My Black Family Couldn’t Hold My Anxiety—So I Learned To Tend To It Myself

In late 2022, a series of debilitating panic attacks pulled me under and changed everything. I didn’t know it at the time, but seven years after leaving a volatile and abusive relationship—one marked by physical, emotional and psychological harm—I was finally breaking open. The trauma I’d carried in my body was boiling over and asking to be tended to. Spiritually, emotionally and physically—I was unraveling.

By early 2023, I’d been diagnosed with panic disorder with agoraphobia, and I made the difficult decision to return to my family’s home in South Florida to heal. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, "panic disorder is an anxiety disorder characterized by unexpected and repeated episodes of intense fear accompanied by physical symptoms that may include chest pain, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, dizziness or abdominal distress."

I thought going home might bring relief. Familiarity. Maybe even softness. I also saw it as an opportunity to finally leave my 15-year digital media career and fully step into my path as a wellness entrepreneur, pivoting to work rooted in healing, embodiment and spiritual care. But instead, I found myself in a house thick with tension, layered with unspoken resentment and unresolved trauma between family members. What was supposed to be a season of rest became an emotional pressure cooker. I wasn’t just trying to manage panic attacks. I was trying to find peace in a space that didn’t feel emotionally safe.

Living with anxiety—especially panic with agoraphobia—in a family that doesn’t talk about it is a strange kind of exile. And I know I’m not alone. In many Black households, mental health isn’t something we name, but something we endure. Even when the signs are there, they’re often misunderstood or dismissed. We’re told we’re being dramatic. Overreacting. Too sensitive. Too angry. Too much. That we’re “sick.” That supporting us is stressful. That something’s “wrong” with us. During moments when we appear high-functioning, our anxiety is questioned entirely—we seem “just fine” or must be “making it up.”

And when the conversations do happen, they’re often missing the very things we need most: nuance, depth, compassion and care.

Meanwhile, we’re quietly unraveling inside.

My panic attacks can be unpredictable and paralyzing, taking so much out of me. Even after one ends, I need days to recover—days when I often pretend I’m okay to avoid being met with discomfort or confusion. What many don’t understand is that my anxiety isn’t about being outside itself—I love being outside. It’s about feeling vulnerable in environments where I don’t feel safe or where escape doesn’t feel possible. Crowded spaces, being stuck in traffic, overstimulating places with no clear exit—these can all be triggers, and they’re rooted in trauma.

Masking that reality only deepens the isolation, and trying to heal in a space where emotional transparency isn’t the norm has forced me to become my own sanctuary. 

While that kind of self-soothing is sacred, it’s also exhausting.

My therapist once told me, “If you can thrive here, you can thrive anywhere.” And she was right. The fact that I was still showing up for my work—still creating, still tending to myself in the midst of it all—felt like a testament to the resilience so many Black women and femmes are forced to cultivate in the absence of emotional safety.

What I’ve come to understand is that my experience isn’t just personal; it’s generational. The emotional distance I feel in my family is part of a larger inheritance shaped by survival. Our elders didn’t always have the tools or language to name anxiety, much less tend to it. They had to keep going. Be strong. Push through. And those necessary survival tactics often get passed down as emotional avoidance, hyper-independence and the denial of rest and vulnerability.

In our homes, strength is often measured by how well we can endure and not by how well we can feel.

So when we begin to name our pain—to say “this isn’t sustainable,” or “I don’t have the capacity for this,” or “I really need some space right now”—we disrupt the pattern. We become the mirror. And that can be deeply uncomfortable for everyone involved. It doesn’t mean we’ll be met with understanding. Sometimes, we’re met with silence. Or discomfort. Or deflection.

Sometimes, we’re told we’re making everything about ourselves just for advocating for our well-being. And that can hurt. Especially when you were hoping for something different.

There have been moments when I’ve felt disappointed and angry. I had hoped for more emotional presence, more attunement. But through reflection, therapy and my own spiritual practice, I’ve come to recognize the larger pattern at play. Our families are often doing the best they can with what they’ve inherited. Their limitations aren’t personal, but are part of a lineage of coping mechanisms passed down for generations.

Still, acknowledging that doesn’t mean we have to abandon our needs.

What I’ve learned is that healing doesn’t always come through the apology we never received or the conversation we never had. Sometimes, it looks like tending to ourselves so fully that we no longer need permission to feel, rest or be held. It means finding spaces where we are seen and supported. Where softness isn’t shameful, but sacred.

To the Black women and femmes navigating mental health in households that can’t hold your truth: I see you. I wrote this for us. And I want you to know that you are not too much. You are simply carrying what your lineage was never taught how to hold. And by facing it, you are doing holy work.

We may not be able to change our families. But we can change how we care for ourselves. We can break cycles by living the softness we need. By trusting our emotional truths. By building new communities where our full humanity is honored, not just for survival, but for joy.

The peace I was searching for when I came home didn’t look the way I imagined. It wasn’t always handed to me by the people I love. But piece by piece, through boundaries and breath, through tears and tending, I’m learning to become that peace myself. To hold space for the softness they couldn’t give. To build a life where my nervous system can exhale. To remember that I am not too much. That I was never meant to shrink or dilute my emotions to make others comfortable.

If you’re going through something similar, I’m claiming that you’ll reach that space, too. I’m holding the vision for that kind of peace for you, because it is possible, no matter how things feel right now.