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I’ve been alive for 12,048 days, and that’s kind of bananas to think about. I’m taking it as a gentle invitation to pause and take a good look around at this big, glorious life I’ve built for myself. When I first got on the Megabus from Durham, North Carolina, to D.C. with $600 to live in a rented room in a house I’d never seen, I was excited, but scared that this audacious move wouldn’t work out. I’m humbled that I’ve done more in a decade than most people will ever do because that is something to be proud of. Now, whenever I doubt myself, I think about that brave 22-year-old who chose to jump and see if she could fly. I owe her so much.
In her honor, I’m focusing on making space for joy, curating stillness, and fostering a sense of peace that’s been hard-won but deeply needed. I spent years chasing productivity, perfection, and accomplishment like it was my only lifeline. I woke up early, packed my days with ten to twelve big tasks, and was convinced that the more I did, the safer I’d be. I optimized my routines, honed my habits, and pushed myself past exhaustion, hoping to build a future where I could finally rest without guilt. That drive was how I went about protecting myself. Financial stability was my anchor in an unpredictable world. This strong survival instinct makes sense to me, knowing that a deep fear of returning to poverty is what drove 22-year-old Julia to get on that bus.
That fear also informed my first few years of engaging with wellness. My goal was to optimize myself into a perfect, healthy being to be as productive as possible in pursuing the spoils of capitalism. Publicly, it was a successful pursuit. Privately, I paid the cost of not achieving equilibrium between what my ambition desired and what my body, mind, and soul needed. Instead of relief, I felt the tightness of panic attacks clutch my chest in the back of Ubers from the office. I felt the exhaustion in my bones following another long night where my mind wouldn’t slow. I allowed the relentless pressure to do, earn, and prove that I am enough to consume me—all because I was trying to outrun the fear that everything would fall apart if I stopped.
Eventually, things began to unravel due to my propensity for self-neglect. After emphatically reporting on the pandemic, I was so burned out—and triggered, due to it bringing up memories of my past work covering police violence—that I had to leave my newsroom job to freelance, so that I could have downtime to rebuild my mental health. I felt like a failure—a feeling I wasn’t accustomed to—and I fought taking a break hard. I called myself lazy. I worried that letting go of productivity and stepping back from my career meant losing myself.
Instead, this period led me back home.
To heal myself, I returned to the individual and communal rituals I witnessed as a child. Fresh vegetables and meats were a mainstay on my plate, so I reduced the overprocessed “healthy” foods I saw trending on social media. I have vague memories of Muss, my great-grandmother, pushing me in a stroller as a toddler while she took her daily walk around the neighborhood, and I’d often tag along as she worked her gardens. Those daily rituals encouraged my love of the outdoors and moving my body in ways that feel good to me, so I took countless walks during the day to clear my head. Every morning, Muss would open the curtains to “let the light in” to our eyes and souls. I can’t recall a day of my adulthood when I didn’t do the same. During this period, I realized that my community always shaped how I lived in my body, and when I’d forgotten myself, I could always go back to what I know.
I was only beginning to learn what Audre Lorde told us:
I had to examine, in my dreams as well as in my immune-function tests, the devastating effects of overextension. Overextending myself is not stretching myself. I had to accept how difficult it is to monitor the difference. Necessary for me as cutting down on sugar. Crucial. Physically. Psychically. Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.
This quote has been chopped and screwed in the modern-day wellness lexicon. The social media friendly version—clipped to “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare”—has become a synonym for spend hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on skincare, spa days, face masks, and other items that might make us feel good in the moment but don’t change the systems that prevent us from being well.
Rarely do the lovers of this quote reference other lessons from Lorde, like:
I am saving my life by using my life in the service of what must be done. I want to live the rest of my life, however long or short, with as much sweetness as I can decently manage, loving all the people I love, and doing as much as I can of the work I still have to do. I am going to write fire until it comes out my ears, my eyes, my noseholes—everywhere.
Wellness has never been a purely individual or superficial pursuit; for Black communities, it has always depended on the village. Outside of relying on the knowledge passed down to me by my family, I’ve leaned heavily on my people during my healing journey, too. I called my family more often. I spent more time with my friends, even when I didn’t want to, because to be part of a community, you must be communal. To lean on your village, you have to be an active villager. Moving this way has allowed me to cultivate deeper, more meaningful relationships with my chosen and blood family. It wasn’t easy, but I feel the benefit of that work daily.
I see that healing in how I show up here, too. Healthy Futures is a part of my community, and I’m beyond grateful that y’all have allowed me to be part of yours. Being here has reminded me that showing up with softness, clarity, and intention is the best way to show up.
So today, on my 33rd birthday, I’m deeply grateful for every version of myself that got me here, the lessons I had to learn the hard way, and the people and spaces that remind me that I don’t have to go it alone. I don’t have all the answers, and I’m okay with that. What I do have is a clearer understanding of what it will take for not just me, but all of us, to move forward.
Each other.
Be sure to check out this month’s Exploring The Shelves, a newsletter highlighting all the cool, new additions to the Library of Black Wellness.
Congratulations - and hallelujah! Lx