I took the moment to ask my patient to tell me the names of three people who love her. This is a question I ask every single one of my patients who struggle with suicidality. During the pandemic, it is a question I have asked every one of my Black & Brown patients.

She named some family members. I followed with: "and name one person in this room who loves you." She emphatically said: "well...nobody." I adore my patients but what I had wanted to hear (as I explained to her) was an emphatic "I love myself."

"I don't even like myself," she said. She rattled off things she hated about herself. Her dark skin (less dark than mine). She shared that it feels like this country does not value Black women. We dove deep. We discussed measures to promote self love. Therapy referrals were made.

We practiced positive affirmations. We discussed politics. We vented. We got emotional. Hell, I got so emotional. I told her that she is valued and important and beautiful - we scheduled a follow-up appointment. My attending later told me that she was glad the patient had me.

And I was glad too. But I worried (as I often do) - what happens in spaces like these where there are so few providers who look like me. What would have happened if someone else saw her? Months ago, Breonna was taken from us and rightful anger ensued.

Today I was reminded that fighting the good fight can look like holding space for a patient who looks like me. Reaffirming value. Giving hope. Taking the moment to pray. Looking at a patient and acknowledging she is more than the numbers and ICD-10 codes in her chart.

It can look like sharing humanity. Two humans - six feet apart. Eyes locked, a few tears, and grand hopes for the future.