daily life, and if the prince never came looking for the woman who lost her shoe, she would've never been revealed as the woman in blue. Her fair Godmother gave her one night to make memories that would last a lifetime. Hell, even Cinderella's fairy godmother knew her true value. Whenever I hear the story of Cinderella, I wonder if she knew her value. After years of being subjected to the cruelty of her stepmother and step-siblings, I wondered if their actions blurred her vision of who she was. It was with this thought that I wondered if maybe my version of the ball or fitting into the blue shoe isn't others realizing who I am or what I have to offer, maybe it is me finally realizing it for myself.

I’ve never been very fond of the words “jealousy” or “envy.” I‘ve always felt like they are self-centered words to describe experiences when people are behaving negatively towards you. It places you at the center of their world, almost as a centerpiece to their experience. I believe one of the greatest ways society fails us is by not teaching emotional regulation. While we have been normalizing mental health, to me at least, it seems to be in a performative manner. Full of face masks, pedicures, and massages, instead of the deep emotional and mental work that goes into truly building a relationship with yourself and understanding who you are. In eighth grade, I noticed something about myself. I placed all of my worth and emotions into my academic capabilities, so much so that bad grades could ruin my whole day. I walked on eggshells because of how my parents would respond. I was an “A” student. I could make anything less, or it would be assumed that I was “distracted” or had other things at the forefront of my mind. I realized early that my worth to others was valued at my academic output rather than in the joy of learning and accepting that you won’t be great at everything. That realization was when I really realized how important my relationship with myself was. I picked up on small things about myself and others. Even when they sought to insult me, it always tied back to my intelligence and how smart they perceived me to be. After some journaling, I realized that I needed to disconnect from it. While I stayed a high performing student, I didn’t make it my whole identity. I found ways to describe myself outside of what I could provide in a classroom. I’m saying all of this to say, we aren’t taught how to do this. To begin these conversations within ourselves. Either you are blessed enough to be born into a home where you are taught this, or by the grace of God, you eventually learn how important your source of self-regard is. This ties back to instances where the words “jealousy” and “envy” are used because, rather than viewing life as a culmination of our experiences, we view everything we possess in the moment or have possessed as extensions of ourselves. We don’t view them as things that were blessed to receive or inherit. We view them as connecting pieces to our identity. The problem with this is that when other people are interacting with you, and, sometimes consciously or unconsciously, projecting the contents of their self-regard onto you, you are more than likely to perceive it as a slight at you. Sometimes people are sorting through how your presence makes them feel, and when it makes them uncomfortable with themselves as a signal to reflect within, they tend to project outwards instead. This is because we aren’t taught true reflection or emotional regulation. In turn, this pours into our relationships and how we navigate with each other. I can’t remember how many situations I’ve been in where I’ve either been the offended or the offender. But I am learning to view it as a chance to reflect on my humanity within myself, rather than a chance to center myself. I refuse to make myself the center of anyone’s experience rather than my own. While this doesn’t make anyone’s actions better, it makes the line from Lauryn Hill, “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do,” mean a lot more to me than it once did.

Sometimes I wonder who I would be Without your expectations of me Your reality forces itself into my own and erases any sense of self I believed I had ___ So who would I be without your presence? Since my existence is just as an extension to your phone line Looping me into your endeavors, efforts, and more ___ I often think of how I would laugh or talk without you nearby How my lips would form the jokes I speak when you’re not seen by my eyes Maybe one day, I will be able to figure out how to be myself without wisps of you here ___ Or maybe that’s the day I find out who I really am

My biggest fear is to Lose My Mind I am scared that my intuition is really indecision That those nights my grandma woke up in delusion Is simply an illusion to all I might become I am scared that my self awareness is really unfairness That I project onto myself Choking out my ability to see me as nothing other than a bomb ready to explode I am scared that all I am and all I will ever be is a narcissistic bitch That the traits I see force its way into my family are bound to force their way through me I am scared because I always feel like I am drowning Like my mind is running and I am chasing And when I finally hold onto it I scream and cry Because I never want to let it go

I gasp for air. Shaking in a cold sweat. Your piercing eyes haunt my dreams. Their deviance and untruth prick my honey toned skin. And while I was choked by their wishes for me to be silent, my soul screamed and screeched to be heard. You. The demon who haunted me from under the glass kitchen table. The one who’s greed swallowed the happiness my family never got to experience. Like a tight belt around a full stomach, you were always restricted by the lies you tricked yourself and the rest into believing. The demon. The preacher. The pastor.

According to the Media I am an Angry Black Woman So when you take one look at me what do you see Do you see the fire in my eyes fueled by the lies that white supremacy writes about me Do you hips make you assume I am impure Does my aura make you unsure Of whether I am angry or hyperseuxal Despite my pain being integral to the history you try so hard to pretend that you can’t see But whenever I hear “why are black women so angry” It takes everything in me not to embrace that Angry Black Woman narrative The media constantly throws in our face Imagine what it is like to be disliked by everyone, even your own race All I want is to be seen as a human and not a doll “Oh she’s so pretty” “That’s my smart black friend” Even their compliments crawl across my skin Because they constantly remind me I am in Keep your back handed expressions and microaggressions to yourself Because when I snap back I am angry despite you being ignorant to your wealth But wouldn’t you be angry too if you had no room to even exist Wouldn’t you be angry if black men approached you assuming you’ll be their next sexual interest If white men struggle to acknowledge that you even exist Or if white women were walking on eggshells afraid to mistakenly send you a diss Imagine having two identities and they contradict themselves When you’re black and a woman You don’t get the virtue a white woman is pictured as Or the army that stands behind a black man You become the angry, violent, hyper sexual black woman The label the media loves to place on our chests And when I respond back everyone expects me to digress What if I am tired of being a walking stone to other people’s success Or I am tired of being another black woman who raises her hands in protest For the narrative of me to be twisted Into the demon you wish I was