"When Fear Becomes Reality: A Black Mother’s Battle with PTSD"

I’ve always had a healthy fear for my son’s life. That’s the silent burden of being a Black boy mom in America. From the time I became his mother, the world whispered warnings to me—starting with the brutal footage of Rodney King in the early '90s. That was my first glimpse of police brutality, and I never un-saw it. From then on, my ears tuned in whenever a new name was added to the headlines—names like Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, and too many others.

As my son grew into adolescence, my fears intensified. I gave him “the talk” that so many Black mothers are forced to give their sons: “Always follow the traffic laws. Don’t give them a reason to stop you. If you ever get pulled over, be respectful, follow every direction, keep your hands visible. Don’t lie. I can get you out of jail. I can’t pull you out of a casket.”

So when I got a text at 6:21 AM on a Monday in 2021, I felt it before I read it. I knew—somewhere in my spirit—that life as I knew it had just been altered.

It was his first time away from me. He’d left for college out of state, spreading his wings as a young man should. I had let him go because it was the right thing to do. I was proud of his independence. But when I saw that message, and then pulled up the local news station, it was as if my lungs forgot how to work. My head clouded. My ears rang. I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn't think. I couldn’t breathe.

That was my body reacting to trauma. And I did what many mothers do when the unthinkable happens—I went into survival mode. I made the calls. I got the facts. I showed up. People around me kept saying how strong I was. How composed I seemed. But strength sometimes masks the wounds that run the deepest.

It wasn’t until almost a year later, when we returned to that same city for his first court appearance, that my body reminded me that I wasn’t okay. As we parked and prepared to enter the courthouse, I felt it again—air escaping me, vision blurred, hearing muffled. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was having a panic attack.

Two months later, I had another episode—this time after a call from his attorney. It sent me to the emergency room. Chest pain. Numbness. I thought I was having a heart attack. I wasn’t. I was having another panic attack.

It was during this hospital visit that I was referred to a local therapist. And through sessions of unpacking the events of that day—and the string of fear-filled years that preceded it—I received a diagnosis I never expected: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I always associated PTSD with soldiers and survivors of horrific physical events. I didn’t know that mothers like me—Black women whose fears for their children are tragically justified—could carry the same trauma. But I did. And I do.

My therapist helped me identify my triggers: unexpected phone calls, news alerts, even certain cities or times of day. I was taught grounding techniques—breathing exercises to slow my panic, visualization to anchor me, journaling to release what I couldn’t say aloud. I learned to build routines that gave me a sense of safety, like walking in the mornings, practicing mindfulness, and setting boundaries around what media I consume.

We also worked through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), which allowed me to challenge the intrusive thoughts and replayed scenarios in my mind. I learned that while I couldn’t control the world, I could control how I showed up in it—and how I responded to my body's signals when it warned me of danger, real or remembered.

PTSD isn’t something you cure. It’s something you manage. Some days are still hard. But now, I recognize the signs. I know what’s happening. I know how to fight back with the right tools.

Being a Black mother in America comes with a grief and fear that’s often silent and unseen. But I’m speaking now—not because I want pity, but because I want other mothers to know they’re not alone. That fear for our sons is real. But so is our strength. And when that strength starts to crack, help exists. Healing is possible.

We deserve to breathe again.