The Code Switch

Let me be clear: I fully believe that compliance is a form of survival. For me, it was rooted in becoming something I didn’t want for myself. I always loved being from Harlem, but I wanted the Cosby Show version of Harlem, not the Franklin and Wagner projects Harlem. Not the Harlem that made children adults overnight. I wanted to know that Harlem had so much beautiful history, which I couldn’t see, even with the Lenox Lounge and Apollo standing there with a lot less luster.

Growing up in multiple worlds, you quickly realize you are part of the “have-nots” and you want to have. You also quickly learn the language of compliance, of acceptance. This is where the contortion began.

In 1980, there were no formal systems blocking my attendance at an Upper West Side elementary school. It was my Mother’s persuasive voice and my quick-wittedness that got me “placed” in predominantly white, Jewish schools—far from where I actually lived.

It was there, inside the clean walls of my elementary school, that I learned to code-switch—to manipulate my circumstances by manipulating myself.

I learned that the smile and dance of an adorable light-skinned Black kid was a literal pass. I could hang with the haves if I complied with the narrative of what I was supposed to be. I enjoyed the safety of buildings that stood erect and complete, of parents holding the hands of their skipping children. Even the dogs seemed to have an air of benefit. I didn’t know what stood behind this air of perfection, so I chased what looked beautiful.

For too long, I extended myself into each world. I remained elusive between Upper West Side ease and Harlem grind. Looking back, it’s as if I was invisible—never seen or honored. As if I were a fixture to be used at any moment and ignored when no longer needed. As I grew and my identity solidified, I realized the woman developing in my mind had nowhere to live. I found myself sitting on sidewalks in the West Village after high school, envying those who clearly had the bravery to be themselves. Doc Marten boots, spiked hair, pierced noses abound.

I sat on sidewalks with permed hair braided down each side of my head, my favorite high-water sweatpants—long before the cool days of joggers—and Sally Jessy Raphael red glasses at the tip of my nose. I could not know who I was. I had straddled two worlds for so long that the straddling felt more natural than being myself. As the “real” me kept trying to emerge, the alternate versions of me wrestled with her, reminding me “they” had gotten me this far.

Maybe when you and I meet, we’ll talk more about soul manipulation. For now, let’s fast forward to 1994. It was my second year of college. For the first time, I heard the word “psychosomatic.” I’ve always loved words, holding them like bookmarks in the pages of my life. I could not tell you then why that word meant so much to me. It was like my future self told my current self, “You’ll need this, girl. Just hold on.”

That word—psychosomatic—sat in me like a time capsule. Twenty-five years later, in 2019, it finally opened.

By then, I was suffering from random physical ailments: IBS (irritable bowel syndrome), psoriasis, eczema. There were a few logical reasons for the psoriasis on my scalp, but I couldn’t nail down the origins of all the other illnesses. Changes in diet, weight loss, weight gain, shifts in my habits—the ailments would dissipate for a time and then return with a vengeance, regardless of discipline or consistency. No rhyme, no reason, or so I thought. The reality was that I had failed to live an authentic life. I lived a life so far outside of who I was that it caused me harm. And let me be fully transparent: that life looked great on the exterior.

I lived the “American Dream”: one husband, two cars, two kids, two dogs, six figures, and a house with a picket fence. The kind of house where I’d stand in the kitchen with granite countertops, staring out at a manicured lawn, feeling like I was watching someone else’s life through glass. We had dinner parties with the right wine. We took family photos in matching outfits. I smiled at client meetings and PTA gatherings, my calendar color-coded, my performance reviews glowing. It was the quintessential life. I presented well—hair done, nails done, everything did—but nothing acknowledged the reality of me, the real Ja’Nohn.

Over the course of a few years, I began to hear a voice within, beckoning me to shed the version that straddled worlds and presented well. I learned that being a shell of oneself is a surefire way to make yourself sick. The IBS, eczema, and psoriasis showed temporary improvement with topical ointments, but lasting change came when I got my mind right. Getting your mind right and aligning with your truest self is not an overnight process. You’re likely to burn things down, to destroy a world you spent most of your life building.

I divorced my husband, the man I’d known since 11th grade. Yes, we even went to prom together. Somewhere, there are prom photos in an album—him in a rented tux, me in royal blue satin. We built this life brick by brick, standing in IKEA on Saturdays, celebrating promotions at the “right” restaurants. But somewhere in all that building, we buried ourselves in the foundation. We worked hard to get to this level of existence—two immigrant-raised, first-born kids with all the gumption to become “something.” That quest led to our demise. I’ll write another day in detail on how aspiration outside of oneself will destroy a relationship. For today, we’re focusing on the reclamation of the soul.

I left the Big 4 consulting firm where partner was being dangled before me like the toxic crown jewel it was. Late nights in conference rooms that smelled like stale coffee and ambition. Presentations polished to perfection. The version of Ja’Nohn who could speak their language fluently, who made Partner track look inevitable, who was already dying from the inside out. Don’t get me wrong, being a Partner can be a beautiful position; however, corporate ladder-climbing without a strong sense of self and “why” is toxic. I say that with my full chest.

So what’s left when you burn things to the ground?

Ritual: 5:00–8:00 a.m. was, and still is, all mine. Meditation, journaling, reading, yoga—anything devoted to exploration that matters to me and me alone.

Play: Travel, roller skating, coloring, group meet-ups, dining alone.

Therapy: Years of honest conversation, unpacking, ownership, and action.

Movement: Walking, yoga, boxing, jumping rope, skipping—anything that allows my body to feel joy.

Soulful self-care: Slow bathing, soaking, hot oil on my scalp. A literal rub from head to toe with my homemade body care.

It was slow—the unraveling, the undoing, the unlearning, the awakening. And it was non-negotiable. I am still awakening to the beauty that is me. I am still unlocking divine wisdom within. As I do this, my strength increases, and my sphere of influence radiates brighter with much less effort.

So many other humans, especially Black women in corporate America, watch their hair fall out, their skin rebel, their stomachs turn against them. The body keeps the score of every contortion, every code-switch, every time we chose compliance over soul.

Through my journey, I learned I didn’t want to become a recluse, yelling at capitalism with clenched fists. I wanted to live within this world—because it holds beauty—while maintaining the beauty within me. That’s why I established a framework, The Becoming Arc. It promotes the fullness of me to exist anywhere, while holding the space to evolve.

This framework works not because it’s mine, but because it honors what compliance tried to destroy: the soul’s knowing. If you’re reading this and your body is screaming at you through mystery ailments, exhaustion, or a life that looks good but feels hollow—listen. Your body isn’t broken. It’s trying to bring you home.