The Heart Part

Sharing my story with people outside of my inner circle—those I’ve truly done life with—has always been a challenge. I feel the urge to “pretty it up” and make it sound better, to present myself as stronger, less weak…like a conqueror. I’ve hated pity for as long as I can remember, so I believed that whenever I shared my testimony, it needed to reflect that I had already overcome. In my mind, if people saw me as “still in it,” they might see me as broken, not victorious.

But when you’re in a thing, it’s hard to see it for what it is.

Within my first year in LA, I found myself in the middle of something I didn’t specifically pray for—a transitional season—and my undoing started with an article.

In January 2022, I opened a story about a lawyer and former Miss USA, Cheslie Kryst, who had tragically died by suicide after jumping from the roof of her apartment building. The news shocked the world, but for me, it hit differently. Details emerged that she had been living with so-called “high-functioning depression.” I couldn’t shake her story because it mirrored parts of my own.

Then God nudged me to write.

I began drafting an article about how I, too, felt like Cheslie in many ways. What started as a private journal entry poured out of me without filter or caution. I was stunned by what I had written—vulnerabilities I had never shared in such detail.

In partial obedience, I shared it with a few trusted people. Their response was unanimous: “Wow. You should publish this.”

I remember my internal tug of war with God: If I share this, they will all know. They would know the struggles I didn’t speak of. They would know I didn’t have it all together. For years, holding back had been my superpower—a way to make things seem fine on the outside while keeping my deepest issues hidden.

Reluctantly, I posted it—on LinkedIn and my friend’s media company—for the world to see. At the time, it felt like exposure. Now, I see it was the beginning of breaking off a stronghold.

It wasn’t pretty. It took therapy, coping skills, and a relationship with the Holy Spirit to work through the layers. And I am still working through some of those things today. The transition season wasn’t comfortable—in fact, there were moments I wanted to take myself out of it altogether because I couldn’t appreciate what God was doing. Today, though a little further along in the journey, I am in yet another transition season—more learning and unlearning, more healing and the laying down.

I had worn a mask for so long that showing my truth felt unnatural. But the beauty was in the response. Women I knew and women I’d never met reached out to thank me for putting their feelings into words. Some only saw the beauty of the language, others felt the pain beneath it. Women I looked up to told me they felt the same. Others said they never would have known. While there were a few negative responses, the overwhelming reaction was positive.

I even sat for an interview about the article, but it never aired—God had other plans. Looking back, I’m grateful for my obedience in that moment. That single act of honesty helped me publicly accept what I had been hiding for years and start the real work of healing.

I couldn’t see it clearly then, but now, I understand.

Here’s the original article: I’m Just Like Cheslie Kryst: The Battle Between Millennial Black Women and Depression

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