BY Doryell Davis
To save your future, you must do the work in the present that heals the hurts of your past. No matter where I go, I can never escape my own mind. It holds a catalog of memories stretching across my lived experiences, framed by the long, vast rows of southern cotton fields that served as the setting to my rearing.
Growing up in the “Bible Belt” of the Mississippi Delta during the 1980s, Black mental health was rarely discussed. Oftentimes, when discussed, it was referenced to discuss a person who may have been what we know now to have an intellectual disability. Honestly, mental health encompasses so much more. Living through systemic oppression, poverty, and the crack cocaine epidemic, I fought internal battles with constant fear and anxiety. It felt as though a spotlight followed me everywhere, intent on exposing my imperfections. Nowhere felt safe—not school, home, family gatherings, or church. I kept my guards up, wore a mask of perfection, and strived for excellence.
In my quest for perfection to secure belonging, I was stunting my own growth like Johnsongrass choking a cotton plant. Cotton thrives under specific warmth and soil conditions; under adverse temperatures, nutrient stress, or pests, it suffers poor development. Like the crop of my youth, human development depends deeply on setting. The stress, hurt, and confidence depletion I carried created an unwritten standard of existing far below the emotional vitality I deserved even into my adulthood.
Years later—several degrees and public accolades in—the seeds of my past had grown into fully matured agents of confusion. I realized therapy was necessary before my life unraveled.
Tilling that soil was not easy. I had to break through hard ground to expose parasitic roots and strip them of their lifeforce. With the combination of my sweat and tears that could trifle with the mighty Mississippi River, I dug into the deepest parts of myself to replace bad crops with new seeds—learning healthier strategies, understanding why I am wired the way I am, and charting a new way of living.
I had to release the notion that did not serve me and quiet the stigmas claiming therapy meant a lack of faith. Fear disguised itself as excuses, convincing me that unlocking those memories and speaking my truth would break my levees and leave me unrepairable.
Yet, I locked in with my therapist. I threw my entire self into the process because my life depended on me doing something drastically different. She continues to hold me accountable with care and provides the tools I need.
Voluntarily working those dusty cotton trails under the summer sun taught me what was possible for the raw, cloud-like substances sprouting from the earth once saved from the weeds. Today, while I am not perfect, I am healed enough to accept that I don’t have to be. I am living proof of what emerges when you till the soil of your past to yield a healthier harvest on the other side.
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