How long have you been a member of the Black Health Network, and what drew you to CBHN?

I've been a member of CBHN for about a year now. What drew me in was simple: CBHN says out loud what I've built my whole practice around — that Black health is not a side conversation, it's the conversation. I run a wellness sanctuary in Oakland, and finding a statewide network organizing around health equity for Black Californians felt like finding family doing the same work at scale.

What is your current profession?

I'm the founder and owner of Royal Touch Wellness, a massage therapy and bodywork sanctuary in Oakland's Temescal District. I've been a licensed massage therapist and bodyworker for 16 years, specializing in ancestral healing modalities — cupping rooted in ancient Egyptian tradition, gua sha, somatic stretch therapy, and nervous system regulation work — with a focus on serving Black women and caregivers.

From your perspective, what barriers exist in achieving health equity for Black Californians?

Access and trust, layered on top of exhaustion. Preventative and restorative care — the kind that keeps chronic stress from becoming chronic disease — is priced and positioned as a luxury, so the people carrying the heaviest loads get it last. Black women, in particular, are conditioned to be everyone's caregiver and no one's patient. Add a medical system with a long history of dismissing Black pain, and you get a community that delays care until it's a crisis. We don't just need more services; we need services people can afford, trust, and see themselves in.

Both in your work and with CBHN, how have you been able to prioritize the health of Black Californians?

My studio is built as a sanctuary specifically for women and caregivers. That shows up in practical ways: accessible weekly specials and payment plans so cost isn't the barrier, a "Send a Sister" referral program that turns rest into something we give each other, free monthly community offerings — a stretch and dance class and a virtual Rest & Stretch Therapy gathering in partnership with an Equity for Black Women and Girls initiative — and partnerships with community health organizations like Freedom Community Clinic and Black Cultural Zone. And in every piece of education I put out, I'm teaching the same message: rest is not a reward, it is your birthright.

What inspires you to keep doing the work you do?

Watching a woman's shoulders drop for the first time in months. After 16 years, I've learned the moment a client's nervous system finally lets go — and I know I'm not just releasing muscle tension, I'm interrupting generations of the belief that we have to earn our rest. Our ancestors carried healing wisdom through everything; practicing it, teaching it, and handing it back to my community keeps me going.

What's the bravest thing you've ever done?

The bravest thing I've done is refuse to hide what my work is really about. A few years into my practice, I stopped presenting Royal Touch Wellness as "just massage" and named it what it is: a sanctuary rooted in ancestral healing — ancient Egyptian cupping, gua sha, rest as resistance — built specifically for Black women and caregivers. In the wellness industry, that kind of cultural specificity can feel risky. People warn you that you're narrowing your market. But I decided my community deserved a space that was unapologetically for us, and I put it on the sign, on the website, and in every piece of education I share. Sixteen years later, that decision is the reason the sanctuary is still standing.

What's the best advice you've ever received?

The best advice I ever received came from an elder in my life who told me: "You can't pour from an empty vessel — and neither can they." She meant that my job isn't just to fill people back up; it's to teach them to stop running on empty in the first place. That advice changed how I practice. I stopped seeing myself as someone who fixes tired bodies and started seeing myself as someone who gives people permission to rest before they break. It's why I tell every client: rest is not a reward, it is your birthright.

Question missing from this list:

"What does healing look like when it's rooted in culture?" — Because for Black Californians, health equity isn't just about access to clinics. It's about care that recognizes our traditions as medicine: touch, breath, community, ritual. When healing looks and feels like us, we actually come back for it.