A Black Man’s Story of Therapy
They say Black men don’t go to therapy.
“It’s okay to let these tears go,” my inner voice whispered as I ended my final therapy session.
I wasn’t sure that I was ready for that session to be my last.
But I was.
I cried during my first session, but these tears were different.
These were tears of joy, growth, and feeling. These tears recognized the emotional maturity and the self-love that I thought, after three years, would never come. These tears were proud for taking the step of vulnerability and healing by seeking help.
“It’s okay to let the tears go,” my inner voice continued to whisper.
I allowed myself to cry, breaking through years of internalized negative expressions of masculinity.
There was now a dampness to my cheeks.
These tears were different.
It was my last day of therapy as a Black man.
I proudly walked across the stage — the tears were my diploma.
It’s not that Black men believe that a “Real n***a don’t need no therapy,” as Kendrick Lamar vocalized in the intro of Father Time.
Nah, it’s not that at all.
