Yes, I’m about to tell y’all all my business today. So please—don’t make me regret it. 😩

And if you see me in person, just act normal, okay?
Because it took every ounce of vulnerability in my body to even put this into words.

 So Boom (I gotta give the backstory first)...

This year, I made a BOLD decision—to dedicate my whole heart to showing up front and center as the CEO of my business.

Not just to run it, but to serve the well-being of high-achieving, over-functioning Black women at a higher capacity.

For years, I’d been that therapist sitting quietly in the back, rocking my little “helping hat,” hoping nobody noticed me too much. You know, just trying to do the work without catching too many eyes—because in the therapy world, too many eyes can mean trouble.

Like, “complaints to the board,” or “there goes your license and livelihood” (or bad still—insurance chargebacks. Because paying money back to insurance companies? That’s a heartbreak all its own 😩).

No, seriously. These are real fears for so many therapists—the fear of being too visible. The fear of saying the wrong thing. The fear of punishment. Just… fear.

So it starts to feel safer to play small.
To move in silence. To do good work but not make any big waves.

But this year, I decided—nah. Real healing CAN'T happen in hiding.

It’s been beautiful watching the lives of Black women transform for the better. Seeing them breathe deeper, stand taller, and finally start choosing themselves—without apology.

And in the process, I’ve been changing too.
Because I can’t help other Black women be fully human if I’m still out here pretending to be superhuman myself.

 Now, I Gotta Throw in Another Backstory (And Probably a Third or Fourth) for Good Measure...

So… I have arthritis. Been had it for years. But let me tell you—everything hits different when the weight on your body starts to increase over time. The game changes, and your body lets you know real quick.

My joints? Chile, they be snap, crackling, and popping.

Apparently, I’d been losing mobility and flexibility for over a year without realizing it.
Because like most of us high-achieving, over-functioning Black women, I’d just gotten used to working around the pain—doing shortcuts, making adjustments, never stopping long enough to notice what my body was trying to tell me.

Until one of my sister-friends (because a Black woman will always tell you the truth in love) went walking with me and said,

“Girl… you limping. You struggling.”

Then she hit me with some unsolicited—but accurate—advice.
And that conversation started me on a journey back to reconnecting with my own body.

Learning to Trust Again

Me and my sister-friend started hitting the gym together. But I’ll be real—my workouts were aimless at best. Then one day, this young trainer asked,

“Would you like me to help you?”

And my first reaction was: Absolutely not, sir. 😅

Because… vulnerability.
A stranger in my space of tenderness? GROSS. LOL.

But I chose to be human.
To need help.
And—hardest of all—to receive it.

He’s helped me learn to trust myself again—to advocate for my body, speak up when the pain is too much, and recognize the difference between being pushed and being in pain.

I’m learning how to sit with discomfort when it’s helping me grow and to trust my instincts when something’s not right.

But don’t get it twisted—this journey has not been sweet. Every new thing I tried (or tried again)—strength training, walking more, sweating in saunas—had me over there cussing under my breath (and sometimes out loud 😩).

But I kept going. Recording videos. Sharing updates. Showing up messy, sweaty, and real—being transparent in a way I never had before (all over  these inna'net streets).

And Then Life Had A Way Of Quickly Humbling Me

And then September happened… 😩
It was like a truck ran me over, backed up, and said, “Wait—let me hit her one more time just to make sure.”

I was finally getting the hang of everything—feeling confident, strong, and actually seeing my own progress. For the first time in a long time, it felt like my body and I were finally on the same page.

Then things started to feel… off. Slowly but surely, my body began acting strange—a little discomfort here, a little ache there—and then early one morning I woke up straight-up nauseous, cramping, and just not right.

Long story short, I took a pregnancy test.

It said positive.

Baby, I almost fainted. 💀

For context—on one hand, I was sitting in a full-blown storm of confusion. This academic year is my youngest son’s senior year of high school, so life was already emotional, busy, and expensive.

And on the other hand, I had an IUD. I was on GLP-1 medication. And I didn’t even have a current OB-GYN.

S/N: I’ve had the hardest time finding a consistent provider outside of emergencies—especially because of ⬆️ this one villain. And yes, I call her a villain on purpose, because the experience I had with her was nothing short of traumatic.

AND COME TO FIND OUT: I was in session one day with another high-achieving, over-functioning Black woman, and she started telling me about an eerily similar experience. Before I could even stop myself, I blurted out the villian's name—and my client’s eyes filled with tears as she whispered, “Yes.”

In that moment, I validated her experience with my own. We had both been harmed in the same way, by the same person.

It was honestly a reminder that (no matter how much student loan debt I’ve acquired trying to become an expert in wellness 🙃), these are the present day struggles of high-achieving, over-functioning Black women—being unheard, misunderstood, and too often left without anyone to advocate for us.

The Full-On 3 a.m. Panic

Back to the story at hand: so I did what every Black woman does in a crisis
I became a certified Google medical researcher at 3:00 a.m.

By 8:00 a.m., I was on the phone like,

“Hi, yes, I need an appointment TODAY. Like… right now.”

And when I tell you—
God sent me a team of Black women angels.
They got me in that same day, on a Friday, at 4:30 p.m.

 The doctor was calm, brilliant, and full of compassion.
She walked me through everything, step-by-step—it turned out I had a FALSE POSITIVE.

But she helped me understand what was happening: my hormones were out of balance, my body was shifting, and my old IUD had run its course.

She suggested I get a new IUD—not for birth control, but for hormonal regulation.

AND BEING HARD-HEARDED: I almost didn’t listen because my insurance had the audacity to quote me a $7,000 ultrasound bill—and that was just for the precautionary part of the procedure, not the actual procedure itself, which would’ve cost me $0. 😩 (The devil is a liar.)

But that same doctor said, “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out together,” after I was honest with her about my financial dilemma and everything that was going on.

And we did.

Sis is a genius.

And more than that—she, along with my trainer, have helped to remind me that I am human. I can give help and in the vain also recieve help.

So Here’s the Thing…

High-achieving, over-functioning Black women—we’re not meant to do this alone.

No matter how educated, wise, or resilient we are, pain (and crisis) has a way of shrinking us.

And when we’re in that place, we find emotional safety in receiving help.

We don’t need someone to be us to us or to take the pain away—we need people who are trustworthy, grounded in integrity, and willing to walk alongside us as we meet ourselves exactly where we are (with no self-imposed judgement).

#THRIVENOW

Sharell D. Cannady, CEO of Docked Ships