“This could have easily been me.”

I reposted the news report and added the caption “So sad. Hits close to home on so many levels.” The story resonated with me as I looked at the mocha-kissed sister whose hair was woven like mine in locs with blonde highlights. Her career ended at the same university where my teaching career started, and she was young. 

Although a few years my junior, she was a member of what I call the “Sistah Docs”: women of African descent who now hold earned doctorate degrees in various disciplines. Skinner, an assistant professor of gerontology and psychology in the Department of Psychological Science at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, didn’t live to publish that seminal textbook students will read to learn more about aging. Her story becomes an addendum to the countless log of women who died at the hands of a partner, lover, husband, or someone who loved them to death.


There is no one “type” of woman who finds herself at the end of a gun, knife, hammer, brick, or ice pick, yet there’s often a perception that women who are subject to violence are poor, of a lower class, or are mothers dependent on men. We are saddened by their homicides as we silently question and ask, “Why didn’t they just leave?” Every 9 seconds in the United States a woman is assaulted or beaten.

But after being judgmental I’ve had to confront my own dating and mating choices and ask why did I stay in situations that could have easily ended with my mama calling our sorority sisters to prepare my final ceremony.

Although I know nothing more about Skinner than what has been reported in news reports, I have been the woman ready to conquer my beloved profession in a new city without family, and often more than ready to take a chance on love. Often new transitions, tenure and promotions, family obligations, and just plain old vulnerability derail our vetting processes. Before we know it, we’re in “Bae-dom.” He says what we want to hear, responds how we need him to respond, and he may even vacuum or wash dishes to lighten our loads. All the while, our guards begin to come down.

I mean, I, Arlecia the trained journalist who teaches interviewing skills, would have never believed I would once end up going on multiple dates with a man on the sexual offender registry. Of course, he was innocent, and there’s a reasonable doubt that he could be based on how black and brown men are coerced to plead to guilty instead of going to trial. While I could not be judge nor jury for an offense I had no evidence of beyond his personal testimony. I had to decide if his actions and words lined up. His words were convincing while the actions were not. Before my safety or that of others were jeopardized, I was blessed to be able to walk away. Sadly, that’s not the reality for many who find themselves in relationships where grace has been extended and love given only for a not-so-happily-ever-after.

In memory of Skinner, I vow to pay more attention to church members, students, and sisters I encounter who are trying to find strength and direction to exit a violent union. As a seminary-trained minister with 400 hours as a chaplain intern, I recognize that helping women escape toxic relationships isn’t easy. For many, leaving only occurs after multiple attempts. And then there are the children. Thus, allies and listening ears may find themselves between rocks and hard places.

But will we risk experiencing the tension of those hard places to help keep a sister alive? Will we stop avoiding the writing on our own walls as we try to love people to life who may not chose to do the same for us?


Ironically on the same day the public learns about Skinner’s death and her family, friends, colleagues, and students begin to grieve her life, OWN Network aired the second-part of a new series called the Black Love Documentary. As I engaged in the Twitterverse with other viewers, it was clear information about healthy relationships and communication needed to be more intentionally infused into our community. I even tweeted that a curriculum needed to be developed and taught to coincide with show.

Maybe, just maybe, learning how to manage our emotions, communicate, and work through issues may help couples build stronger unions and show men and women that silencing a partner through death is not the only way to end a disagreement. Who knows if helping people of color embrace mental health counseling and increasing its access will stop partner violence?

There’s usually one degree of separation between Sistah Docs. I lament today that I’ll never meet Sistah Doc Jeannine or hear about her research over brunch. I speak and write her name, and pray that someone will read these words and realize that love doesn’t have to hurt or kill.

Arlecia Simmons Ph.D., M.Div., is a writer, ordained minister, and a Visiting Professor of Mass Communications at Claflin University in Orangeburg, S.C. She is the author of Diggin' For Treasure: Jewels of Hope When Pressure & Time Collide.

Lately I have been preoccupied with exploring and dismantling my old definition of self-care and building a new one that is tailored to my own experience. This exploration was, in part, sparked by a dissatisfaction with the typical framing of self-care as being synonymous with pampering. I also grew tired of conversations about self-care being solely linked to some form of meditation.

The title for this piece was inspired by imagining ways to care for myself after my incense runs or burns out. By incense I mean both literal incense and incense as a metaphorical representation for all of the items that I turned to for self-care.

Along with these thoughts also came the realization of how companies that directly contribute to violence against Black lives were feeding on the grief that Black folk were experiencing and re-branding their products as remedies – a form of self care. Simultaneously, I acknowledged the discomfort that I felt when I realized that my idea of self-care was dependent on consumerism. I asked myself this simple, yet humongous question: what does internal liberation look like? Immediately I knew that my answer involved not having to search for things outside of myself.
And I appreciate that my answer probably sounds a lot like a romanticized, unattainable concept of independence, but it does the spirit good to at least dream. Having this dream, I was drawn to explore practical avenues of self-care that involved all of me but little to no money.

I decided to start with touch. Yes, touching my own body.

I realized how much miseducation there is around touch – the misconception that touch only equates to sexual touch – the erroneous idea that our hands belong to everyone and everything but ourselves. Consequently, we become ignorant to our own bodies. Unfortunately, like many people, I arrived at my desire to be more knowledgeable about my body through health worries. Through questions that I was unable to answer in the doctor's office, I realized that it was impossible for me to recognize my sick body because I hadn’t acknowledged it when healthy. So as I sat there in doctor's office ignorant about the body that I live in, I made a promise to begin re-defining my idea of self-care with touch.

Saying it was easy and doing it was hard.
I noticed how apprehensive I was to begin this journey. I recognized that my skin had archived memories that I was afraid to trigger. At the same time, I knew that it was important for me to know the places on my body that remind me of hurt while also learning the places that make me smile and remind me of pleasure. I felt that this was important not only for my own personal knowledge but also to inform my physical interactions with others.

I developed a better understanding of my physicality through body mapping. Put simply, body mapping is a form of art and therapy where you draw an outline of yourself and fill it with words and images that come to mind when you reflect on that particular body part. I was amazed that by thinking about particular body parts, like my hands, feet, or stomach, I became immersed in memories that evoked all of my senses. By engaging in this simple exercise I started to appreciate my body more by acknowledging how much it has carried. I developed a deeper appreciation for the miracle of being. The way that parts of my body faithfully communicate with each other in order to allow me to wake up in the morning. I was thankful.

After body mapping, I moved on to body examinations. I worry a lot about my health, so this was incredibly hard for me – but I did it and now I can say that I “do” it. I frequently give myself a breast examination in the morning. I aim to do this ritualistically not only for matters of health, but also to develop expertise on myself. At first I found that statement weird – “develop expertise on myself” – am I not just innately an expert on myself? But when I thought about how much I change on a daily basis I realized that this whole being an expert thing is going to be a lifelong project.
I am also a firm believer in the healing power of hands. In many religious and spiritual texts, you hear about someone/something stretching its hands, which leads to healing. People have Reiki healing sessions and are transformed. People have massages and are renewed. I started believing that I could harness this same magic and that nothing was more deserving to receive this blessing than my own body. I have come to see the act of touch as prayerful.

And even though I regard this as a form of self-care, I see many ways that this could lead to collective and community-care.

It would be wonderful if more parents taught their children to be comfortable with their bodies. It would be wonderful if this dialogue was sparked between friends. It would be glorious if our education systems and places of worship supported this kind of self-care.

And I think that’s important that I reiterate that this is a major deviation from my previous idea of self-care that was pretty much synonymous with pampering. But this moment in my calls for some practical, yet challenging, $free.99 self-loving. And who knows, tomorrow may call for a spa day, or some good old incense and meditation. My joy comes from being open to this fluidity.

I still have a long way to go, but I am so glad that I have begun. I am so glad that I am giving myself back to me.

Photo Credit: Kadir Gold

Catherine Labiran is a 23-year-old Nigerian writer who was born in New York, raised in London and is currently living in New Haven, Connecticut. Catherine is a graduate student at Yale and is also the Human Rights Advocacy coordinator at the US Human Rights Network.