Hiyeeeeeeee! I’m so glad you’re here. I think I should start by explaining my name. Adia (uh-dee-yuh) is Swahili, meaning ‘gift from God.’ As I get older and come to understand more about my life, much of my story starts with this name.

 

So, I’m from the South. Columbia, South Carolina. And anyone who knows me, knows I’m stating this proudly and wearing this city on my BACK. To be even more specific, I’m from Northwest Columbia. Right off Broad River. A community with its own stories.

 

I’ve gotten so many stories from my family since my birth. Somehow they've all collided with each other. But the one that remains common..is my very first one. On June 25th,1996, while the Olympic torch was passing through our city, I was coming out of my mom in three pushes. One for the Father, one for the Son, and one for the Holy Ghost. That’s what my Nana says. My aunt went on to name me 'Adia', and no one can recall who came up with my middle name, Raichelle (ray-shell). But that day was my day. My first story as Adia R. Louden. 

 

After I was born, my story goes on to be written into existence by a father I never met, a mother that was absent, and grandparents that did everything they could to give me the world despite our surroundings. The combination of both my mother’s and father’s absence would go on to be wounds that shaped a significant part of my childhood and identity. While my Nana worked at the Department of Veteran Affairs and raised me as close to Jesus’ cross as she could get me, my grandfather was a Vietnam Veteran battling his own life stories and working at a local detention center.

 

My upbringing within these different stories, my family, and my community was so unique. Economically, I was privileged and afforded a number of opportunities that my peers weren’t. Physically and emotionally, however, I was not concealed from hurt, pain, and grief. The violence, deaths, and abuse around me put me in a position where I didn’t think I had a right to feel then, because they were not my stories. They were not my friends, sons, or daughters.

 

They were not in the same income bracket as me. They were not…me.

 

So, I silently wept and carried on like I was supposed to. Like the world…expected me to. Expected US to.

 

While bodies were buried way too early and more of my peers were indeed left behind, I’ve been propelled forward while reflecting on what it meant to be ‘Adia’ back then. Adia was trying to figure out what Blackness meant while sometimes not feeling Black enough. In spaces where emotional care was not prioritized but achievement was, she didn’t really learn how to feel, love,...or grieve these rather difficult layers. And even more difficult stories.

 

It’s these complex stories, both my own and the people around me, that have directly impacted the Adia I am now and how I am blossoming with a distinct life purpose to center the narratives of Black communities and closing the gap between Black people and access to safe and inclusive environments that promote well-being. I long to leverage my passion for both writing and public health to advance health and equity for Black communities.

 

Writer. Researcher. Storyteller. Soul-searcher.

 

I am currently a Doctoral student in the Department of Maternal and Child Health at the Gillings School of Public Health at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and a freelance writer. My current interests are in racial equity, community care, neighborhood investments, and reducing violence in Black communities.

 

At my core, I’m just a Black woman with a lot of heart. I am blood and bone. I am colossal, always courageous enough to burn it all down…just to rise again. I am my own story, and I use my pen to courageously help write other stories into existence. And I hope that, no matter why you’re here, you choose to do the same. Because you matter. Your story matters. And it deserves to be read, seen, and most importantly…felt.

 

In the words of the late (and PHENOMENAL) Toni Morrison, ‘You your own best thing. YOU ARE.’

 

You are.

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