The truth about why I became a therapist

Therapy is Hard. How do I know? Because I needed it (and I only say that in the past tense temporarily). 

Growing up, Sheila Wortham was terrified to raise me. You probably have two questions: "Who is Sheila Wortham" and "Why was she afraid to raise you?" Sheila Wortham is my mom. At the age of  21, the single mother of two had seen firsthand the realities and dangers of raising a young Black man. Growing up in the hood, she didn't just see black men get killed, harassed by police, or jailed — she lived it.  At the age of 16 she lost her dad to tragedy.

A few years later, a still grieving Sheila made it her mission to find what she called: a positive, Black male role model for me AND to your surprise, I hated it. 

She searched tirelessly — for therapists upon therapists, mentorship programs (a success story that we'll discuss later), and sought her damnedest to find the RIGHT person. 

Every time I heard, the phrase "a positive Black male role model" my stomach turned. I hated the phrase, I hated that my mom didn't think I was good on my own,  and I hated that she didn't believe in her ability to raise me. 

Needless to say, Sheila was right about one thing, I needed someone. 

I found myself in and out of trouble for years. So much so that it was a surprise for people because they couldn't wrap their minds around how this good kid who got good grades was constantly in the principal's office. 

Life began to change when a couple people believed in me and breathed hope into this young lost kid. 

Life turned around as I skated through high school as the class clown and through college playing intramurals. But when it came time to graduate, reality hit.

I was a first-generation college student with hopes and dreams of law school—however, here I was in the final semester of my senior year  of college, realizing that I had done absolutely nothing to prepare for it. No LSAT. No applications. Nothing.

Out of fear—fear of the unknown, fear of leaving the comfort of school— fear of having to go back home to southwest Florida — I decided to find another option. I enrolled in a Master’s program in Higher Education Leadership at Valdosta State University, convincing myself that if I couldn’t be a lawyer, at least I could help students navigate their own paths.

Fast forward a few years, that decision cracked open doors I never expected. That Master’s program led to a job at LSU, which led me to another realization: I needed to do more. I needed to find a way to help people in a deeper, more meaningful way.

So, I pursued a second Master’s in Clinical Mental Health Counseling knowing that one day I would open my own counseling practice— something I never could have imagined 20+ years earlier when I was that lost kid sitting in the principal’s office.

Life finds a way of pressing the pause button every once in a while — just a couple of days ago, I got two phone calls. Both from mothers. Both saying nearly the same thing:

"I've been looking for a Black male counselor for my son."

I smiled.

Because I knew exactly why they were calling. I knew the fear in their voices. I knew the weight of their search. I knew EXACTLY what it was like to be that boy.

And now? I get to be the person I once needed.

3 Reasons why 2019 was worse than 2020

Dorothy. Shovondia. Clairmil.

Three names that may mean nothing to you but everything to me. Three loved ones, gone—one by one—in just three months of 2019. Three losses that sent me into a mental fog for nearly three years.

Dorothy battled Alzheimer’s for almost a decade. We knew she didn’t have long, but she fought for every single day she had left. That was just who she was. A fighter. Even as the disease chipped away at her memories, she held on, refusing to let go. Until she couldn’t anymore. She went first.

I called Von a couple days after, an excuse to talk after our disagreement in December. That short conversation would be our last.

Losing her shattered me.

Von was my built-in best friend—solid as a rock, strong like Superman, unshakable like an ox. She wasn’t supposed to leave. She wasn’t supposed to leave. She wasn’t supposed to leave.

Shock. Loss. Confusion. Shock again.

Waves of emotions that never ceased. Waves upon waves, crashing over me before I even had the chance to catch my breath.

After two weeks, the world moves on. People stop checking in. They stop asking how you’re doing. Maybe they don’t want to remind you. Maybe they don’t know what to say. Maybe they think grief has an expiration date. But it doesn’t. It lingers. It latches onto you.

Clairmil never forgot.

Our last conversation happened unintentionally at the same time Von and I always spoke—Friday at 4:30 p.m. I wasn’t okay. I didn’t want to talk—to him or anyone. I wanted the weekend to start so I could escape. But big bro knew my heart. He knew the one thing that would get me to engage: a conversation about investing for his family.

That was the last time we spoke.

Then he was gone shortly after.

This time, I wasn’t even able to feel the pain. I was numb.

I remember squinting my eyes, repeating What!? over and over again, as if saying it enough times would make it untrue. As if the words themselves would somehow undo reality. Even now, I still shake my head in disbelief.

Clairmil nor his family got the grief they deserved from me. Because every time I thought of him, I thought of Von, then I thought of Grams. I thought of loss. And when grief stacks like that, it doesn’t just get heavy—it buries you.

I needed safety.

I became a hermit, just like the ones Von kept. I disappeared into myself. I stayed that way for years—like a computer in safe mode: functional, but not really. Moving through life, but not living it. Numb. Empty. Never present. Searching for a way out of every conversation because all I wanted to do was be alone.

Depressed? Yes.  Hurt? Yes. But more than that, I was mourning.

I was sad. I was lost. I was confused.

Not questioning God. Never asking why. But deeply, deeply confused.

Then came COVID.

An excuse to isolate. To hide. To shut down. An excuse for unintentional space and distance.

COVID gave me that, but it also gave me a series of blows: a bad move, a terrible job, a toxic boss, two failed relationships.

Then, came peace. Finally—peace.

A new job. A new home. A return to myself. Self-love. Therapy. Therapy. Therapy.

Not just surviving. THRIVING.

Not just getting by. TRANSFORMING.

Not just existing. LIVING.

COMING SOON

• upcoming