{"componentChunkName":"component---src-templates-story-js","path":"/story/the-space-of-silence-j/","result":{"pageContext":{"data":{"id":"-9fcbb04a-45ec-5027-a004-26bd61b386ac","authorFirstName":"Jasmine","storyTitle":"The Space of Silence","photo":{"asset":{"url":"https://cdn.sanity.io/images/nr9digz2/production/f1deba375385d394a89ee3f61f6ff89ba609e067-1500x1000.jpg"}},"audio":{"asset":{"url":"https://cdn.sanity.io/files/nr9digz2/production/31010afaaf874c879f540b1d3cd03c6bcccb9fe9.mp3"}},"secondLanguageAudio":null,"school":{"name":"Appomattox Regional Governor's School for the Arts and Technology","city":"Petersburg","location":"Virginia"},"tags":["Family","Loneliness, Doubt or Loss","Spirituality and Faith"],"_rawText":[{"_key":"c887994233e7","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"946bd99bcbf10","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"In my family, we don’t really do therapy. We pray; we push through. We say, “God will handle it,” and keep going. I am the youngest of three siblings, including being the youngest of my grandparents' grandchildren. That basically trained me to be observant before I even knew that was a skill. Being the youngest didn’t make me invisible per se, but it made me easy to overlook. Decisions happened around me; conversations constantly flowed past me."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"92db0aebeeb8","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"b7a4614cc18c0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"The first house we moved to in Virginia was filled with quiet. The stairs creaked like they were warning people you were coming, so I learned how to walk along the edges to make less noise. I remember sitting on the floor of my sister's room, leaning against her bed while she talked about things that involved me, plans that had already been decided. She said it casually, like I had been apart from the discussion. Although I hadn’t. I stared at the carpet instead of at her. I felt that small drop in my stomach, the one that says you’re the last to know again. I didn’t ask why; I never did. In my head, I told myself it wasn’t that serious. However, growing up Black, you learn how to read rooms fast. You notice tone changes. You notice when someone's frustration is really stress from somewhere else. You understand that silence can be strength. In my family, strength meant handling things without making noise. It meant not falling apart in front of people. It definitely didn’t mean sitting on someone’s couch talking about your feelings. Black families don’t “need” therapy, at least that’s what I grew up believing. We have a church. We had each other. We had survival stories that made our problems seem small in comparison. So whenever I felt overlooked, I swallowed it. When I had questions, I answered them by piecing things together. I told myself it built character."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"b7c26ed4e5de","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"f1760aad371a0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"There was a night when I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror after a long day. My butterfly locs were half-up, half-down. I looked at myself and smiled. How I always did, the half-hearted smile. Polite, unbothered, but my scalp hurt and my shoulders felt overly heavy. I looked tired in a way that wasn’t about sleep. I realized I was good at being strong, too good. Strong meant listening to everyone else's problem. Strong meant staying calm. Strong meant being the reliable one. But no one ever asked if I was overwhelmed, though I didn’t offer it up either."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"e861df5e3a0a","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"c993de437f0b0","_type":"span","marks":["strong"],"text":"The overlooked part of being the youngest followed me into everything. I became the one people vented to because I knew how to sit quietly and hold space. I didn’t interrupt. I didn’t judge. I just listened. But holding everyone else’s emotions while ignoring yours starts to feel uneven. The first time I sat on the phone with a therapist, I felt overly strange. Almost guilty, like I was breaking some unspoken rule. The therapist asked, “How did you feel after that?” and waited for an answer from me. At first, I gave safe answers. Short ones. But eventually, I started talking about being the youngest. About always adjusting. About how being overlooked can slowly teach you to overlook yourself. Seeing that therapy didn't make me less black, it didn’t replace prayer. It just gave me room for things I carried silently. I’m still observant. I still read rooms. But now, I also take up space in them. And for the first time, I’m not standing off the side."}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"},{"_key":"05b043680952","_type":"block","children":[{"_key":"7298e4e2bd450","_type":"span","marks":[],"text":"\n"}],"markDefs":[],"style":"normal"}]}}},"staticQueryHashes":["3309388390","890781507"]}