Attia Taylor on Storytelling, Black Wellness, and the Power of Womanly
The founder of Womanly Magazine on the importance of Black women’s stories and why creating safe spaces for honest conversation is essential to collective well-being.
For Attia Taylor, artist, public health advocate, and founder of Womanly Magazine, a healthy future begins inside classrooms, homes, and within everyday conversations. A healthy future, she says, begins with access to real health education at an early age. Without that foundation of knowledge, people grow up navigating their bodies, choices, and health systems with fear, shame, or silence—all of which can carry into and throughout adulthood.
Taylor’s path reflects that absence. As a curious young girl, she struggled with basic health routines while in boarding school and faced a culture of avoidance around sex and menstruation. To combat this, she relied on websites like gURL.com to answer questions about puberty and sexuality that she couldn’t bring to her family. “Since I've been doing this work, I’ve heard people suggest that prevention means don't do it—avoid, avoid, avoid,” she recalls. “But that's not how this works. We're humans. We are going to go through things and experience things, and the best we can do is be prepared.”
That gap between curiosity and guidance eventually fueled her work. After college, Taylor joined Planned Parenthood, where she was immersed in public health for the first time. The experience was transformative. It showed her how much could be accomplished when people were given accessible, accurate information—and how much remained undone. As a creative and lifelong lover of print, Taylor began to envision something different: a magazine that blended health information with art, storytelling, and culture. That vision became Womanly.
Since its founding, Womanly has carved out a unique space in media by centering Black women’s health and wellness as the starting point and throughline of each issue. Whether covering Black maternal health in the wake of Serena Williams’ widely shared, and harrowing, story of giving birth to her first child or spotlighting the stigma fat Black women face in medical and digital spaces, the publication insists on the value of personal narrative in shaping public understanding. For Taylor, storytelling is not an accessory to health education—it is the education. “Our stories are sacred, and we know history through storytelling,” she says. “Its place in the world is underrated.”
In conversation with Healthy Futures founder Julia Craven, Taylor speaks with the urgency of someone who knows what’s needed: a world where Black women’s experiences are heard, wellness is not gatekept, and building healthy futures begins with telling our truth.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Julia Craven: I’m starting this new thing where I ask people an initial question: What does a healthy future look like to you?
Attia Taylor: That's a deep question. On a level of public health, real health education extended into our school systems at an earlier age. So, whether that's sex education or dental hygiene or nutrition, really weaving health education and preventative health into how we teach ourselves and our children. That will build healthy futures by giving people an opportunity to know what it means to be healthy and what it means to take care of ourselves, because we often don't get that education, and our parents don't always have it either. That's what the future of health looks like for me. That's the future I want to live in.
Based on that, can you share a little about Womanly’s origin story? I’m really interested in what personal experiences led you to create the magazine.
I was a kid who grew up very curious about health, sex, and my body. I used to read this website called gURL.com, and I was very interested in the changes in my body during puberty. It was just a natural curiosity for me. When I got older, you know, I realized how much fear I had of happening—like I believed if I had sex, I was going to get a nasty disease. I felt lost in this space. I also found myself with really poor dental hygiene as I got older, from just not knowing the right things to do. I went to boarding schools, so we were not supervised and didn’t have parents who said, “Do this, do that, don't do this, don't drink soda at bedtime before you brush your teeth.” I didn't have a lot of structure, and I realized many other people didn't either.
My mom and others in my family were all suffering from diseases that could have been prevented with education. I started working at Planned Parenthood in my early twenties, and it was my first real job out of college. I was immersed in this world of public health that I had never been in, and I was like, “Oh, this is the right thing for me. This is the right place.” And then it dawned on me, too, that there was space for more education, for more ways to reach people outside of what we do at Planned Parenthood. I still work there.
I love print publications. I love art. I'm a creative person. So, I wondered what I could do to fill this gap. That was the start of making Womanly.
I think a lot of us, especially young Black girls, were inquisitive about our bodies, but we didn’t have a lot of guidance as far as how to navigate those changes. I don't know about you, but my family's big thing was don't have sex, and, if you do, don't get pregnant. When I had to go on birth control, because I had heavy, long periods when they first started, I remember my mom saying, “No, we're not doing that. That's going to encourage her to go out and have sex.” And the doctor was like, “That's literally not how that works.”1
That's very common. Since I've been doing this work, I’ve heard people suggest that prevention means don't do it—avoid, avoid, avoid. But that's not how this works. We're humans. We are going to go through things and experience things, and the best we can do is be prepared.
When I got my period, I actually hid it from my mom because I was so—I didn't have a relationship like that with her. When I went to boarding school, I'd go home on the weekends, and I hid my underwear because she did my laundry at that point. She called me once and said, “Did you get your period?” And I was like, “Yes.” But I didn't want to talk about it. I was in 8th grade, and I just couldn't tell her. I would pretend like I had a headache when I wanted to get Advil, but I had cramps so bad.
I want people to have better relationships, talk openly, and say what they went through. I’d love to know about my mom's first period. One day, if I become a mom, I don't want to have these blocks either. I want my kid to be able to say, “Hey Mom, I got my period. What do I do?”
How have those experiences inspired the content at Womanly? I specifically remember the Black maternal health issue from a couple of years ago, but I'm interested in how you use Black wellness and experiences to craft issues.
The Black maternal health issue specifically came out of that giant Vogue article a couple of years ago, when Serena Williams talked about her experience. We were wondering what our next issue would be, and I suggested Black maternal health. We wanted to share information about how to advocate for yourself at the doctor and stats around why Black women are dying in childbirth and postpartum. That one was a no-brainer because with everything that we put into Womanly, the first people we think of are Black women. Then we try to see where we can have an opportunity to expand that—so Black women, women of color, women in general, and then it goes from there, but it always starts with Black women for us. Reading submissions for that issue was devastating because so many people were like, “I can relate, I can relate, I can relate.”
Are there any stories that have stood out to you? Ones that you can't shake?
We just did our issue, The Future is Fat, on fatness and how fat people navigate healthcare. Professor Cheyenne M. Davis told her story about being dogged as a fat person online. She spoke about how people sent salads to her house and put her address online.2
That's when I had a wake-up call. We are nasty to each other out here. Fat people are dealing with something dark and evil just for existing. I don’t want to insert myself into this issue; I'm not a fat person. I've never had that experience. Still, I learned a lot through these stories. I can't understand why there's so much hate for Black people and Black women. I keep seeing that theme throughout the issues, particularly in The Future is Fat, because there was so much targeted hate—at the doctor’s office, on airplanes, online—for fat Black women through each story. And it's not talked about enough. It's not given enough attention, and few spaces are safe enough for fat Black women to feel seen and heard.
It's mind-blowing how cruel people can be. Sometimes I still can't process it. It's very jarring to hear a story like the one you’ve shared. Doxxing someone because they're telling their story is just bonkers to me.
I was warned that I might be in trouble because of this issue. So far, I have not experienced anything. But some of the people whose stories are in the issue suggested providing tips for how to stay safe online if you’re a fat person sharing your experiences, which we included.
We live in very spooky online times. I want to talk about the backlash that people get for sharing their stories online. I know we've been talking about it, but when you told that story, it reminded me how there's always been this underlying hatred and vitriol for Black women who speak out. We've seen that throughout history, and I immediately thought about Fannie Lou Hamer when you told me that story.
Honestly, I don't even share my story online. I'll do interviews, but I'm nervous to share about my health, and it's honestly because of my family. Even within our own communities, there is a lot of shame about speaking your truth. And it starts there, right? If we don't feel proud of ourselves and we don't feel proud of our stories and who we are, if I can't even talk to my mom about my period, how am I going to talk to strangers?
I feel more comfortable sharing other people's stories than I do my own. You know, I think about Michelle Obama a lot. She’s a Black woman on a huge platform, and the hate I see online for her for even breathing? It’s unbelievable.
It is. The misogyny and even the transphobia behind it are so jarring. It's deep. Her existence hits a nerve in our society.
Even when that statue came out of the Black woman in Times Square.
The statue!
Not even a real person. A statue. That's how deep the nerve goes.
It's been spoken of quite a bit by Angela Davis and bell hooks about how Black women have the loneliest experiences in this country because we don't have white women as allies. We don't have men as allies. And we're asked to be so much. We're asked to be caretakers. We're asked to be powerful and speak up—but not too much. You know, there are just so many ways we're walking on eggshells in this society. We can't be too strong. We can't be too weak. We try to be leaders, then it’s, “Oh, there's no way you got this far by yourself.”
It's a complex topic, and I'm grateful for the space to talk about it. I often wonder if I’m ever in a position where people know about me more publicly, are they going to think I just got where I am because I'm Black? (Editor’s Note: Here, Attia is referring to a long-standing racist stereotype that undermines the achievements of Black people by attributing our success not to merit, talent, or hard work, but instead to external factors like diversity initiatives, affirmative action, or quotas.)3
I'll be straight with you. It's bullshit to me that people will accuse Black people of getting into certain spaces simply because we’re Black. And, look, I love being Black. I would never want to be anything but Black. Make me Black in every single lifetime—but let's not pretend that it's a corporate superpower. Don’t gaslight us.
Right! You know good and well… (laughs)
But, to go back to the statue, the amount of vitriol directed toward a regular body type was unnerving. I even saw it from other Black women, especially on TikTok. People said the sculptors just threw her up there, and that she looks sloppy. There was a lot of “Black women don't look like that. We look like this.” I really dislike existing in a society where Black people have to appeal to Eurocentric ideals. I don't think it’s a good sign for community well-being that so many people still feel that way.
No, you're right. You will be punished in every way for not conforming. I think about embracing my natural hair a lot in this [vein]. People think it's easy to show up as your whole self, and it's really not.
For me to just wake up and go to work? That's not a thing. I mean, I can, but the consequences are people thinking I look bad. I don't see a lot of Black women with their hair natural, and I don't blame them, and I don't think it's a bad thing. When I do see a woman with her natural hair out, I pause because I do feel more confident when I wear my afro. I want to be free and not think about who's thinking about me and what somebody else thinks. It's that little bit of internalized hatred. Sometimes I feel like I can't do it because I'm gonna be judged.
We all feel it, and it's important to talk about it. I understand Black women who say you should love yourself regardless—and they are right. We also exist in a society where anti-Blackness is soooooo pervasive. When operating in certain places, it takes a lot of mental strength not to conform to what people expect of you. We should have more honest conversations about that.
I went natural in 2013 after having a relaxer for a while, and I enjoyed having my natural hair out. I had no qualms about it until I got really busy working in a management position. I knew the alternatives4, but I have a sensitive scalp. Everything breaks me out, or gives me eczema. So when I wear braids—and I love braids—my scalp be itching and turning red. Finding someone who does human hair braids in DC for a price that's not a rent payment is too much. My hair was breaking off, so I went and got a keratin treatment.
I’d talked so much about how you shouldn't be putting these chemicals on your hair; they're not healthy, and they're not good for you. All of that's very true—and at the time, the best thing for me was not to deal with my natural texture. And I don’t regret it (laughs). I loved it. It’s since reverted, but it was fantastic because it was so easy. I would wash my hair and blow-dry it, and it was done. I didn't even have to pull out my flat iron.
I just did an interview with a founder using natural products for their braiding hair. We also talked a lot about how perms are causing endocrine disruptions. But what's the alternative? It's expensive to buy natural hair. Going to the salon every week or every two weeks is expensive. This is a tax on Black women. I've spent so much money on my hair, between products, going to the salon, and getting braids.
I also didn't learn about my hair as a kid. My mom still gets perms to this day. She does not know how to do her natural hair, and she didn't know how to do mine. I went to the salon in 7th grade and got a perm. As an adult, I've been learning a new language: my hair. What works? What doesn't work day-to-day? What products do I need? What hair dryer do I need?
A Dyson (laughs).
I got a Shark, actually.
Girl, you need a Dyson. I'm telling you.
All right (laughs).
Considering the scope of this conversation, talk to me about the role of narrative in Black wellness because I think that gets glossed over. It’s so important to tell people's stories whenever we're talking about health and well-being.
Platforms like Reddit, Instagram, and TikTok are popular because we love hearing and learning from each other. I know I learned so much from watching my grandma cook, from watching her and my mother get dressed. So we've learned from each other. I learned a lot of what I know about my body and health from Girlfriends and Living Single. Our stories are so sacred, and we know history through storytelling. Its place in the world is underrated, especially in the stories of Black women. And I wasn't seeing enough of it when reading a magazine, watching a documentary, or reading a news article. Womanly is a hub for our stories to be remembered, to be referenced, and to be shared. Storytelling from a health perspective is so important because you learn that other people are going through what you're going through—especially for Black women, because our experiences are unique.
We have people who are trying to tear us down, tear us apart, and kill us in so many ways. But we're here, and we're still going to be here as long as we can be.
In hindsight, I realize that a lack of knowledge about other uses for birth control clashed with my Mama’s concerns about her baby girl. And, yes, I did go on the birth control.
You can read Davis’ story in the magazine's print edition.
To continue, this belief dismisses our real accomplishments, erases the systemic barriers we have overcome to get to where we are, and frames our presence in professional or academic spaces as unearned or illegitimate. In doing so, it perpetuates the false notion that equity efforts are acts of charity rather than necessary correctives to centuries of exclusion and discrimination.
Meaning braids, wigs, a sew-in, etc.