let me be clear, i fully believe that compliance is a form of survival. for me, it was rooted in becoming something i didn’t want for myself. i always loved being from harlem, but i wanted the cosby show version of harlem, not the franklin and wagner projects harlem. not the harlem that made children adults overnight. i wanted to know that harlem had so much beautiful history, which i couldn’t see, although the lenox lounge and apollo were physical structures with a lot less luster.

being raised in multiple worlds, you quickly realize you are part of the ‘have nots’ and you want to have. you also quickly learn the language of compliance, of acceptance. this is where the contortion began.

in 1980, there were no systems that would disallow my attendance at an upper west side elementary school. it was my mother’s persuasive voice and my quick-wittedness that got me ‘placed’ within predominantly white jewish elementary schools. this was far from where i actually lived.

it was there, in the clean walls of my elementary school, that i learned the need to code-switch—to manipulate my circumstances by manipulating myself.

i learned the smile and dance of an adorable light-skinned black kid was a literal pass. i could hang with the haves if i complied with the narrative of what i was supposed to be. i enjoyed the safety of buildings that stood erect and complete, of parents holding the hands of their skipping children. even the dogs seemed to have an air of benefit. i didn’t know what stood behind this air of perfection, so i chased what seemed to be beautiful.

for too long, i extended myself into each world. i remained elusive in a world of upper west side ease and harlem grind. as i look back, it’s as if i was invisible, never seen or honored. it was as if i were a fixture to be used at any moment and ignored when no longer needed. as i grew and my identity solidified, i realized the woman developing in my mind had nowhere to live. i found myself sitting on sidewalks in the west village after high school, envying those who clearly had the bravery to be themselves. doc marten boots, spiked hair, and pierced noses abound.

i sat on sidewalks with permed hair, braided down each side of my head. my favorite high-water sweatpants—this is long before the cool days of joggers—and sally jesse raphael red glasses at the tip of my nose. i could not know who i was. i straddled between two worlds for so long. the straddling felt more natural than being myself. as the ‘real’ me kept trying to emerge, the alternate versions of me wrestled with her, reminding me ‘they’ had gotten me this far.

maybe when you and i meet, we’ll talk more about soul manipulation. for now, let’s press fast forward to 1994. it was my second year of college. for the first time, i heard the word psychosomatic. i’ve always had a love of words, holding space like a bookmark in the pages of my life. i could not tell you at that moment why that word meant so much to me. it was like my future self told my current self, “you’ll need this girl. just hold on.”

that word—psychosomatic—sat in me like a time capsule. twenty-five years later, in 2019, it finally opened.

at the time, i suffered from random physical ailments, from ibs (irritable bowel syndrome) to psoriasis, and eczema. while there were a few logical reasons for the psoriasis on my scalp, i couldn’t nail down the origins of all the other random illnesses i experienced. from changes in my diet to weight loss, gain, and all manner of changes in my habits. the ailments would dissipate for some time and then return with a vengeance regardless of my discipline or consistency. no rhyme, no reason, at least that’s what i thought. the reality was that i failed to live an authentic life. i lived a life that was so far outside of who i was that it caused me harm. now let me be fully transparent, i lived a life that looked great on the exterior.

i lived the ‘american dream’: one husband, two cars, two kids, two dogs, six figures, and a house with a picket fence. the kind of house where i’d stand in the kitchen with granite countertops, staring out at a manicured lawn, feeling like i was watching someone else’s life through glass. we had dinner parties with the right wine. we took family photos in matching outfits. i smiled at client meetings and PTA gatherings, my calendar color-coded, my performance reviews glowing. it was the quintessential life. i presented well—hair done, nails done—everything did, but nothing acknowledged the reality of me, the real ja’nohn.

over the course of a few years, i began to hear a voice within, beckoning me to shed the version that straddled worlds and presented well. i learned that being a shell of oneself is a surefire way to make yourself sick. the ibs, eczema, and psoriasis showed temporary improvement with topical ointments, but the lasting effects came when i got my mind right. getting your mind right and aligning with your truest self is not an overnight process. you’re likely to burn things down, destroy a world you spent most of your life building.

i divorced my husband, the man i knew since 11th grade. yes, we even went to prom together. we had prom photos in an album somewhere—him in a rented tux, me in royal blue satin. we’d built this life brick by brick, standing at ikea on saturdays, celebrating promotions at the ‘right’ restaurants. but somewhere in all that building, we’d buried ourselves in the foundation. we worked hard to get to this level of existence. two immigrant-raised, first-born kids with all the gumption to become ‘something.’ that quest led to our demise. i’ll write another day in detail on how aspiration outside of oneself will destroy a relationship. for today, we’re focusing on the reclamation of the soul.

i left the big 4 consulting firm where partner was being dangled before me like the toxic crown jewel it was. the late nights in conference rooms that smelled like stale coffee and ambition. the presentations polished to perfection. the version of ja’nohn who could speak their language fluently, who made partner track look inevitable, who was already dying from the inside out. now don’t get me wrong, i believe being a partner can be a beautiful position; however, corporate ladder climbing without a strong sense of self and why is toxic. i say that with my full chest.

so what’s left when you burn things to the ground?

ritual: 5:00 a.m. - 8:00 a.m. was and still is all mine. meditation, journaling, reading, yoga, anything that was devoted to the exploration that was important to me and me alone.

play: travel, roller skating, coloring, group meet-ups, dining alone.

therapy: years of honest conversation, unpacking, ownership, and action.

movement: walking, yoga, boxing, jumping rope, skipping, anything that allowed my body to feel joy.

soulful selfcare: slow bathing, soaking, hot oil on my scalp. a literal rub from head to toe with my homemade body care.

it was slow, the unraveling, the undoing, the unlearning, and the awakening. and it was non-negotiable. i am still awakening to the beauty that is me. i am still unlocking divine wisdom within. as i do this, my strength increases, and my sphere of influence radiates brighter with much less effort.

so many other humans, especially black women in corporate america, watch their hair fall out, their skin rebel, their stomachs turn against them. the body keeps the score of every contortion, every code-switch, every time we chose compliance over soul.

through my journey, i learned i didn’t want to become a recluse, yelling at capitalism with clenched fists. i wanted to live within this world—because it holds beauty—while maintaining the beauty within me. that’s why i established a framework that allows the fullness of me to exist anywhere.

this framework works. not because it’s mine, but because it honors what compliance tried to destroy: the soul’s knowing. if you’re reading this and your body is screaming at you through mystery ailments, exhaustion, or a life that looks good but feels hollow—listen. your body isn’t broken. it’s trying to bring you home.

unlearning with love,

ja’nohn

i would love to hear from you. this code switch thing hasn’t stopped. it lives in the narratives to hold yourself back because being oneself is dangerous. it lives in toning down your brilliance, not because you want to reserve it for something else, but because you’re reminded the light is blinding.

let them go blind love - looking forward to hearing from you.