Five years. One ending. And the beginning of something much bigger. Over the last week, I have experienced a plethora of emotions. Last week, ties were severed with my previous work environment. And honestly? It was bittersweet. There was anger. Sadness. Disappointment. Relief. A lot of relief. But before I talk about this past week, I have to rewind a little, because what happened didn't begin last week. And I don't think my experience exists in isolation. There is the ABA experience. And then, for me, and for many other Black professionals I've had the opportunity to speak with, there is also the Black ABA experience. When your work has value, but your voice doesn't There is a particular kind of frustration that comes with knowing you are capable. You build systems. You create curricula. You develop protocols. You train people. You identify problems before they become crises. You mentor emerging professionals. You help build teams and develop leaders. Your knowledge is valuable . Your ideas are valuable . Your labor is valuable . But somehow, when that same expertise leads you to question a decision, challenge a system, advocate for change, or simply have a different opinion, the response can feel very different. Suddenly, you're difficult. You're intimidating. You're aggressive. You're not a "team player."  Or your voice simply stops carrying the same weight as the work you produce. And excuse my language, but: THAT IS FRUSTRATING AS FUCK. There really isn't a more polished way I want to say that. Because there is something deeply frustrating about being trusted to build something but not necessarily trusted to challenge it. Five years I spent five years with my previous organization. Five years, y'all. During my time there, I had the opportunity to contribute to tremendous growth. I was there as the organization expanded from two locations to nearly eight. My work touched training curricula, templates, clinical protocols, policies and procedures, staffing structures, pod models and schedules, leadership development, new positions, clinical systems, and more. I poured a lot into that work. And then, this past week, that chapter ended. At first, there was a part of me that wanted to focus exclusively on what I had lost. But sitting with it has made me realize something else: I'm relieved. I didn't realize how much energy I had been spending trying to function in an environment that no longer felt healthy for me. It is exhausting to constantly feel responsible for fixing problems you didn't create. It is exhausting to feel as though you have to calculate how you speak before you speak. It is exhausting to wonder whether being knowledgeable, assertive, or unwilling to simply agree will be interpreted differently because of who you are. And it is especially exhausting when you begin shrinking yourself just to make everyone else comfortable. I don't want to do that anymore. So what do we do with the experience? That's the question I've been sitting with. Because I could leave this chapter angry. And believe me, I'm angry. But anger can be information. It can tell us where something hurts. It can tell us what matters to us. And sometimes it can tell us exactly what we're supposed to build next. So instead of only asking: Why did this happen to me? I've started asking: How do we prepare the Black professionals coming behind us so they don't have to learn all of these lessons the hard way? How do we teach emerging Black behavior analysts to recognize their value before an organization defines it for them? How do we talk about navigating leadership when you may be the only Black person in the room? How do we prepare people for the difference between mentorship and exploitation? How do we teach professionals to document their contributions, protect their intellectual property, advocate for themselves, negotiate compensation, recognize unhealthy organizational cultures, and know when it's time to leave? And how do we develop Black clinicians who are not only clinically competent, but culturally confident enough to take up space? Those are conversations I want to have. That's why I'm writing Pierra Perspective I didn't create this space because I have every answer. I'm creating it because I've lived some of the questions. Pierra Perspective is where I'm going to talk about them. Leadership. ABA. Representation. Career growth. Organizational culture. Burnout. Identity. Mistakes. Successes. The things nobody warns you about when you're collecting your supervision hours and studying for the BCBA exam. Some entries may be polished. Some probably won't be. Sometimes I may have research. Sometimes I may simply have a story. But they'll be mine. And I'll tell the truth about how I experienced them. My time at Howard University also shaped something in me that I don't think I'll ever lose: a willingness to question disparities when I see them and a responsibility to think about the people coming behind me. That fire is still there. Actually, after this week, I think somebody poured gasoline on it. And now, we build. That brings me to Pierra Company. Part of what I'm building through Pierra is the resource I wish more Black professionals had while navigating this field, a place where professional development isn't separated from identity, leadership isn't separated from culture, and becoming excellent at what you do doesn't require becoming smaller in who you are. This chapter didn't end the way I expected. But maybe that's okay. Because five years of building for someone else taught me an incredible amount about what I want to build for myself—and what I want to build for the people coming behind me. So, stay tuned. This is going to be a fun ride. — Jasmine Tate Founder, Pierra Company