A garden requires patient labor and attention. Plants do not grow merely to satisfy ambitions or to fulfill good intentions. They thrive because someone expended effort on them.

—Liberty Hyde Bailey, Country Life in America

Welcome to our garden.

We are Tehia Starker Glass and Lucretia Carter Berry. In 2016, we were e-introduced to each other by a mutual colleague who, due to our commitment to antiracism, children, and the adults who care for them, believed that we could potentially make a great team. We met up at Panera for lunch and have been cultivating a friendship and scholarship ever since. We have so much in common. We both earned our undergraduate degrees from HBCUs (historically Black colleges and universities). We earned our graduate degrees from HWI’s (historically White institutions) in the Midwest. We earned our doctorates in education before we married our extroverted husbands. We. Are. Introverts. And we both taught in classrooms before we had our own children.

Our lunchtime meetup was somewhat out of the ordinary. We arrived with the expectation of learning more about each other, to test the waters. However, as we shared our personal stories, our hearts, and our motivation for supporting educators and parents, we felt as if we had already known each other for years. Before our lunch was over, we had forged our superpowers. We assigned each other projects, responsibilities, and goal dates. We trusted each other!

As scholars, creatives, advocates, and mothers, we are deeply rooted and invested in cultivating a just and belonging culture in our homes, classrooms, and communities. In fact, we've had the privilege of embodying this practice for years. It has been and continues to be a journey for which the destination is secondary. We've experienced clear pathways (our first meeting), winding roads (the bureaucracy that tends to value performance over embodied transformative practice), and a few potholes (some well-intentioned folks who simply can't connect to the vision). But mostly, our journey has afforded us the opportunity to support parents and teachers—preservice and in-service—as they begin to navigate the terrain of truly caring for the children in their spaces.

The order of the words justice and belonging is intentional. We have observed that while the idea of belonging is widely accepted and celebrated, the idea of a just home, classroom, or learning environment remains somewhat elusive and abstract. However, we understand that where justice is prioritized, belonging exists and persists.

We are witnessing masses of teachers, teacher leaders, college professors, and parents awaken to the value of cultivating justice and belonging in classrooms, homes, and communities. You are probably one of them. We sincerely appreciate your courageous curiosity and want to offer you support, wisdom, and guidance for your journey. As a parent, educator, or teacher-leader, you are positioned and advantaged to strategically foster learning that inspires a culture of true belonging, liberation, and justice for all.

Dear Parents and Educators,

Allow us to offer you support as you shift your teaching, curricula, instruction, pedagogy, and policies to center antibias and antiracism practices. We will demonstrate how to explore personal and collective racial identities to learn more about self and others. So that you can learn from practical experiences, we share real stories and testimonials from parents and teachers. Because the fear of messing up is real and has paralyzed some people on this journey, we want to help you shift from reservation to results-oriented action. And of course, we share resources and practices for a healthy journey. Essentially, amid these pages we disclose a growth map for a healthy antibias, antiracism journey.

We understand that you want to raise racially literate children and have classrooms and schools that reflect the just, creative, life-giving, hope-filled, connected community that we long for and know is possible. That's why we wrote this book for those who are newer to understanding how race/ism operates in predominantly White schools, and in schools where the population is majority students of color. We want all students—students of color and White students—to have a healthy awareness of self in relation to a racial, ethnic, and cultural group membership and to understand the social and political implications of their racial and ethnic identity. This book is also for parents, caregivers, and guardians who want to help foster a healthy racial and ethnic identity for themselves and the children for whom they are responsible.

In these pages, we discuss our own experiences in raising racially aware children and teaching adults to become racially literate inside and outside of schools to position themselves to create justice and belonging. Yolanda Sealy-Ruiz and the National Council of Teachers of English (2021) defines racial literacy as “a skill and practice by which individuals can probe the existence of racism and examine the effects of race and institutionalized systems on their experiences and representation in US society. Students who have this skill can discuss the implications of race and American racism in constructive ways.” Similar to language literacy or mathematical literacy, racial literacy affords fluency in helpful dialogue, vision casting, and solutions. Racially literate parents and teachers are able see and dismantle obstacles embedded by racism—institutional, structural, interpersonal, and internalized—that impede our children's potential and aspirations.

Before We Begin

We want to set you up for success. We have witnessed many people forfeit themselves, stall, and even retreat due to disappointments they encounter along the way. Metaphorically speaking, journeys—especially lifelong ones—are wrought with detours, delays, and disappointments. And this journey is no different. We've observed that the most injurious disappointments are contrived by unmet or unrealistic expectations. Cultivating homes, classrooms, and communities for justice and belonging requires a commitment to a steady process—one that demands our informed intention, our full attention, and our greatest engagement.

So that you experience more victories than defeats, we list some common misunderstandings and missteps we've observed along with our recommendations for establishing realistic expectations and an informed intention.

1. I simply need to sprinkle a few diverse books, videos, websites, and lessons about Black, Indigenous, Asian, and Latinx people into my curriculum. Diversifying content is essential, but it does not address or change the root structure that excluded the diversity in the first place. Including diverse books and lessons should be consequential instead of peripheral. Simply adding diverse books and lessons is performative. For example, if you want a multifruit tree, would you glue apples and oranges to a lemon tree? No. You would plant a multifruit tree seed and help it grow.

   Cultivating justice and belonging must be an embodiment or expression of its core constitution rather than simply tacked on or completed. Think about how over time laws and policies have been amended to reflect justice, but society has been slow to shift. For example, though the Supreme Court banned school segregation in 1954, it took another 10 years to implement desegregation, and even now schools remain heavily segregated by race and ethnicity. The roots of segregation continue to produce its fruit. Episodes 562 and 563 of the podcast This American Life and the podcast series Nice White Parents examine the current consequences of racial and economic inequalities derived from school segregation and desegregation.

   Antiracism is a journey that requires heart work, which we share more about in Chapter 3. At some point along the way, performative actions falter and revert to their origins. Performance is not sustainable. The lemon tree will continue to grow lemons, while the apples and oranges—unrooted—fall aside. No one can afford or deserves a performance. Trying to be someone other than yourself is exhausting and counterintuitive to the work of antiracism.

2. I will focus only on my family or classroom. We've heard only a few people actually say this out loud, but we've observed many parents and schools attempt to do this work in factions or as a solo project. We know it may feel easier to go at it alone, but as the African proverb says, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.”

   It is not only beneficial to you but also imperative to our children that we work together in community. Think about it: If you are the only one in your house or school on a growth journey, you will lack support, feel isolated, and may experience frustration. This work cannot be done in a vacuum. You begin this work first on yourself, which takes a while, but you must also involve the circles of people who are a part of your world. Think about the people with whom you work, spend time, and interact daily. The people you are around form a mirror of yourself. Begin in your home with a partner or children. Then extend the work into the workspace with colleagues, students, administrators, and so on. Ultimately, you don't operate in the world alone, and you cannot do this work alone.

3. I am a White person who does not have permission or credibility to do this work. I must rely on BIPOC, especially Black people, to teach me how to do this. BIPOC is an acronym for Black, Indigenous, (and) People of Color used to acknowledge that not all people of color face racial injustice in the same way. For example, Black and Indigenous Americans are more severely impacted by systemic racial injustices than Asians and White-appearing Latinx. Nevertheless, there is a false pretense that only BIPOC—especially Black people—can be or are naturally qualified to teach for justice and belonging.

   We do not know where this idea originated, but this fallacy sets us up for failure. BIPOC didn't create the issues that exist in our world due to racism, and BIPOC cannot bear the burden of repair. We should not and cannot rely on BIPOC to do all the work. White people must pull their weight as well. We all have been racialized, and therefore we all need to examine how this socialization has propagated disconnection, injustice, and inequities. Just because someone is racialized as White does not mean they are incapable of becoming racially literate and engaging in constructive problem-solving. White people are not automatically disqualified. Becoming antiracist to foster justice and belonging in schools, homes, and communities is attainable by anyone who remains committed to the journey.

   According to the National Center for Educational Statistics (2020), about 80 percent of public school teachers are White, and the remaining 20 percent are teachers of color. It cannot be expected that 20 percent of teachers will bear 100 percent of the load. White teachers can take on the responsibility, embody antiracism, and create just and belonging schools and classrooms. However, we encourage White parents and educators to value and learn from BIPOC antiracists. One of our colleagues who is White told us that when she began her antiracism journey, she skipped over all the resources by BIPOC to find books written by White authors. Fortunately, she realized her error right away. By overlooking BIPOC voices, she unconsciously prioritized comfort and familiarity. She valued what White authors had to say about racial injustice over BIPOC perspectives. While you should not expect BIPOC to do all the work by themselves, you should definitely value and prioritize our work.

4. Antiracism centers Black people. I am a person of color who is not Black, so antiracism excludes me. The toxicity of racism has impacted all of us. In the construction of race, we all have been assigned a social rank and role in the hierarchical caste system. Within these social rankings and roles, we have all been dehumanized. Therefore, we all need to detox and deconstruct from the social and economic stronghold racism has on our lives. We all need to become antiracist. Antiracism is the practice of identifying and opposing racism. We can all learn to do that well. Perhaps because you have been exposed only to Black leaders in the movement, you assume that antiracism centers Black people. First, don't assume that a Black antiracist is concerned only with Black liberation. We understand that none of us are free until we all are free, as Maya Angelou shared. Antiracism centers justice and belonging for all.

   Second, don't feel excluded by the so-called Black–White binary. Originally, during the founding of the United States, race was constructed into two-ish categories: enslaved Africans subsequently designated “Black” (Negro); and European colonizers and settlers allowed to profit from land ownership designated as “White.” So, when structural and systemic racism is explored in historical contexts, its binary foundation remains central to the conversation. However, after the Civil War, immigration policies played a significant role in redefining and expanding the racial caste system to include all non-White Anglo-Saxton Protestants.

   Finally, if you have made the choice to opt out of the opportunity to become antiracist and cultivate justice and belonging in your sphere of influence, please do not criticize the people who take on that responsibility. Regardless of your race and ethnicity, choose to support and work in solidarity with those who are making pathways in the movement for collective liberation. Bear some of the load. Many hands make light work.

5. My children or students are too young for antiracism. Young children don't see skin color. I don't see skin color.

   Often used by someone who is attempting to sound nonracist, race-based “colorblindness” is the idea that you do not see skin color or notice differences in race, or if you do, you do not treat people differently based on race. Colorblindness ideology is problematic in that it suppresses public discourse on race and masks discrepancies in decision-making.

   Unfortunately, we've witnessed parents and educators emphatically profess colorblindness—that is, until their child or student exacts racial prejudice, shows signs of internalized racism, or experiences racial othering. Othering occurs when an individual or group attributes difference as negative to set themselves apart as an in-group of belonging from an out-group of not belonging. Othering legitimizes the marginalization, exclusion, and sometimes even violent extinction of out-groups (Marti, personal communication, 2020 [Slack]). Because silence and pretending to not notice phenotypic differences seems easier, many adults want to believe that children do not see skin color and are too young for antiracism. However, the colorblind approach inadvertently teaches children that noticing phenotypic differences (or talking about race/ism) is taboo, bad, or shameful. Generally when children ask questions about skin tone or race, adults delineate to abstractions like, “We are all equal,” “We treat everyone the same,” “We see only people; we don't see skin color.” Color shaming, or being racially colorblind or color mute, does not give adults or children the skills or language to understand race.

   A child's curiosity about phenotypic and social differences is not quenched with “we are all equal.” Children see differences in skin color and want to talk about these differences—especially with their peers. In Rubbing Off (Greater Good Magazine, Parenting & Family, 2008), Allison Briscoe-Smith, director of diversity, equity, and inclusion at the Wright Institute, sheds some light on the developmental process of children:

   For years, studies have found that children who recognize these [skin tone or racial] differences from an early age show a stronger general ability to identify subtle differences between categories like color, shape, and size—which, in turn, has been linked to higher performance on intelligence tests… . Children between the ages of 4 and 7 who show this advanced ability to identify and categorize differences are actually less prejudiced. So parents, rest assured: When children notice and ask about racial differences, it's a normal and healthy stage of development.

   It is natural for children to make distinctions and categorize. But parents and teachers who have ascribed to being racially colorblind have little experience talking about skin tone and race without feeling like they are somehow being racist or contributing to race problems.

   Babies notice skin tone differences as early as 6–18 months. By age 3, preschoolers group themselves based on differences like race and sex and make decisions to associate with friends who look like them. By age 5, even when it is not discussed, children see skin tone phenotype—what we call race—as a major point of difference or distinction. By age 7, children can accurately reflect social status bias and will make choices or judgments based on who they perceive as having more power or privilege (Bigler, Averhart, and Liben, 2003). Also, by age 7, White children demonstrate that they believe children of color experience less pain than they do (Dore et al., 2014).

   Even when children are told that people are all the same, White kids continue to demonstrate stronger racial biases than children of other groups (We Stories, 2013). Our children and students are simply trying to make sense of our hyper-racialized society where they are being told that everyone is the same. They need an understanding of how race/ism has formed the social context in which they live, learn, and play.

   If you shut down their curiosity or don't give children language and permission, you may not have the privilege of observing them talk about phenotypic and social differences. Trust us, when we show up in their learning spaces and give them language and space to ask questions, they talk to us—incessantly! Children have questions. They want answers. Because their brains are meaning-making, storytelling machines, children (and most adults) create narratives to fill in information gaps. For example, a White child may think that because their classmate's skin is brown, it must be dirty. And because a parent or teacher has not taught them the truth, they may then take their inquiry to their brown-skinned classmate. This could result in an injurious exchange between the two children. Let's give children the language to be able to affirm and see the beauty in themselves and others.

6. This won't cost me anything. I don't need to invest much. I can simply attend a workshop, seminar, conference, or continuing education course about racism. We love that we get to lead professional development for schools, districts, and PTA workshops for parents. However, as we mentioned previously, addressing root systems, engaging in heart work, and embodying an intention and commitment to teaching for justice and belonging requires much more than attending a one-time event. Teaching for justice and belonging is a long-term investment. It is easy to engage in a workshop and hear content that aligns with your beliefs and allows you to maintain the status quo. However, when your beliefs or behaviors are challenged, you may experience discomfort. This is the time to stay engaged and lean into what you are learning.

   There will be so much you didn't know that you didn't know. The only way to know more is to engage more. This growth process may also cost you peers, friends, or even family. As you begin your growth journey, you may have people around you who don't want you to talk about race or justice. They may begin to exclude you from gatherings and planning meetings. You may be treated unfavorably. Experiencing rejection due to someone's discomfort comes with the territory. You may grow, and they may not.

   Along the way, you will gain much, but you may lose some as well. So be prepared.

In our experience, we have observed that the healthiest and most self-sustaining change occurs incrementally over time rather than instantaneously. Oftentimes, we are summoned to help adults recover from a racism-related crisis, like an incident in the community, school, or home. Typically, and understandably, a speedy solution is expected. However, like a Band-Aid, a speedy solution addresses only the wound and not its cause. And while it is important that we act urgently to end the crisis, sustainable efforts begin when we allow ourselves to grow from the crisis.

The Seed Growth Metaphor

We liken a sustainable and enduring growth process to that of a seed. The life cycle of a seed is purposeful, consistent, and persistent. A seed is endowed with growth intelligence. We cannot force a seed to grow and produce fruit. Soil is infused with nutrients to help the seed grow roots, sprout, and press to the earth's surface. Over time with the right conditions, nutrients, and care, what was once a mere seed grows, blooms, and ultimately bears fruit for all to enjoy.

We have noticed that people often want the fruit of a just and belonging community, but they don't understand or want to invest time in the cultivating process. Once, after a day of professional development, a school principal told us that he was only really interested in the second part of the presentation. The first half of the presentation is where we shared history, context, and an analytical lens that undergirds the application and practices that we offered during the second half of the presentation. The principal wanted a little fruit without the understanding, substance, and commitment to sustain a growth process. He wanted tasks to perform.

This school principal's sentiment is not uncommon. He wanted teachers to conclude the professional development session with measurable strategies and action steps. We understand this technical approach. But as we've witnessed, parents, schools, and communities that root themselves in an extended growth process are not easily plucked from the garden and do eventually bear fruit. We know that checking a to-do list is immediately gratifying, but we are encouraging you to commit to an extended growth cycle—one rooted in purpose and that requires consistency and persistence. Because there was no commitment to a sustained growth process, years later that school continues to lack sustainable vision and direction regarding justice and belonging. After only one introductory professional development workshop, they considered themselves proficient. And when their students’ parents suggested that the school staff receive additional support for diversity, equity, and belonging training, parents were met with a performative reply: “We already worked with Dr. Glass and Dr. Berry.” However, when we had offered development and support beyond the introductory workshop, the school leaders failed to follow through.

Consider this a cautionary tale. We will reap what we sow. We have been working with schools, districts, and universities that have invested years into antiracism, justice, and belonging. And while these schools are not where they want to be, they are at least well on their way. Schools and other learning communities that begin by casting a vision for at least 5 years set the expectation for a committed learning process. They understand how we learn. One workshop cannot offer enough time and content to gain proficiency and competency in any complex subject matter—learning to do your taxes, understanding social media algorithms, growing the garden of your dreams.

As you make your way through Teaching for Justice and Belonging, the close of each chapter offers prompts for reflection and practice, which we hope you find useful. At the end of the book, we also offer a curated list of resources that will help you continue to grow your knowledge, understanding, and practice. While you will primarily hear from the two of us, we also share the voices and stories of parents and teachers who want to encourage you in your growth process. Each story shared in first person is marked by the storyteller's name.

Tehia

This journey of justice and belonging began for me as a young student. I am from San Diego, California, which is a very diverse city. All my schools were racially, linguistically, and socioeconomically diverse. I was a Black girl from a low-income household. My intuition told me that some of my elementary teachers didn't like me. Back then, I didn't have the sophisticated language to say that my teachers held negative biases and prejudices toward me because I was Black and from a family with low income. They talked to and treated me differently than some of my peers. It was painful. I also had some great teachers who invested in me despite my being a poor Black girl. That was comforting. My teacher, Ms. D., recommended me for a gifted and talented education (GATE) program. My mom and dad loved the idea, but I immediately noticed that there were not many kids who looked like me in the GATE classes. What I also noticed is that the GATE classes were not fun and felt like extra busy work. There were lots of worksheets and bland activities, but nothing that really engaged my mind. So I begged my parents to pull me out of the GATE. When the school year was over, they complied with my wishes.

I had some of my favorite and best teachers in high school and undergrad. I was a part of the AVID program (Advancement Via Individual Determination), which was a college preparation program for low-income and historically marginalized students. My teachers gave us space to just be and to acknowledge that it is cool to be smart and to question the world. Thank you, Mr. Madigan! After high school, I went to Bethune-Cookman College (BCC), now University, a small, private HBCU. I found my place at BCC. I was validated, affirmed, and saw my reflection in the curriculum, my professors, and the general culture of the institution. Because all of the faculty, staff, and upperclass students told us so, excellence was expected, and it didn't have to look a particular way.

So, when I became a teacher, I prepared my predominately Black second-grade class to be the best students they could be. I tried to affirm the value and importance of their racial identity. To foster high race-esteem, I infused Black history into every aspect of the curriculum so they could see themselves. I didn't have the academic prowess then to know that I was being culturally responsive or liberatory in my teaching; I just wanted them to have what I didn't have in elementary school—mirrors and validation that it was okay to be a smart, Black kid. I wanted them to experience a classroom free of racial bias and know that learning is fun.

My teaching continued into graduate school. I taught undergraduate and graduate students educational technology in my master's program at the University of Northern Iowa, and multicultural education–diversity and cognition and instruction in my educational psychology PhD program at the University of Nebraska. Throughout my graduate studies, race and culture were cornerstones in my teaching, research, service, and dissertation. As I prepared preservice teachers to go into their own classrooms, they needed to be prepared to affirm and validate the diversity of students who awaited them. Some of them didn't appreciate the internal work or introspection. I had them explore their own biases as they completed their field placements in schools with children of color. Some students did not like that and critiqued me in my course evaluations. They complained that diversity had nothing to do with a course on child development. It absolutely does! However, year after year, students return and thank me. They appreciate that I saw them as future teachers and prepared them to acknowledge and challenge their biases. After more than 20 years of teaching, I never get tired of former students returning to say thank you. I invest in them so they can invest in the next generation of children.

After applying for and awarded tenure at my university, I thought it was time to get married and have my own children. I knew how I wanted to parent my boys, but I had no idea it would be so difficult. The world we live in is rough, and it consistently shows me the ways that it devalues Black people. Having Black boys meant that my partner and I were going to have to be intentional and proactive in helping them understand their racial identity and giving them affirming language.

Lucretia

As a child, I excelled in formal education. School is where I felt like I belonged. Perhaps because I am naturally perceptive and analytical, while in elementary school I noted the significant effort dedicated to teaching about White America. This was in stark juxtaposition to the lack of teaching about Black America. Back then, my world was socially segregated into Black and White. I was born into a Black family. We belonged to a Black church. Outside of attending a racially integrated school, I lived a Black life. Fortunately, I learned about and lived a Black American life outside the school's formal instruction.

Though I had great teachers, my parents often took care to amend harmful perspectives taught at school. For example, when my sweet, well-meaning, southern, White history teacher taught that American chattel slavery wasn't “that bad”—that enslavers treated their slaves like family—I ran home to tell my mom the good news. My mother revealed all the holes in that erroneous White-washed version of the story and helped me see why and how my teacher benefited from her telling of history.

Then there was the time when a teacher sang the praises of American meritocracy. She shared that in America if you worked really hard you could be wealthy and become whatever you wanted. Once again, I told my mom the good news, to which she responded, “How can that be true? The slaves worked harder than anyone and got nothing!” My parents were teaching me to think critically and see structural flaws. Meanwhile, my school asked me to swallow and digest a particular narrative that excluded my heritage and humanity.

In a racially integrated school, where justice and belonging were not carefully and mindfully cultivated, there was bound to be overt interpersonal racism. I recall a fellow fifth grader who called us Black students monkeys and announced that he wished we lived back in the time of slavery. The teacher agreed with him. Actually, the teacher said, “Look at how y'all are behaving! I don't blame him!” And then there was my chemistry teacher, who, when I scored a 100 on a test, chuckled as he responded, “I didn't know Black people were that smart.” I was shocked and devastated. I expected more from a teacher. I was disappointed that someone entrusted with the responsibility to shape minds would flippantly spout off such a degrading comment. Needless to say, that day I lost respect for that teacher and lost interest in his course.

In middle and high school, I didn't know the terms for it, but I observed structural racism and racial bias at work. I noticed that peers with whom I had shared classrooms since elementary school were no longer in my classes. We were being sorted and tracked academically into categories like remedial, basic, honors, and advanced. I noticed that White students were tracked upward into advanced and honors courses, while most Black students were in basic and remedial level courses. Because I excelled academically, I was tracked with the White students.

After graduating from high school, I attended South Carolina State University, an HBCU, where belonging was the air I breathed—where being Black and academically gifted was normal, supported, and expected. I was reimmersed into a historically, exclusively White formal learning environment when I completed my graduate degrees at Iowa State University, a HWI. While earning a doctorate in education (with a focus in curriculum and instruction, multicultural education, instructional technology), I had the opportunity to formulate ideas and design instruction that centered justice and belonging.

I feel fortunate to have grown up in a community that afforded me a perspective different from the one handed to me in my early school years. Now, as a wife in an interracial marriage and a mom of three multiethnic daughters, I have intentionally and meticulously centered justice and belonging in our home and family. Doing so has required my husband and me to actively disrupt the racialized norms that marginalize our family and specifically our children. Parents of multiethnic children are challenged with reinforcing a sense of belonging as our families navigate a society that often defines “us and them” along racial lines. We, without hesitation, choose competence over colorblind ideology, courage over fear, and the power of creativity over the impotence of the status quo.

* * *

Together, we are inspired and committed to supporting you—our colaboring parents, educators, and teacher leaders—in normalizing justice as a precedent instead of a punishment. We understand that you want to be a conduit of belonging in justice-centered spaces for every child in your charge. As adults who want to raise healthy children, we have to make sense of our achieved racial and ethnic identities before we can prepare our children for a racialized society that has, historically and contemporarily, had a difficult time formulating helpful dialogue on race. Whether we choose to talk about it or not, we enact and experience race/ism on a daily basis—personally and systemically. Racism influences disparities in income, wealth, education, criminality, and health. We want to help prepare you to raise the generation that will dismantle structural injustice and craft a society that values all. We can give our children what we did not have: a sophisticated schema, or a conceptual system for understanding our social influences.

Growth begins right where you are. We understand that you may fear the unknown, but do not allow fear to stop you from embracing the lessons and liberty that the learning journey offers. Like you, we too had a beginning. And we continue to grow. We are here to help you build your capacity for embodying antiracism without feeling overwhelmed. Our primary goal is to help you understand that deep growth takes time—more time than you may think.

The next section contains your first set of prompts for reflection. Use them to nurture your growth. Be vulnerable. Resist the urge to say or write the socially acceptable answer. Challenge yourself to address your deepest thoughts and feelings. Only then can you begin to grow. Uproot the weeds of shame, performative behavior, and judgment (of yourself and others). When weeds are extracted, there is more space for good seeds to germinate, grow, and flourish. Also, to extend your processing, we have curated a list of resources organized by chapter at the end of the book—more to read, listen to, and watch.

Reflection and Practice