Chicago Refugee Counselor
"She counsels Somali refugees in Uptown Chicago—a thick ebony widow who knows trauma intimately. When he volunteers at her center, she opens up. Some healing requires being vulnerable together."
The Somali Community Center in Uptown saves lives.
Nadifo has been counseling refugees for twenty-two years. War trauma. Displacement. Loss. She holds it all with steady hands.
I volunteer to tutor kids.
"Background check came through." She hands me paperwork. Fifty-six years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of therapeutic calm. Ebony skin, gentle eyes, the presence of someone who's heard everything. "You start Monday."
"Thank you for this opportunity."
"Thank the children. They need consistent adults." She studies me. "Are you consistent?"
"I try to be."
"Good. Trying is all any of us can do."
I tutor twice a week.
Math, English, homework help. The kids are bright but struggling—trauma buried under textbooks.
"You're good with them," Nadifo says one evening.
"They're easy to care about."
"No, they're not. They're traumatized, scattered, difficult." She looks at me with new eyes. "You just see past all that."
"Someone should."
"Yes." She pauses. "Someone should."
"Have you ever talked to a counselor yourself?"
We're cleaning up after a late session. The center is empty.
"Once. After my divorce."
"Did it help?"
"Some. Made me realize I wasn't as okay as I pretended."
"No one is as okay as they pretend." She sits heavily. "Including counselors. We carry everyone's pain and pretend we don't have our own."
"What's your pain?"
"Ilaahay." She laughs sadly. "How much time do you have?"
"I survived the war."
It's late. The center is locked. We're alone.
"1991. I was twenty-four. I saw things—" She stops. "I became a counselor because I wanted to help others process what I couldn't process myself."
"Have you ever processed it?"
"I've survived it. That's different." She looks at her hands. "My husband helped. He understood. Then he died—heart attack, six years ago—and I was alone with all the unprocessed pain again."
"You don't have to be alone."
"I'm a counselor. I'm supposed to be the strong one."
"Even strong ones need holding."
"Come to my office."
The counseling rooms are small, private. Designed for safety.
"This is where I hold space for others," she says. "No one has held space for me."
"Let me."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi."
I worship the counselor.
Her body has held a thousand sorrows. Now I hold her.
"Six years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've been the strong one—"
"Tonight I'm strong for you."
I lay her on the therapy couch.
Her body is healing—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly. Built to absorb pain and transform it.
I spread her thick thighs.
Process her pleasure.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—six years of held-together breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's crying and shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I counsel her body until she releases three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—fill the emptiness—"
I strip. She watches with those therapist's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"This is for you."
I push inside the counselor.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her arms wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I help her process.
Her massive body shakes on the therapy couch. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's sobbing. "Complete me—"
I release inside her.
We lie tangled on the couch.
"This was unethical," she whispers.
"I'm not your client."
"No." She looks at me. "But you're saving me anyway."
"We're saving each other."
"Haa." She kisses me. "We are."
One Year Later
I still volunteer at the center.
And I still hold space for Nadifo.
"Macaan," she moans. "My best therapy."
The counselor who heals everyone.
The woman who finally let herself be healed.
Recovery together.