From Suppression to Release

By: Laura Thomas

Photo Credit: Wounded Warrior Project Newsroom

As I celebrate Women’s History Month, this year feels particularly personal. I’ve been reflecting not just on my family’s broader history but also on one woman of particular significance to my lineage—my paternal grandmother. Through discovering her story, I’ve been unpacking my own identity as a Black American woman, including the internalized pains and traumas I continue to work to heal from and grow.

Late last year, I learned that my grandmother had been named a historical figure for her service in the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion—an all-Black, all-female unit in the Women’s Army Corps during World War II. Until now, I didn’t even know such a unit existed. Known as the Six Triple Eight, they deployed overseas to resolve a massive backlog of undelivered mail as it was impacting the morale of U.S. troops. Against the odds, they cleared the mail in record time. But when they returned home stateside, there was no acknowledgment of their service. The country disregarded their sacrifice and achievements, essentially erased from public recognition.

My grandmother never spoke about the details of her military experience. Many of the Six Triple Eight were silent about their service throughout their lives. I believe that silence developed due to the times. In 1946, being Black and a woman in America meant your accomplishments were rarely acknowledged. In 2025, the Six Triple Eight will receive the Congressional Gold Medal—an honor long overdue. My grandmother is no longer here to accept it, but I’m grateful to witness her legacy finally acknowledged.

The Complexity of Suppression

Her recognition means so much to me. I’ve spent the past few months thinking about how my grandmother never knew the significance of her service. She never shared the details and experiences of her time in the military with her children, who are only now, as elders, are just now learning about her contributions. Though I never met her, I feel connected to her through what we share: silence and resilience.

My grappling with silence started during my childhood and became a tool for my resilience. At a young age, I became acutely aware of my connection to slavery in the United States. I immersed myself in films, books, and stories about slavery and Black history. I had this driven need to understand what my ancestors endured, as I knew they lived so I could exist. I was a direct product of their determination. Even at ten, I understood that knowing our past was the key to prevention. Harriet Tubman became a guiding light for me during that time.  Her courage and strategy-- ability to wield silence as strength while building the Underground Railroad— was, and still is today, a blueprint for movement-building, for surviving while paving the way for future generations.

At the same time, I was silently navigating internal struggles. Undiagnosed depression, learning differences, and childhood trauma were the issues that weighed me down and broke me. I felt isolated in my pain. Holding it all within me—and it was killing me, but moving through the pain produced purpose. It’s why I do what I do today—teaching children about mental health, helping them understand their emotions, building emotional intelligence, and learning who they can trust with their stories.

Like my grandmother and Harriet, I’ve used silence not out of submission but as a tool for contemplation, survival, and justice— a path for resilience. Still, I believe our stories deserve to be told. Future generations need to hear our truths—not just our hardships, but also our contributions and sacrifices. Our stories serve as both a mirror and a roadmap.

The Fight for Well-Being

During a recent women’s founder alumni event, I noted this phrase: “Sharing your story enhances your power to grow.”That line resonated because women, especially Black women, are often conditioned to believe they must be perfect or exceptional to earn recognition. But we don’t need permission to be worthy. Our worth was established the moment we took our first breath.

My grandmother’s Six Triple Eight unit didn’t wait for validation. They didn’t ask whether their mission mattered—they defined its importance and operated by their motto, “No Mail, Low Morale.” They got the job done, not for the spotlight, but for the impact. And although their recognition, 75 years later, is long overdue, the legacy they left behind still speaks volumes.

That legacy fuels me. My goal is to continue to carry the torch—not just in the name of justice, but in the name of mental wellness. My mission is to equip our children and future generations with the emotional and academic tools they need to thrive. I want them to know that their being is never something to hide, as our stories are powerful. They’re bridges to healing, tools for transformation, and reminders of who we are and what we’ve overcome. And the more we move from suppression to release, the more we create a future rooted in truth, healing, and endless possibility.