I Was Somebody Before All This
Written By Lẹwa Ubunifu | March 31, 2025
Author's Note
Before I even get into this, I need to say something I’ve been carrying for a while. I feel like, because I am Black, the people around me are just waiting for me to fail. It doesn’t matter how hard I work, how much I give, or how much I sacrifice — all they see is someone they expect to fall short. Every move I make feels like it’s being watched. And when I make a mistake, they don’t see it as human — they see it as proof that I was never enough to begin with.
The hardest part of all of this, beyond the money, beyond the depression, beyond the daily struggle, is the loneliness. I don’t have real friends. Not the kind who treat you like a person and not a project. Not the kind who check on you without asking for something. Not the kind who see you, who actually see you, without trying to fix you, change you, or mold you into whatever makes them comfortable.
I just wanted to say that first — because that’s part of the weight too.
The Weight of It All
I had a life before I came to the Pacific Northwest, before Columbia River Mental Health, before Section 8 housing. People like to erase who you were before they met you. It's like they think you must have always been broken, skating by untouched until your problems suddenly bubbled up out of nowhere. Yes, I was broken — but I did have a life. Just like African Americans didn’t suddenly appear out of thin air when slavery began. But now, people act like that's where our story starts — like we just materialized as slaves, desperate and dependent, begging white people for homes, food, and purpose. And somehow, we're still blamed for never quite "getting it together."
They love that narrative. They want us to accept that dependency is all we’ll ever know. They ignore that we were rulers, kings, queens, scientists, mathematicians, artists, parents, and builders of civilizations. That we had entire societies before we were stolen. But they don’t teach that. Not in public schools, not in the citizenship tests for people trying to come to this country. We're reduced to nothing but ⅗ of a human being. They train our kids to believe that. The ones who control the money control where you sleep, what you eat, whether your child goes to college — especially now that affirmative action has been gutted. They even shape who your enemies are supposed to be.
White people are the majority here, and they make sure we never forget it. They've convinced some other races, too. But I had a life before I came to the Pacific Northwest, and we as African people had a life before being discarded by Africa, before being stolen by the Portuguese and the white people who followed. I have circumstantial depression, and now, on top of that, I have no therapy. It was ripped out from under me when Columbia River Mental Health collapsed. One day I had someone to talk to — then I didn’t.
People tried to hand me a few resources afterward, but they’re useless to me. I'm a public figure, and trust is rare. Therapy was the only place I could speak freely. Finding a good therapist is already hard enough. Now, if I go to the wrong person, my entire reputation could be tarnished. The same people who already gossip, who already label me as broken, would make sure the world knows every little thing they think is wrong with me. They constantly tell me I can't make it, that I have to do it their way, that I need to rely on them, stay quiet, and take whatever scraps they toss me. And if I dare to speak up, they tell me to sit down, shut my mouth, and never defend myself.
Sticks and stones may break bones, but words pierce your subconscious. I limit how much of myself they get. I only deal with them when business forces me to. They run around telling people I need help, but they’ve never even asked me how I’m doing. I hate white people. I hate them with a passion. Their skin alone makes me sick. But they’ve convinced everyone — especially us — that we aren’t allowed to hate. That we have to take the high road. Every single day they commit murder, spiritually, emotionally, physically, sexually, psychologically. And every single day, we are told to just stand there and take it. We’re told we’re better than that. But what they really mean is, Don’t defend yourself.
They study our DNA. They tell us we’re “above” acting like them. We’re not allowed to push back. Just take the scraps, take the jobs they “allow” us to have, accept the roles they give us, and swallow our rage whole. I have no friends. No real family. People don’t understand what I mean when I say that. No one knows the real me. No one wants to. The minute you hold even a shred of power, they try to mold you into their expectations — even when the thing you hold power over belongs to you. White people will make sure you never forget that they believe it all belongs to them, even when it doesn’t. That's what the Homestead Act and the Morrill Act were about — theft disguised as law. That's what eminent domain is. This country belongs to them, and they remind us of it every single day.
I hope other countries know this, too. When people say "Americans" I hope they remember that some of us didn’t have a choice. I was somebody before I came to the Pacific Northwest. Before white people tried to convince me that I was defective. That I was a nobody. That I should bow at the feet of people who look like the very ones who put me down, who touch me without permission because they believe I don’t have the right to say no.
I am depressed. I am angry. I am tired. I am lonely. I play Roblox. I listen to music. I try to keep myself afloat. I try to think outside the box. But right now, I feel lost. I have nowhere to go. And yes, sometimes I hate Black people, too — for being white people’s pawns. For drinking up their lies like biscuits soaking up gravy. There was a time when we stuck together. But every time we do, they scatter us like roaches. Judas and the Black Messiah, Black Wall Street, the list goes on. Every time we try to rise, they snuff us out.
I am tired of people trying to make me believe I can’t do anything. That I’m nothing. That I should be grateful to just sit here quietly on Section 8. Yes, I am grateful I’m not homeless. But I will never be satisfied with Section 8. I want to be paid what I’m worth. I try desperately to hold on to who I am, who I know myself to be. I try to protect my mind from their poison. But when they came for my child, I felt helpless. I feel even more broken. Trapped.
What am I supposed to do? I needed my therapy appointments. I know somehow I’ll get through this, but right now, I just feel heavy. Don’t get me wrong — I love Jesus. But even with Jesus, I believe therapy is necessary for people who need it. People tell me I’ll never get married, that because I won’t have sex with a man right away, I’ll die alone. Then I watch them date men who use and abuse them. I refuse to be traumatized further.
I used to move through the world so carelessly. Now I hide. I order most things on Amazon just so I don’t have to face the abuse and bias waiting for me at the store. I stay in this little Section 8 apartment, boxed in by the scraps white people allow me to have. I tried to leave. I really did. But white people didn’t stop me.
Jesus did.
And no, He’s not white.
He needed me here for a higher purpose. So I stayed — though I didn’t have much choice. I know I’ll be okay. I pray my daughter will be too.
Quiet Strength, Heavy Hope
So I stayed — not because I wanted to, but because I was placed here. Whether I like it or not, I'm still here. Not untouched, not whole, but present. Breathing. Existing. Some days, that's the most I can say. I am here. And sometimes, just being here is the most defiant thing I can do. To still exist after all of this. After what they’ve done. After what they keep doing. To still wake up and move through this world that was never meant for me, that was never built with me in mind — is defiance.
I didn’t come here for strength. I didn’t ask to be the strong one. I didn't want to be the example, the fighter, the "resilient one" who somehow is supposed to spin trauma into wisdom and smile while doing it. I'm tired of it. Tired of being the strong one when all I wanted was rest. All I wanted was peace. And yet, I’ve got this fight in me that won’t die, no matter how many times I wish it would. And I know some people reading this know exactly what I mean. That deep, quiet, stubborn part of you that refuses to fully give up even when you are dangling off the edge with nothing left.
That’s me. Dangling. Hanging on. Not because I’m brave or wise or fearless, but because giving up isn’t an option. It’s not heroic. It’s not inspirational. It just is.
Some mornings I wake up and stare at the walls of this little Section 8 apartment. I listen to the silence. And I think about everything they’ve taken. Everything they try to convince me to give up voluntarily. My dignity. My voice. My right to be angry. My right to tell the truth, even when the truth isn’t palatable to them. They want me to shrink. To be thankful for the crumbs, to smile while carrying the weight, to stay quiet while they rewrite my story and the story of my people.
But I won’t. I can't. Even if my voice shakes. Even if all I have left is a whisper. That whisper is mine, and I’m not handing it over.
I don’t have all the answers. I am not one of those people who will tell you to “just pray it away” or to “just keep going” like it’s that simple. It’s not. It’s hard out here. It’s heavy. Therapy is important, and I am angry that it was stolen from me. Not just for me, but for my child. For everyone who needs it. For everyone like me who holds on just barely.
And yes — I am angry. I’m angry that they expect me to just keep on smiling, keep forgiving, keep taking it. I’m angry that they try to make me feel wrong for speaking out. I’m angry that they think we have to be better, to be more patient, to turn the other cheek while they sharpen the knife. I am angry, and I am still here.
Somehow, I haven’t been scattered yet. Even if I feel like dust in the wind, I’m still here. I may not have the kind of family people expect, but I know that I'm not the only one feeling this way. There are others like me, silenced, isolated, but still fighting, still breathing. You, reading this — maybe you’re one of them. Maybe you don’t even know how you’re still here either. And if you are, I see you. I may never know your face, but I know your struggle. You’re not the only one. And I’m telling you right now — neither am I.
I don't say this like some fairytale ending. I say this knowing tomorrow might hurt just as much as today. But somehow, we're still here. Somehow, despite everything, despite them trying to convince us we are nothing but broken, we still get up. Even if it’s just to sit on the edge of the bed and cry. Even if it's just to make sure our kids get fed. Even if it's just to prove to ourselves that we are not done yet.
I don’t want to romanticize survival. It is not pretty. It is not glamorous. It’s ugly. It’s lonely. It’s exhausting. But it is real. It is realer than the smiles they demand from us. It is realer than their empty words and broken promises. It is realer than their selective memory of who we are.
We didn’t start at slavery. We didn’t start broken. I didn’t start broken. I had a life before all of this. Before the Northwest. Before Section 8. Before white supremacy tried to convince me otherwise. I still have pieces of that life. Pieces they don’t know about. Pieces I refuse to give away. And even though I feel like I’m barely holding them, they’re still mine. And I will hold them, trembling hands or not.
I don’t know what comes next. I don't have some magical solution to wrap this up with a bow. But I am still breathing. Still praying. Still protecting what little I have left. Still fighting to make sure my child knows we were more than this. More than broken. More than dependent. More than the stereotypes they assign to us.
And even when I can’t find the strength to shout, even when I can’t sing or testify or show up like they expect, I still exist. Quiet strength is still strength. Soft defiance is still defiance. Heavy hope is still hope.
And if you’re like me — lost, tired, holding on by a thread — you’re still here too.
And that matters.
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