1. Your organization, A Friendship That Gives, was born from a deeply personal journey. Can you share how your parents’ battles with Amyloidosis and Parkinson’s inspired you to turn grief into advocacy?
A Friendship That Gives was born from love, loss, and a calling I couldn’t ignore. Watching my parents battle Amyloidosis and Parkinson’s wasn’t just witnessing illness—it was witnessing courage, frustration, resilience, and at times, a deep silence from the very systems meant to help.
My father was my hero—steady, wise, deeply rooted in faith and family. As Parkinson’s slowly took parts of him, I saw how the disease didn’t just affect his body—it tested our entire family’s emotional, spiritual, and mental strength. Then came Amyloidosis. A rare diagnosis with limited awareness, delayed answers, and very few resources—especially for Black families like mine.
Grief changed me—but it didn’t stop me. It lit a fire in me to make sure other families wouldn’t have to navigate this journey in the dark. That their pain would not be silent, and their questions would not go unanswered.
Friendship That Gives became the bridge between what we experienced and what we needed—community, education, dignity, and culturally competent care. It became my way of turning heartbreak into healing for others. Every event, every conversation, every retreat or outreach effort is rooted in my parents’ legacy.
Their journey gave me purpose. And their love gave me the strength to turn that purpose into a movement.
2. Many people in Black and underserved communities suffer in silence when caring for chronically ill loved ones. How did you navigate the emotional toll and mental health challenges of being a caregiver?
Being a caregiver in a Black family often means carrying the weight quietly. You show up, stay strong, and suppress your own needs—because that’s what we’ve been taught love looks like. But over time, I learned that silence was breaking me more than the responsibility ever could.
Caring for my chronically ill loved ones—especially my father—was one of the most sacred and draining experiences of my life. The emotional toll wasn’t just about watching someone you love decline. It was about grieving while still having to lead, serve, provide, and protect.
What helped me navigate it was giving myself permission to stop pretending I was okay all the time. I leaned into therapy. I leaned into faith. I leaned into community—real community—where I didn’t have to explain or perform strength.
I also learned to redefine self-care. Not as luxury, but as survival. Some days, that looked like journaling in silence. Other days, it was stepping outside for air or talking to someone who “got it.” And sometimes, it was just reminding myself: I deserve support too.
For others in our community walking this same road: your feelings are valid. Your exhaustion is real. And your story matters. You don’t have to carry this alone. Seeking help isn’t betrayal—it’s love, for them and for yourself.
3. What barriers did your family face in accessing care, and how did those challenges influence your understanding of health disparities in minority communities?
Our family faced barriers that went beyond scheduling doctor’s appointments—we faced a system that often failed to listen, to see, and to respond with urgency.
One of the biggest challenges was delayed diagnosis. My father’s symptoms were brushed off for too long. What we later understood as signs of Parkinson’s and Amyloidosis were, at first, misinterpreted or minimized. That delay didn’t just affect treatment—it affected trust.
We also struggled with fragmented care—specialists who didn’t communicate, a lack of cultural competence, and the emotional toll of having to advocate at every turn. It felt like we had to become medical experts just to be taken seriously. And for so many families in Black and Brown communities, that burden is common.
These experiences opened my eyes to the broader reality of health disparities—how bias, underrepresentation, and access gaps lead to poorer outcomes. But they also fueled my commitment to change. They’re the reason Friendship That Gives exists. They’re why we host Fashionably Healthy, create culturally responsive programming, and push for care that affirms the whole person.
Because no family should have to fight for dignity in the middle of their pain. And no one should be invisible in their own healthcare journey.
4. Grief can often feel isolating, especially for men of color. What helped you process the loss of your father and support your mother, and how do you encourage others to talk openly about mental health?
Grief changed me. Losing my father wasn’t just losing a parent—it was losing a protector, a guide, a standard. And as a man of color, I felt that familiar pressure to “hold it together,” to be strong for everyone else, especially for my mother. But inside, I was unraveling.
What helped me process that grief was giving myself permission to feel—without shame. That permission came through therapy, through faith, and through real conversations with other men who had lost fathers. It wasn’t easy. Our culture often teaches us to be silent about pain, to hide tears, to carry the weight alone. But I learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s survival.
Supporting my mother gave my grief direction. It reminded me that love doesn’t end with loss—it just shifts into new forms: presence, protection, showing up. We leaned on each other, and we gave each other space to mourn in our own ways.
To other men of color: you don’t have to suffer in silence. Your emotions are not a liability—they are part of your humanity. Grief is not something to conquer—it’s something to carry with care. Talk to someone. Sit with the pain. Cry if you need to. Let
your brothers, your therapists, your faith, your art hold you. You are seen. And you are not alone.
5. What role has faith, community, or therapy played in your mental wellness journey as you’ve supported your parents and built this movement?
Faith, community, and therapy have been the lifelines of my mental wellness journey—each serving a distinct purpose, but together forming a foundation that has sustained me.
Faith has anchored me when everything else felt uncertain. There were days supporting my parents through Parkinson’s and Amyloidosis when I didn’t have answers—just questions, fatigue, and prayer. My faith reminded me that even in the midst of pain, purpose could still rise. It gave me strength to show up when I felt empty and helped me hold on to hope when outcomes were beyond my control.
Community—whether through close friends, chosen family, or organizations like Friendship That Gives—reminded me that I wasn’t walking this path alone. There’s something powerful about someone saying, “I see you,” especially when you feel invisible in your caregiving role. The community held me when I couldn’t hold myself.
And therapy gave me the language I didn’t know I needed. It gave me permission to feel—to grieve, to be angry, to be exhausted—without guilt. Therapy helped me navigate the emotional toll, set boundaries, and stay mentally present not only for my parents, but for myself.
Together, these three—faith, community, and therapy—have made this movement possible. Because we can’t pour into others without first healing ourselves.
6. Why do you believe events like Fashionably Healthy are vital for advancing culturally competent healthcare and reshaping how we talk about illness in our communities?
Events like Fashionably Healthy are vital because they meet our communities where they are—through culture, conversation, and connection.
Too often, healthcare conversations feel clinical, distant, or even intimidating—especially for historically underserved communities. Fashionably Healthy flips that narrative. By blending style with substance, it creates a culturally safe space where we can talk about illness not just as a diagnosis, but as a community experience that affects our minds, bodies, and spirits.
It makes healthcare relatable. It makes prevention visible. It makes early detection and advocacy fashionable and familiar, not foreign.
These events help normalize conversations about conditions like Parkinson’s, Amyloidosis, Multiple Sclerosis, and maternal health disparities—issues that are often hidden in silence. They empower individuals to take ownership of their health, ask questions, and demand care that sees the whole person—not just the symptoms.
Most importantly, Fashionably Healthy builds trust. It reminds our communities that health is not just about treatment—it’s about dignity, representation, and education that honors who we are.
7. What’s one thing you wish more people knew about Parkinson’s, Amyloidosis, or the emotional toll they take—not just physically, but mentally and spiritually—on families?
One thing I wish more people understood about Parkinson’s and Amyloidosis is that these illnesses don’t just impact the body—they reshape the soul of an entire family.
The physical symptoms are often visible: tremors, fatigue, pain. But what remains hidden is the emotional weight—the quiet grief of watching someone you love fade into a version of themselves they never asked for. It’s the helplessness of a caregiver trying to stay strong
while silently breaking. It’s the spiritual exhaustion of praying for good days while preparing for hard ones.
These diseases don’t just affect the diagnosed—they disrupt routines, alter dreams, and test faith. Families carry the emotional toll long before a diagnosis is spoken, and long after treatments begin.
And yet—there’s resilience. There’s love in the small moments. There’s sacred strength in advocacy, community, and care.
That’s why awareness matters. That’s why support matters. That’s why we speak up—not just for a cure, but for compassion.
8. As we recognize National Minority Mental Health Awareness Month, what message do you have for others facing similar challenges who may feel unseen or unsupported?
As we honor National Minority Mental Health Awareness Month, know this: you are not invisible, and you are not alone.
If you’re navigating mental health challenges in silence—especially as a person of color—you may carry more than your share of the weight. You may have been taught to “be strong,” to keep it private, or to just keep going. But strength is not found in silence—it’s found in truth, in community, and in reaching out when it’s hardest to do so.
Your feelings are real. Your struggles are valid. And your healing matters.
We see you. We honor the journey you’re on. And we encourage you to speak up, reach out, and keep going—even if all you can do today is breathe. That is enough.
You deserve support. You deserve rest. You deserve joy. Let’s continue breaking the stigma—together.
With solidarity and hope,
—Friendship That Gives
