The 80’s made me but the 90’s raised me.  I’m proud to be a millennial. It’s not that any generation is greater than the others. It’s just that the 90’s was such as time to be alive! It was a time when technology was emerging, but it hadn’t yet taken over our lives. I was one of those kids who spent hours outside jumping rope, riding books, and playing with my cousins and neighborhood kids. Life felt simpler in so many rewarding ways.

Today, younger generations are born into a world where technology is almost second nature. Infants seem to instinctively swipe screens. That’s not a criticism—just an observation of how times have changed. As a therapist, I’ve found that younger generations, particularly Gen Z, tend to be more emotionally aware and articulate about their feelings. They have often made therapy sessions surprisingly insightful and even easier in some ways compared to other generations.

That said, one area where younger generations have shown resilience is in discussing grief, loss, and death. While these topics are universally challenging, talking to Gen Z about such matters can feel less dreadful than expected. I’d like to offer my thoughts on how to approach these sensitive conversations with them.

When we hear "grief" and "loss," we often think of the death of a loved one. However, grief and loss aren't limited to death. They can be related to any significant change—like a divorce, moving to a new city, or even losing a beloved pet. Grief doesn't have to be tied to someone we knew personally either. We witnessed this when thousands of children mourned the death of Chadwick Boseman. To many kids, he was the embodiment of Black Panther, a symbol of strength and hope. They grieved not just for the man, but for what he represented in their world. Adults have also mourned the loss of celebrities—or people we didn’t personally know like Princess Diana, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, or George Floyd.

It’s important to remember that grief can come in many forms, and helping children and teens understand that is key to supporting them through the process.

Of course, maturity, age, and communication skills all play a role in how kids process grief. Explaining death to younger children can be more challenging, but it’s important to speak to them in a way they can understand. Use simple, clear language, and be prepared to answer their questions patiently, even if those questions are repeated. Terms like “passed way” or “expired” may not make a lot of sense to little people.

Sometimes, one conversation won't be enough, and that's okay. You might need to revisit the subject as they process and begin to grasp the concept that death is final—at least on this side of heaven. Be as honest as you need to be, but always keep their developmental stage in mind.

Life gets tough sometimes and they should understand that it’s normal not to be happy when life throws a curve ball. Unfortunately, grief can be one of those curve balls. Visual aids can be incredibly helpful here. Using pictures, videos, keepsakes, or engaging in activities that honor the lost person or pet can create a sense of connection and help children understand their emotions. Revisiting positive memories can also offer a source of healing.

One of the most important things we can teach kids is how to process emotions aside from happiness. Normalizing their feelings is crucial. Let them know that it’s okay to be sad, angry, confused, scared, or even shocked—emotions that adults also experience during loss. Giving them permission to feel can reduce some of the burden they might carry inside. It can also help you help them. Encourage them to express themselves, even if they can't articulate their emotions with words. Sometimes, drawing pictures, journaling, or creating something artistic can be a comforting outlet for children processing grief.

Talking about grief, loss, and death is never easy—whether you're speaking with a child, a teenager, or even an adult. But with patience, honesty, and the right tools, we can help guide the younger generation through these tough conversations. In a world where technology has heightened their awareness of emotions, Gen Z is often more equipped than we might expect to handle these difficult topics. The key is to meet them where they are, normalize their feelings, and offer them the support they need to express their grief in healthy ways.

T R U E S T O R Y
I was fascinated with postal workers who had access to post office boxes. I wanted to be a mail lady before I started kindergarten for that purpose. This memory is so vivid to me. It was the summer before I started kindergarten. My sister and I were visiting extended family in Baltimore. My aunt was at work, my sister was napping, and I was up and bored.

My imagination was my sole entertainment at the moment. I wasn’t in my aunt’s house anymore. I was at work. I was a mail lady about to put mail into the post office boxes. There was a problem. I needed a rectangular box with holes to insert an imaginary key to unlock the box. I looked at the wall; there it was! My mailbox was in plain view! Now I needed a key. I searched on the floor and found a hairpin. I thought, this is my key! I inserted my key into one of the holes in the box on the wall. It went it! I was met with intense pain before I could turn the key to unlock the mailbox. My pointer finger burned like I had never felt before. I ran into the bathroom and tried to turn on the light, but nothing happened. Luckily, the water still worked. I turned on the faucet and ran cold water over my finger (Cold water made everything feel better back then.). It burned even more. 

Shortly after, my sister woke up from her nap and tried to turn on the radio. It didn’t work. She tried to turn on the light to look at the radio. The light didn’t work either. I followed her from place to place in the room silently. She turned and looked at me sharply, “What did you do?” I said nothing, but she knew I was lying. Her eyes darted to the hairpin on the floor near the electrical socket. She put two and two together. Next was the spanking of the summer. Afterward, I laid on the bed and cried myself into a nap. I never (ever) thought of being a postal worker again. 

Fastward some weeks and kindergarten began. My teacher went around the room to all the students sitting in what is now called “criss-cross-applesauce.” When she got to me, she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I froze. I didn’t know. She went through some options quickly. “Would you want to be a doctor or lawyer?” I said, “Lawyer.” She went on to the next student. Truth is, I didn't know what a lawyer was or what they did. I just liked how it sounded. I asked my mom about it when I got home. After she explained their role, I was good with it. It was a sudden decision. But, I held on to it as my career choice until my senior year in college: I was going to be a lawyer.

A lot happened after that day in kindergarten. As a college student, I loved everything about criminal justice. However, going to law school didn't seem to fit my life at that time. I decided against it my first semester of my senior year. I graduated from undergrad and accepted a job unrelated to my dream or degree. I stayed there for about two months before I determined  I couldn’t continue that way. I applied for a Master of Social Work program and was accepted. Once accepted, I had a new language to learn. Social work was so different from criminal justice. It was two different mindsets and systems. It was a new world for me. I adjusted and graduated with an MSW in May 2010.

I was fully employed in my first position as a Geriatric social worker in June 2010. I worked in a nursing home. That position taught me immensely about work life, the need for balance, knowing my worth, and understanding systems, people, and life. Working there challenged my culture as I learned of diversity and shared experiences. Within the first six months there, I was serving an elderly woman who had to make a financial decision to remain in the facility or return to live in the community. But there was a problem. She no longer had her own home. Thus, she would have had to move in with her daughter. My supervisor and I met with her daughter in an office where she was informed about her mother’s situation. My supervisor presented the options. The lady’s daughter began to cry. She explained that she loved her mother, but she could not see herself changing her mother’s adult diapers or even taking care of her because her mother never cared for her. The lady was raised by her grandmother because her mother chose to lead another life without her. That moment in the office furthered my interest in culture and family dynamics because I had never heard of such a situation explained so plainly and directly.

Though many stories and experiences have followed, many of which have added to the mold of who I am as a clinician and person, that experience helped me discard the box and expectations I had for others. Everyone has a story. Everyone has a why. Our various experiences and journeys help cultivate subcultures and ways of life. The stories and whys have been my cause for finding and presenting solutions. It’s my privilege to serve others in the capacities of raising awareness, encouragement, and spreading hope. Social work is not for the faint of heart. But it certainly has its rewards. Here’s my ode to all other social workers making strides and lasting impacts to make a better society.

Happy Social Work Month!

I wrote Big Mama Was Wrong: Exploring Mental Health and Today’s Black Teens because I wanted it to be a resource. My goal was to enlighten parents, caregivers, and others about the stigmas I have observed as a mental health clinician for children and adolescents. I wanted conversations with therapists to be less embarrassing or scary. I also wanted others to understand the importance of seeking help, the type of help available, and some signs that seeking help may be necessary. I noticed patterns and realized that mental health within the Black community was the road less traveled but could have helped so many others along their journeys if they considered it.

I was challenged about the title “Big Mama Was Wrong” while presenting the first book in this closing series. The attendee stated that using “Black” to describe a race of people or ethnicity was inappropriate. In a world where identity is both a badge of honor and a topic for debate, most “Blacks” identify themselves as just that. I avoid using “African American” because it includes other ethnicities unintentionally, like those who may have been born in an African country but now live in the US or someone born to an American and someone from an African country. 

Then I was told that there was a way that I could appeal to readers without using a title that promoted ignorance. Truthfully, “ignorance” still rings in my ears from that day. I found the term destructive rather than constructive as the attendee wanted to appear. Ignorance is destructive. The conversation temporarily created an internal conflict. I was attacked for promoting what I wanted to destroy in my own community. 

The attendee further informed me that she did not believe looking into the past was the right approach. However, I beg to differ. If we are unaware of the past, we do not know how to respond to or prepare for the present onward. There is a long-standing history of trauma in the Black community. Understanding how it has framed mindsets and coping mechanisms could open the door for healthy responses for generations to come.

Social media, particularly during the pandemic, served as fantastic forms of education and entertainment. There has been a plethora of videos that confirm shared experiences within the Black culture and families. From “Black mamas don’t apologize. They just say ‘come and eat.’” to Black mamas telling teenagers to "Get in the kitchen and depress those dishes.” after a teen expressed feeling depressed. Although there is a comedic undertone, Blacks continue to laugh at and through tough situations because we do not always realize that habits and coping skills we have learned are not laughing matters. I do not believe there would be much comedic material if more people evaluated the roots of some of our behaviors and patterns in the Black community. 

This book will highlight some topics differently than in the first book. However, similar to the guide for Black teens, this book will cover various mental health diagnoses, modalities of treatment, and service providers. It will enlighten readers to banish the mental health stigma, help readers become more comfortable pursuing help, and foster healthy conversations surrounding mental health. I hope that it will also help others embrace healthy conversations. I want to reiterate that this book is derived from my observations, but the insight regarding diagnoses, treatment, etc. is supported with professional material. This book is not intended to be used instead of seeking professional help from clinicians. Up first, the backdrop.

Truth moment: I lowkey judged people who lost loved ones but continued to gather like we weren’t in a pandemic. As I write this, my grandmother officially transitioned from Earth about 4 hours ago, and all I can think of is how badly and tightly I want to hug my daddy-as unsafe as it is in a time like this. This was not the first family death that I’ve experienced since the pandemic. Nearly a year ago, I lost an aunt to COVID. I refrained from writing or speaking publically about it because I did not want to be insensitive to my family. But here’s the truth: virtually grieving was hard. Abbreviated gatherings seemed insufficient. But it’s where we are right now.

My introduction was written over three months ago when my grandma died. As of yesterday, my aunt has been deceased for one year. We don’t miss them any less. I come from large families: My mother is 1 of 13, and my father is 1 of 13. So, I have aunties, uncles, and cousins for days and days. Huge families are everything! Family gatherings are too! I’ve missed gathering while forced to grieve during the pandemic. My families are the types to celebrate and show love as units. Watching my aunt’s funeral via Facebook Live intensified my hurt because I was separated from my mom. We were fortunate. Some restrictions were lifted so we could gather in a small crowd when it was time to see my grandmother off. That was enough to be grateful for.

2020 and 2021 have helped me appreciate my loved ones more. There are lots of people who had goals for 2020/2021 that didn’t live to see. Some people planned to reconcile but lost the opportunity because death came too soon. COVID has highlighted the importance of humanity, love, and physical affection. Some things that I took for granted before now. Shoutout to everyone who has lost someone during the pandemic. Some people’s mental health was shaken. So grief hasn’t helped. Take it one day at a time. Embrace warm memories. Show love when you can.

Here’s a preview of what it’s like to be a concerned and conscious Black social worker: It’s saddening to see minorities outnumber any other race (or ethnic group) in the justice system; it’s difficult beyond words trying to help people within a rigged and broken system; it feels like running uphill when you’re out of shape; there’s so much resistance that it feels like a bad idea to even try; sometimes, I’ve wondered if there have been racial slurs or condescending/stereotypical remarks used behind closed doors within private circles and conversations; it’s hurtful when violence steals a youth’s life; it’s disturbing to hear youth explain why they have nothing to lose or live for; it’s angering to be referred to as a gatekeeper and realize that you’re what stands between a child and a monster that was created to devour you both. The tricky part is feeling pressured to conceal knowledge that you are just as much prey as the child (along with everyone else who looks like you) and having to engage the dominant culture -all while appearing non-threatening, professional according to their standards, less expressive, and self-muted.

One day I was sitting at lunch as I thought about the systems of our country. I realized how difficult it is for a child to win with statistics stacked against them. Working with youth involved in the juvenile justice system has made the covert plans for Blacks apparent. But the justice system isn’t the only system that oppresses Blacks: There’s the workforce, education, healthcare, housing, plus some. Admittedly, I took the job thinking I would be satisfied if I could help a handful of kids out of the slew I've encountered. I lied to myself. Seeing the slew fall and drug between the cracks became disheartening to the point of tears. I felt like I was a part of a losing battle. I wanted to leave social work. I wasn’t sure where I thought I was going. I only knew I would wear myself out in a fixed fight. I finished my lunch and returned to work without sharing my heart or thoughts with anyone. Somehow, my will to fight returned. I’m still in the field.

Don't be confused by any of the above. I love my job, I love the youth, and I love the endless list of possibilities. Any Social Worker or therapist (I'm both) can tell you that we have our days. But, we also have our rewards. Mine are seeing youth on the up and up; watching youth grow and apply what they've gained from the sessions or groups; and one of my personal favorites, the opportunity to plant good seeds into the soils of our society.

Long story short, I didn’t quit that day. I don't know that I’ll be a social worker or therapist forever; or that my length of employment in this field will merit I can “retire” from the profession. My life and those tied to it are full of purpose. My job is by providence. It would be cowardice and irresponsible to leave my post. Needless to say, I’ll be here for however long “a while” is. So, it’s ethics, prayer, good vibes, advocacy, and self-care until my next assignment…