"Navigating LYF With Fear: My Story of Trust, Trauma, and Transformation"

I didn’t know it at the time, but I met fear when I was just a little girl. It introduced itself in the parking lot of my grandmother’s housing project, tucked in a city that held memories of home and warnings I didn’t yet understand. It was the early 90s — a time when conscious rap was rising to speak truth, gangsta rap echoed our rage, and the tension between Black communities and police was becoming impossible to ignore.

My father was in the Navy, a proud serviceman. That day, his squadron played in a recreation league basketball game, and afterward, we all went to my grandmother’s house to celebrate. It was supposed to be a night of laughs, family, and good food. But while we stood in the parking lot, police approached my father and his friends — all uniformed Navy men, all Black — and treated them like criminals.

Even after identifying themselves as military seamen stationed at a base less than five miles away, they were forced to the ground, searched, harassed, and humiliated. My aunt, who was visiting from South Carolina, rushed inside to tell us what was happening. I’ll never forget the urgency in her voice. The worry etched into my mother’s face. The tension rising from my grandmother’s silence.

No one was arrested that day. But my belief that all police were protectors cracked in half. I was a military brat — I’d grown up on bases, lived overseas, had structure and security. But from that moment forward, I couldn’t shake the feeling that being Black could override all of that.

As I grew, the news only fed that fear. The Rodney King beating was caught on camera — multiple officers brutally attacking one unarmed man. We all watched it. The whole world did. And yet, those officers were found not guilty. Then came the LA riots. And from that point on, it felt like every two to three years brought another wound. Another name. Another family torn apart.

Laws like the “Three Strikes” rule added fuel to the fire. It told me that even minor mistakes could cost Black men their entire future. So I became hyper-vigilant. I learned the rules. I stayed in line. I believed that if I did everything right, nothing bad would happen. But being right doesn’t always make you safe.

When I became a mother, that fear doubled. Tripled. Especially raising a son. I remember when Trayvon Martin was killed — a child in a hoodie, walking home with snacks. He was seen as suspicious, and his murderer walked free claiming self-defense. I saw my son in him. And from that day forward, I couldn’t let him out of my sight without carrying the weight of worry.

I held him close through high school. He graduated, enrolled in trade school, and began pursuing a degree in auto body and detailing. Just four months from completing his program, everything changed. It was 2020 — George Floyd’s murder was still fresh, protests rang across the nation, and my son found himself in a legal situation in Tennessee.

Out of fear — not of guilt, but for his life — I urged him to turn himself in. Because I knew how quickly encounters with police could become deadly, especially in the South. That fear — the same one born in that project parking lot — gripped my chest like a vice.

Now, years later, my son is still awaiting trial. There has been no resolution, no conviction, and no justice. He's not in Tennessee anymore, but he lives with this shadow — unable to fully be free. A traffic stop could change his life forever. His reality is reduced to 85% of his potential, and that breaks me in ways I can't always express.

Some days, my fear becomes anger. Other days, it becomes action. As a Black woman, daughter, and mother in America, I carry a kind of PTSD that’s hard to explain. But in 2025, I’ve committed to becoming a better me — not by pretending the fear isn’t there, but by facing it.

I’m educating myself about our rights, our legal system, and the history that shaped it. I lean on those who look like me and work within these systems — people who are pushing for change from the inside. I pray. I cry. I talk to my therapist. I speak out. I use my platform to advocate, to inform, and to resist.

Because sometimes, fear lives in the unknown. But knowledge? Knowledge is power. And I’m learning to navigate this LYF with truth, healing, and hope.