Sometimes healing doesn’t look like therapy, breathwork or journaling.
Sometimes it looks like someone you love, sitting behind you for six hours,
hands working through your hair with rhythm and care.
In many Black communities, braiding is not just aesthetic — it’s ancestral.
It’s one of the most beautiful forms of nurture I know.
It requires stillness, presence, trust, time, and often… a lot of patience.
My Nigerian best friend once told me his locs took multiple full-day sessions.
Or my childhood hero, with his mother, braiding his cornrows during a NBA game.
And what looked like a small act on the bench was actually a moment of grounding,
of remembrance, of intimacy, in a world that’s moving too fast,
especially for neurodiverse bodies.
Braiding is a ritual that slows time.
That restores rhythm and connection.
It may not look like “meditation” to most people,
but for those of us with scattered minds, hungry nervous systems,
and diasporic spirits —
it just might be the kind we need.
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