Coming Home

by Brittney Griner

Fear is one thing. But uncertainty, the unknown, a free fall into mystery—that’s much stronger than fear; it’s terror.

but here’s what I know: you can’t legislate hate out of people’s hearts.

Sometimes loving a person means telling them everything. Other times it means leaving them with hope.

Hope is a funny thing. It can be comforting. It can also be a mindfuck.

You can withstand just about any shame so long as your tribe stands with you.

It’s easy to tell the truth. It’s tough to do it eloquently.

When you’re told you’re not good enough, you tell them, “Not only am I good enough, I’m more than enough.” When they say, “Send her back home,” you tell them, “I am home. I am the foundation of what we call home.” When they tell you that you’re angry or nasty, you tell them that they’re mistaken: “This is me. This is me being resolute and standing firmly in my truth.” —Angela Bassett, award-winning actress and icon, speaking at Black Girls Rock

What was home but feeling known, understood, loved.

It’s painful to reckon privately with your heartache. It pierces even more deeply when you hear the anguish in your own voice.

Time may not heal, but it does pass—slowly, quickly, with certainty. For me, its passing has brought relief. It has created distance from my ordeal that has lessened its agony. The further away I’ve gotten from the terror I survived, the less distressing it has felt.

That’s what unnecessary friction does: replaces the pleasure that might have been. Instead of sharing a laugh, you’re rolling your eyes and stoking tension.