“I’ve spent years in healing spaces where I was often one of the only Black women in the room…”
And before anyone misreads that sentence; this is not blame.
This is reflection.
There’s a difference.
For a long time, I didn’t have language for what I was navigating. I just knew I was learning. I was expanding. I was studying energy, trauma, embodiment, nervous systems, ceremony, breath, vibration.
But I was also studying something else.
People.
I’ve seen what has happened in rooms where healing becomes culture.
What happens when spirituality becomes aesthetic.
What happens when intention doesn’t automatically mean awareness.
When you are one of the few in any industry, you learn quickly how to read a room. You learn how to sense tone shifts. You learn how to calibrate yourself. You learn when your voice is welcomed — and when it’s merely tolerated.
For years, I moved through predominantly white healing spaces. And I grew. I truly did. I met beautiful souls. I witnessed transformation. I held space and was held.
But I also noticed something subtle.
Healing spaces can unintentionally mirror the very hierarchies they claim to dismantle.
Not always loudly.
Not always maliciously.
Sometimes just structurally.
When most teachers look the same.
When most narratives sound the same.
When certain cultural expressions are welcomed only when they feel “safe” or “digestible.”
You begin to feel the edges.
And here’s what unfolded for me:
I realized I was not just healing trauma.
I was navigating identity inside healing.
That is a different layer. There were moments I softened my tone.
Moments I filtered my language and moments I chose palatability over power.
Not because anyone explicitly asked me to.
But because I understood the room. That kind of understanding comes with both wisdom and weight.
Over time, something shifted.
I started noticing who felt truly integrated.
The most authentic people in healing spaces weren’t the ones with the most certifications or the softest voices.
They were the ones who could look in a mirror without flinching.
They didn’t justify their harm.
They didn’t spiritual-bypass discomfort.
They didn’t perform wokeness.
They were human.
And aware.
Authenticity, I’ve learned, is a form of healing.
Not perfection.
Not enlightenment.
But ownership.
People who are deeply authentic have already metabolized most of their trauma. They don’t need to explain themselves into innocence. They can say, “I was wrong.” They can say, “That landed wrong.” They can sit in reflection without collapse.
That is integration.
And here’s the truth that unfolded and folded and unfolded again:
Some healing spaces are beautiful.
Some are performative.
Some are transformative.
Some are structured in ways that weren’t built with everyone in mind.
All of that can be true at once.
As a Black woman holding space in predominantly white environments, I learned discernment at a cellular level.
I learned when community was genuine.
And when belonging required fragmentation.
That distinction matters.
Because healing should not require shrinking.
It should not require editing your culture, cadence, or complexity.
It should not require you to translate yourself into something more comfortable for others.
The deepest healing I’ve experienced hasn’t been in rooms where everyone agreed.
It’s been in spaces where truth could land without defense.
Where reflection didn’t equal attack.
Where accountability didn’t equal shame.
Where identity wasn’t a footnote.
I don’t regret the rooms I’ve been in.
They shaped me.
They stretched me.
They sharpened my awareness.
But growth also means recognizing when your nervous system is tired of being hyper-aware.
When your body wants to exhale without scanning.
When your voice wants to be full-range — not modulated.
Leaving spaces without guilt is not bitterness.
It’s self-trust.
And I’ve learned this:
Community should expand you.
Not require you to compress.
Healing should make you more yourself.
Not more acceptable.
And the most healed people I’ve encountered?
They don’t fear the mirror.
They welcome it.
Because authenticity is not loud.
It’s steady.
And when you reach that steadiness, you don’t need to dominate rooms.
You just need to stand fully in them.
— Lane
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