By: J.M. Morgan
A lot of my personal story is brought to you by the letter R: Resilience.
I’ve always felt like a silent observer of sorts, watching from the sidelines as my Brain sprinted from thought to thought. Did I say the right thing? Are people judging how I look? Can anyone tell that I’m fat on Zoom?
I sat silently after my dissertation defense in the Zoom meeting’s breakout room. My dissertation chair said she would invite me back after my committee deliberated. Her words sounded like a distant soliloquy on a Broadway stage. Her voice hovered over me like a spotlight while the clanking tips of my ceiling fan served as her orchestra. She had served as my conductor throughout this tumultuous journey, watching me evolve from her protégé into a fledgling clarinet player, soft and delicate with a mercurial punch. In every meeting, she would gauge my level of excitement. I swallowed the butterflies in my stomach whole and feigned a smile through clenched teeth. Performative confidence became my baton, directing me, as I had become too frail to perform.
According to my mother, I was a mere footnote in her story. I was “her ticket out of the ghetto.” I was over four years into a Public Health doctoral degree, questioning my capabilities and my identity. It seemed like so much of my past was coming to the surface. I was a runaway rose from my mother’s rose garden, floating in the wind. I thought relocating from home would solve my problems, but my Brain rarely takes a holiday.
One afternoon, after my mother escorted my two sisters and me to church, she mentioned my high school friend, Doreen. Doreen, the daughter of a minister, assumed various roles in our church, including serving on the praise dance team. My mother mentioned that I should dress neatly and appear more put-together like Doreen. It was a simple suggestion, really. Doreen’s slim physique made her appear polished in satin skirts, custom-fitted pants, and silk blouses—all accentuated with gold accessories. For me, there were two problems: I didn’t have a job to afford my own clothes, and my weight tipped the scales. I wasn’t accustomed to accentuating my femininity. I much preferred to throw on basketball shorts with a random 90s cartoon T-shirt. Alas, church required a more elegant ensemble.
Eventually, my reluctance to assimilate with normal 16-year-olds prompted my mother to take me to Cato Fashions. Shopping with her made me acutely aware of my chubbiness. She had taken to referring to our bodies as “big as a tank,” which made me wary of colors and patterns that exaggerated my folds. My medium, dark skin with warm undertones lusted after vibrant coral, sage, and yellow hues. Yet, my insecurities made me veer towards grays and blacks. I didn’t want to be visible in a world where she reminded me of my large body.
She was adamant that I adhere to her standards. Being in her garden taught me that every scraggly petal and bent stem was a symptom of imperfection that would make people laugh at me. Even as a teenager, a period when I had no fucks to give, I felt stifled living under her roof. I was a neglected rose in soil she trampled, shaded to avoid escape. Following my parents’ divorce, the result of psychological abuse my dad (whom I called Dada) inflicted on my mother, we moved thirty minutes away. Being a daddy’s girl, I held an innate resentment towards her for initiating the divorce, but I was too busy swallowing tears in the bathroom. Secretly, I used Dada’s allowance to purchase diet pills to alter my image for her, but nothing could curb my insatiable sweet tooth.
I needed a savior, a white knight, a hero. In my senior year, I knew I had to lock in. I wasn’t going to be sheltered behind the steel bars of her words. My biggest opportunity came through the Gates Millennium Scholarship, which provides full educational funding for up to 10 years. During and after school, I wrote to alter my future while being tormented by my mother’s incessant ramblings about my body and intellect. My cousin had tattled to my mother about how hard I was working. My mother’s scowl reminded me to abide by my bedtime and to avoid making students feel inadequate by overworking. Therefore, I had to sneak to write during my classes’ free time. After securing my recommendation letters, I waited while my mother continuously rushed me to make a college decision.
Patience was never my forte, so I continued to apply for other scholarships as a contingency plan. Besides, there was no way a Black girl who lived down the street from the projects, merely separated by train tracks and backroads, would win something so prestigious. Surely the panel would think I was a social pariah. I mean, it was rooted in truth, right?
One April day in 2013, my mother told me that I had a large envelope from Gates Millennium. Deep breaths. Whatever happens, I told myself that I would be alright. I would just join the Marines to afford college. After boot camp and dieting, that uniform was sure to snatch my waist. I carefully opened the envelope and slipped out the letter. “Congratulations…one of the 1,000 Gates Scholars for the GMS Class of 2013…again, congratulations.” Those words rang in my ears as my hands shook the acceptance letter. Congratulations. It felt like I was gifted shears to pluck myself. I convinced myself that these next 10 years would be smooth sailing. Finally, I had an opportunity to flee my mother’s garden. It was time to dust the dirt from my petals to embark on my next chapter: the University of Alabama.
My mother and her on-and-off boyfriend, Mr. Otis, drove me to Tuscaloosa. The drive was awkward as my mother discovered his infidelity. She devoted the nearly three-hour car ride to softly arguing with him amid the hum of the engine. I felt like a kid, hiding under the covers, while Dada cursed my mother out from the living room couch, irate that her cooking made the house hot. This time, my mother would assume Dada’s role. I didn’t necessarily feel bad for Mr. Otis. I wasn’t keen on my mother pursuing any romances outside of Dada, despite him being terrifying. Eventually, we arrived at my dorm, and the argument ensued all the way to my suite. Luckily, the argument stayed in the common area while I unpacked in my assigned room. After my mother and Mr. Otis left, I took the time to breathe. Inhale. Exhale.
I can’t recall the exact moment when dark thoughts flooded my mind. I never could distinguish between my thoughts and those planted by my mother. Now, the voices seemed louder. Are people watching me eat in the cafeteria? Is that girl’s frown directed at me? Do my professors think I’m not speaking up enough? Are people laughing at me? Will I fail university, lose my scholarship, and be forced to move back to my mother’s house?
This internal monologue had haunted me throughout my secondary education. However, I used poetry to heal those open wounds. Now, I didn’t have much free time to immerse myself in my creative pursuits. To suppress the background noise, I rekindled my old habit: eating. Nearly every night in my room, I would eat a medium pepperoni pizza and barbecue wings. In 2016, my graduation granted me a fancy diploma along with 40 extra pounds. I couldn’t savor the victory of graduating magna cum laude.
As I settled back home, silently distraught over my unsuccessful job search, my mother mentioned my weight as if I didn’t own a full-length mirror. The stress of securing a career that aligned with my degree, coupled with my mother’s reminders that people were laughing at my unemployment, only further diminished my confidence. My irritability seemed to plant seeds of resentment in my mother, who once exclaimed, “I could have aborted y’all, but I love y’all.” I was back in the same place, and this time, I refused to wilt in her garden. I informed my mother that I was moving into a 5-bedroom student apartment. Although hesitant at first, she allowed me to move out. Once I moved out, I juggled two part-time jobs at a grocery store and pharmacy while devising a plan to avoid failing again. Like clockwork, my irritability faded, but the voices still followed.
In the summer of 2017, I applied to a public health master’s program. Truthfully, public health appeared on my radar due to my scholarship’s graduate school funding limitations. That summer, hoping to be accepted to graduate school, I didn’t renew my lease. I returned to my mother’s house, chalking it up to poor planning. Once I returned to the same environment, my irritability erupted like weeds. Her car’s hum pulling into the yard sent me into a spiral. I felt my eyes organizing an uprising in my skull, complete with swords with curved blades and tanks with squeaky wheels. Nevertheless, I endured as I always had. I had no place to go. Despite being Dada’s oldest, I held an inexplicable fear of inconveniencing him. Being sheltered prevented close relationships with most of my family members. The absence of an older adult role model hindered my options. I felt like my petals were clipped.
The wait for my decision letter was nerve-wracking. I wanted a decision, but I feared the outcome. Did I possess the academic intellect to pursue a graduate degree? Would people discover that I am dumb, like my mother always suspected? I tried to ignore these complex thoughts and focus on the future, but I kept having visions of myself living on the streets. I was overwhelmed and disoriented. In fall 2017, I received my acceptance letter to the University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB) master’s program in Public Health. Phew. A pot of relief washed over me. I was determined to bloom.
That spring of 2018, I moved into a studio apartment that my mother chose due to her annoyance with the apartment hunting process, rather than my preferences. She and Mr. Otis were “on” again for the final time and helped me relocate. For the first time in my life, I would exist alone between my own four walls. Attending a highly regarded university in Alabama nurtured persistent feelings of inferiority. In class, I would lose focus and daydream while my Brain took me down countless rabbit holes. “How dumb can you be?” My mother’s favorite quote towards me blossomed whenever I was faced with a complicated lecture. On paper, I was keeping up, but I felt restricted by my weeds. This was especially evident in seminar classes where speaking was mandatory for participation credit. I hated speaking, but more than anything, I hated getting a bad grade.
One day, while rehearsing my TED Talk for an assignment, I felt nauseated. I chalked it up to my acid reflux. I envisioned myself screwing up my TED Talk, imagining everyone erupting in laughter. My mouth began to water. What the fuck was happening to me? I ran to the sink and started to dry heave. As I leaned over the sink, gagging and swelling with fear, I knew I had to come to terms with what I was experiencing. But first, back to my regularly scheduled program. Besides, my TED Talk was less than an hour away.
A few weeks later, I finally decided to make the call: therapy. My first therapy session was a bit awkward but comforting as the room filled with soothing notes of lavender. It was the first time I was able to share my story. Her velvety voice validated painful moments of my story and nodded along as I tried to recall hazier memories. I appreciated having an adult willing to listen to me vent, which was foreign to me. Growing up, I was told that I should be “seen, not heard”; therefore, I assumed the dual roles of speaker and listener.
The truth is that my therapist’s diagnoses of depression and social anxiety weren’t a surprise. Pursuing a Public Health degree afforded me countless avenues to learn about mental health. Admittedly, I assumed that I had immunity to mental illness. I admit that suicide had crossed my mind briefly as a teenager. Well…ok, it definitely crossed my mind more often than not, but I had fled the garden. I found refuge in the shade. Why did my past feel the need to follow me from my mother’s house? Should I move further? Given my complex psychological history, a university doctor referred me to psychiatry to seek Brain meds, my fertilizer. After I began medication, I felt compelled to keep my mother in the loop. I worried about how her internalized stigma would affect me. I became increasingly aware that I tended to veer towards gullibility whenever our seemingly innocent conversations deviated towards negativity. Nonetheless, I looked to her to be an anchor in these stormy waters, not knowing that my problem, according to her, was my absence from church. Her words still stick with me: pray.
The truth is that I prayed constantly. I prayed when Dada psychologically abused my mother in front of us. I prayed at the domestic violence shelter my mother took us to when she contemplated divorce. I prayed throughout their divorce proceedings. I prayed for the pain to stop after I was disciplined formy disobedience. I prayed for a full-ride scholarship to flee my mother’s rose garden. I prayed my way through college and public settings. It became habitual for me to seek out a higher meaning. I knew prayer, but it seemed God was a bargaining man.
I won the full-ride scholarship, but my Brain felt like a jigsaw puzzle with random middle pieces missing. No longer being a part of my mother’s garden bothered me, so I sought out surrogate mothers. They ranged from a Black woman professor to a Black woman staff member during my internship. Whenever the relationships would sour, I felt abandoned and plagued with negative self-talk that was taught to me by my mother. Her thoughts were so enmeshed with mine that they overshadowed my voice. I was me and…not…Me? Unknown to me, I took her voice as my own. I felt that my own garden was wilting while the teachings I mastered helped hers flourish.
It seemed as if I never had time to focus on my Brain’s ramblings. I had to kick it into high gear and make a big decision to prevent returning to my mother’s house: a doctoral degree. Similar to my master’s degree, I never anticipated pursuing a doctorate. Actually, my real dream was to get paid to write books. Sigh, a girl can dream, right? Portions of my statement of purpose emphasized my privilege in being afforded this opportunity. I was deeply indebted to my scholarship, which was the gift that kept on giving. The only word from my acceptance letter that I remember is “congratulations.” I wanted to sit with that feeling. Whew. I would finally have a plan after graduation; no one would be laughing. Slowly, my roots started untangling.
After I graduated in the summer of 2019 with my master’s degree, I jumped headfirst into my doctoral program’s curriculum nine days later. In hindsight, I definitely should have taken a break, but working myself to the bone seemed less barbaric than enduring my mother’s voice. Everything was going well despite my Brain’s babbling. The COVID-19 pandemic presented a unique obstacle during my qualifying exams. The program director allowed us to take our exams virtually. On exam day, I completed the exam as I fought an endless battle questioning my worth and my capabilities. I persevered, as I always had. Besides, it was too late to quit. I had already signed my apartment’s yearlong lease. I submitted my exam before the designated time.
Once the ball was no longer in my court, something clicked. I made a dramatic bargain with myself. If I fail my exam, I should kill myself. A multitude of emotions were coming up simultaneously. The truth of the matter is that this train of thought wasn’t new— I just thought that I beat it. As all meticulous humans do, I devised a plan. I would drive my raggedy Honda Accord to the 16th Street Parking Deck and jump off. Although I had two tries to pass this exam, failure would not be an option. As soon as the notice of failure hit my inbox, I would eat a final meal: three meat lasagna and 12 vanilla ice cream sandwiches. My final drink was a toss-up between Minute Maid’s No Sugar Lemonade and Ocean Spray’s Diet Cranberry Mango juice. I may be gluttonous, but I avoided drinks with a high sugar content.
On February 12, 2021, the email came. I breathed a little as my heart raced. I muttered a prayer, pleading to pass. I embraced Cinnamon, my favorite teddy. Box breathing was what my therapist encouraged me to practice in moments like these. Inhale…1…2…3…4…Hold…1…2…3…4…Exhale…1…2…3…4…Hold…1…2…3…4. Repeat. With my hands quivering and my fears mounting, I was ready. I narrated my plan internally. I would either wake up the following morning to the sun’s kiss…or not.
“The PhD Comprehensive Examination Committee has met and reviewed your recent examination. Congratulations! You have passed your Comprehensive Examination and are now ready to begin the next phase of the doctoral program.” It took me a while to digest this email. A Black girl from the country passed comps? Surely, someone was fucking with me. I thought for sure that I bombed that exam. Phew. My master plan tangled in its own vines. They probably rounded up my 79.5 because they felt sorry for me. I tried to wrestle with this thought. I couldn’t let my Brain steal this moment from me. Not again. Passed. I kept rereading that word to silently affirm that I was good enough. I pushed any thoughts of being coddled to the back of my head. I couldn’t deal with that right now. I’m not going to deal with that. My Brain will have to figure out what she has going on for herself.
Subsequently, I activated beast mode. I developed my research question. My first concept paper meeting was intense, as my committee didn’t think my research strategy was feasible. After the meeting, my advisor scolded me for my lack of defense of my research strategy. I felt defeated. I loathed making people angry. My passiveness was always my flaw. I wasn’t accustomed to my voice being respected. Although I was an adult now, I wasn’t sure how to engage with other adults without letting them dictate the conversation. I was used to people trampling across my welcome mat and sitting on my favorite spot on the couch.
I always used a mask to conceal this element of my personality, but I felt as if I was exposed. Would I be kicked out of the program? Where would I put all of my shit once my landlord kicked me out? Where would I sleep? Should I start packing now? Eventually, I was able to pivot and restructure my research. In January of 2023, I got the email: “We are pleased that your committee has approved your proposed research topic, and we accept their recommendation that you be admitted to candidacy. Congratulations!!!” I felt relief that I was able to shift gears, albeit two years after passing comps. The other part of me felt overwhelmed.I clenched Cinnamon tightly, not knowing that my petals would be plucked one by one along my quest to complete my doctorate.
Later that year, I felt a strange jerk in my leg while lying in bed. It felt like my leg had detached itself from my body. Those few seconds were scary. This sensation continued for four days in a row until my body started involuntarily trembling. My Brain sent me down a rabbit hole, which only fueled my anxiety. Myoclonic jerk. Was this part of an impending stroke? Could I be developing multiple sclerosis? I visited my university’s health center, where I was diagnosed with a functional neurological disorder and benign fasciculation syndrome. It couldn’t be explained by an organic cause. The physical symptoms of anxiety plagued me.
Everywhere I went, I felt as if I was being followed. Driving created thoughts that I should swerve to the edge of the road. My new therapist used positive affirmations to dispel the noise in my head. Positivity felt superficial and irritating. My Brain wasn’t wired to think that way naturally. I wasn’t crazy. I’m. Not. Crazy. I tried to distance myself from my mother’s internalized stigma to facilitate better therapy outcomes. Nevertheless, her voice chipped away at my spirit.
Writing my dissertation eventually took a backseat. The overwhelm was eroding my soil and revealing my roots. I started having flashbacks, which I learned were dissociative episodes. This only made me yearn for death. My maternal grandmother, the only grandparent who lived past my childhood, passed away. My Brain was swirling with thoughts. Had I not prayed hard enough? Was I the cause of her demise? Throughout my formative education and university years, I prayed that my grandmother would survive to experience all of my graduations. I didn’t know her well, but I felt guilty that she wasn’t able to see the result of my terminal degree endeavors. This guilt was amplified by my mother’s poisoned words that my grandmother wanted to see me before her death.
My thoughts began to float in the breeze like the dandelion seeds that I sent drifting as a kid. I wanted an escape. I confessed these thoughts to my psychiatrist to get a medication adjustment. He felt the absolute gall to tell me that he could admit me to a psych ward if I was a danger to myself. Sir…I came for a med adjustment, not a Lifetime audition. I wasn’t going to kill myself. I never do. Still, I felt imminent danger at the thought of being forcefully removed from my home. Therefore, I lied about having a plan to conceal my pain. Although I purchased a tactical knife years ago, I was convinced I would never use it. After all, I’m a good girl trying my best to trim my mother’s words off my stem.
Keep it together, girl. I muttered my personal mantra to myself on the way out of his office. Sometimes, it worked. I had a lot of pressure on my shoulders. I felt my health was failing as a result of the physical manifestations of my poor mental state. This likely encouraged my body to rebel against me. For example, my Brain, despite various medical interventions, convinced me that my swollen inguinal lymph node was lymphoma. Due to the lymph node’s size abnormality, I received a biopsy on December 1st. It was the second time I was in this position.
I found a breast lump; luckily, the three ultrasounds and sole mammogram showed that it was benign. I bargained with God for the same results, although I was spiraling. Where did it come from? Why hasn’t it gone away yet? Can I have cancer and feel perfectly fine? What is my survival rate at this stage? I conveyed this information to my mother, who appeared indifferent. I didn’t know if she was hiding behind her weeds, but her lack of emotion felt cold. She was far more concerned with giving me exercises to manage my large breasts and double chin than with my battle with cancer. I knew I would be on my own, emotionally and financially. I started to look up physician-assisted suicides in case of a malignant result. I had become increasingly fascinated by the process. Oddly, I wanted out, but I didn’t want the blood to be on my hands.
At this stage, patience was unacceptable. I understood a biopsy required lengthy testing, but I was aggravated that modern technology still required extended waiting. How could they expect me to cope? Ridiculously asinine, if you ask me. I distracted myself with food, video games, and sleep. Sweets felt like a long kiss goodnight as I tucked myself into bed. I wish someone else could have dealt with this problem for me. On December 8th, I preoccupied myself by going on a Target run. While mindlessly walking down the beauty and makeup aisles, I received a portal message from my referring doctor. Inhale. Exhale. “I have looked over the biopsy results, and everything looks good…no sign of cancer.”
Whew. My petals of happiness blanketed me with their affection. It had been nearly a whole damn year, as I was in and out of doctor appointments for these two cancer scares. To end up with nothing under these circumstances was phenomenal. As I said, God is a bargaining man. I had promised him I would change my mindset surrounding my dissertation. Nearly all of my cohort had already graduated. I was inclined to use that as a motivator. As a birthday gift to myself, I vowed to graduate in the summer semester before my 30th birthday in 2024. I repurposed my tactical knife from a weapon into a tool to prune my stems and thorns.
I listened intently to the clanking tips of my ceiling fan to calm my nerves as my committee deliberated. As I waited for my advisor’s text, I videochatted with my two younger sisters while waiting in the breakout room. I had to take my mind off the impending doom feeling in the depths of my stomach. I felt like a child playing dress up in my Dora wig and satin shirt. Surely, my committee could see that I was an imposter. I didn’t feel deserving of this moment, even though I worked my ass off these past seven months. Although my sisters didn’t fully understand this moment’s importance, they assured me that I earned it. As their words of encouragement sank in, I reflected back to the beginning. Resilience. In this moment, I felt like I wasn’t silently observing my life as it flickered by. Even now, though my confidence is fleeting and delicate, I’ve learned that perfection is self-torture camouflaged as discipline.
As I laughed with my sisters to drown out my anxieties, I received a text from my advisor, who requested that I rejoin the Zoom call. I hung up with my sisters and held Cinnamon once more. This was the culmination of everything that I had sown and toiled for. If I failed this time, I would go down fighting and clawing for blood. I arrived at the end of their deliberations. My advisor smiled and announced, “Congratulations, Dr. Morgan!” I still can’t quite articulate how I felt. I was stunned and overwhelmingly grateful as I thanked my committee for their support.
The next day, after the paperwork was finalized, my advisor sent a school-wide email: “Please join me in congratulating Dr. Morgan on successfully defending her dissertation!” Whether the attention was negative or positive, I felt undeserved. I realized I had put in the work, but it felt like it belonged to someone else. On August 10th, after I uprooted myself from my mother’s garden, I was hooded and earned my PhD in Public Health. The next month, I started a postdoc at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville. I left my mother’s rose garden behind. Being in a new state without the commitment of school allowed me to focus on my mental health.
That next year, my new therapist recognized my thought patterns instinctively and audibly confirmed something I had secretly feared: obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Inhale. Exhale. Everything resonated. Before, it was as if I were driving down an endless tunnel with a one-way sign, but now I finally had the opportunity to make a detour. Learning that my Brain’s faulty wiring didn’t align with my true intentions made me feel like the architect of my own story. I had been repotted and watered all at once, all because of my resilience. All along, this had been my story, though her voice lingered in the background. I slowly reached for the baton to direct my own performance. I was no longer her rose. I planted my own garden. My roses would weather any storm. I would be my own gardener. Now…where did I put my fertilizer?
Short Author Bio:
J.M. Morgan is a postdoctoral researcher at UAMS. She is a poet, storyteller, and dreamer who explores identity through her writing. She published her debut poetry collection, silent scream, in 2021. When she isn’t buried in her academic and creative writing, she enjoys crafting, watching The Golden Girls, playing video games, and learning to crochet.
