Black History Month is every day for me. It’s in the way I wear my Madras (a creole fabric) with pride, in the stories I carry from Dominica - where we also celebrate our creole heritage and independence throughout the month of October culminating on November 3rd with food, music, dance and creole traditions of our indigenous people the Kalinago. It’s in the way I show up every day - as a Black nurse, a woman, a leader, and a lifelong learner. My Blackness does not end on October 31st, nor sadly does the racism I encounter.
I am Dominican born in the UK, what I mean is that I was born at University College Hospital St Pancras, London, but my formative years were spent in the Commonwealth of Dominica (note this is not the Dominican Republic!). Dominica is where I first saw what nursing could be. In our village, everyone knew the nurse. She wore pristine white, came to your home, treated you and helped you get better. She was respected, trusted, and present. That image stayed with me. It shaped my understanding of care - not just as a profession, but how humanity is embedded in community, with dignity, and healing.
When I decided to become a nurse, I was told by White career advisors I should consider the state enrolled nurse route. It was “more practical,” they said. “Only two years.” But I knew what I wanted - I wanted to be a registered nurse and a leader in nursing. I wasn’t going to be steered away from that path.
I started my training in 1979 at Brent and Harrow School of Nursing. I was one of only two Black students in my cohort. It wasn’t easy, but I never doubted my decision. Nursing was never just a job to me, it is a commitment and lifelong journey rooted in community, compassion, care, culture and courage.
Throughout my career, I’ve fought for internationally educated nursing staff to be recognised and valued - not as stopgaps to fill nursing vacancies, but as professionals with knowledge, expertise, and cultural insight which can enrich our practice, by contributing to evidence-based care. I’ve seen firsthand how much we can learn from nurses who were educated and trained outside of the United Kingdom. I’ve learned how to recognise skin conditions I’d never seen before. I’ve learned how different cultures approach ageing, healing, and care. That’s not just diversity, it’s strength.
My commitment to learning and education has always been my anchor. From my initial nurse training and education to my doctorate, I’ve never stopped learning. In addition to my parents, nurse mentors like Ms Monica Scott, a proud Jamaican ward sister, instilled in me the importance of continuous learning, education and leadership. So, I’ve also never stopped teaching - formally and informally, it’s who I am as an educator who seeks to empower using critical thinking and reflection. I’ve mentored, lectured, coached, and championed others, especially those who look and sound like me, that didn’t see themselves reflected in leadership. I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it, don’t wait for permission. If you’re in a position to open a door, do it and do it now.
We need to validate lived experience as knowledge. Storytelling is data and mine is rooted in my African Caribbean heritage. It’s real. It’s how we’ve always passed on wisdom in our communities, and it belongs in our research, our policies, and our practice.
I’ve spent most of my clinical career in older people’s services - an area often unfairly dismissed as not as ‘exciting’ as others. But to me, this specialism is exciting because it’s about deep, authentic, human connection, building trust and unique bonds with our patients. It continues that spark which was first ignited in me as a little girl in Dominica - a space for holistic care, where seeing our patients as individuals, with different needs, different stories and different perspectives is at the core of what we do as nurses.
As a nurse leader in older people’s care, I ensured this specialist care mattered and in so doing it shone a light on the specialism resulting in us having a waiting list to join the service. In that way we made caring for older people both prestigious and essential. We made it count. We created spaces where patients were seen, heard, and treated with respect. We stocked our kitchens with ginger tea and chamomile, (which back then was very forward thinking!) because healing isn’t just about medicine, it’s about culture, comfort, and care and the trust that these foster.
Throughout my career in nursing, I’ve seen change. I’ve seen more Black nurses publishing, leading, and speaking out. But we still have a long way to go. Sometimes it feels like we’re still having the same conversations that were had in the 1940s. I have been told recently not to use the word “racism”, but if we don’t name it, we risk that lived experience being erased or whitewashed from the narrative.
I’ve seen how that erasure and structural, systemic, and personal racism try to silence our strength. I’ve lived it. I’ve fought it. I’ve stood up for colleagues who were bullied and victimised. I didn’t walk away. I couldn’t. Because racism is a violation. It’s a physical, social and spiritual assault on your right to exist and when that it is happening in your workplace – it takes a heavy toll.
This year’s Black History Month theme “Standing Firm in Power and Pride” resonates deeply with me. It captures my experience as a Black Nurse - I’ve stood firm through challenges, through resistance and broken silence. I’ve stood firm because I am proud of who I am and where I come from. I’ve been able to do this because of the sustainability of love, respect, and dignity which keep me strong, with purpose and determination as does the knowledge that these things matter as much as the treatment or medicine that we offer especially when asserting self and confronting racism.
