Hayden Cedric Dawes, PhD.
Researcher - Therapist - Speaker

reflections

Reflections—A Space for Inquiry

Reflections—A Space for Inquiry

This is where I share my thoughts —reflective, and always evolving. Here, you'll find musings on mental health, human rights, cultural humility, and the intersections of identity and well-being. Some posts will be deeply personal, others will be grounded in research, and a few might just be me offering some insights.

As a clinician, researcher, and educator, I believe in the power of inquiry. This space is an extension of that belief—a place to engage, challenge, and grow. Whether I’m exploring Radical Permission, breaking down the latest study, or just processing the world around me, I invite you to join in by commenting or sharing these musings. Let’s build understanding, ask hard questions, and maybe even laugh a little along the way.

All that I ask is that if one of these posts sparks something in you, please share it with one person.

May we all be well.

 

4/4/25 : One of the most cherished times of my life...

4/4/25

One of the most cherished times of my life was when Nicholas and I lived in Durham, North Carolina. Our cozy home was tucked beneath a canopy of trees, with a quiet, rustic charm that held us close. After long days at work, we’d settle into the living room—me stretched out on the couch in my house clothes, a soft T-shirt and shorts; Nicholas in his bathrobe, resting in his recliner. Our dog Teddy lay at his feet, and our cat Diamond curled in his lap. He somehow looked both smothered and deeply comforted.

 

That image brought me immense peace. It was more than just a moment—it was belonging. They were my family—not the one I was born into but the one I helped co-create. With them, I got to simply be—be held, be safe, be me.

 

Much has changed since then. Teddy passed away before I began my PhD. Nicholas and I moved to Greensboro for his career and returned to the house I had lived in during the final year of my undergraduate studies, and the early years of adult life. It was in that home that we renovated the space—and ourselves. We dug deep, separately and together, through couples’ therapy and self-reflection. I earned my doctorate. Diamond grew older. I began to share more of my work publicly, and after twenty-five years in North Carolina, I moved to Pennsylvania for my first academic position.

 

Neither of us is the person we were when we met in 2010. Nor are we the couple that were married on 4/4/20. Life on the outside may appear exciting—and it is. Someday, I may find myself in rooms filled with celebrities and foreign dignitaries or seated at tables with influential people, fresh off a stage after “doing my thing.” But in truth, a large part of me is still that person on the couch, content and quiet, looking at his family with peace and gratitude.

 

Last fall, I sang the Mozart Requiem with the Haverford-Bryn Mawr Chorale. A requiem is a Catholic mass for the dead. I knew then that I was singing for the young man I no longer was—for a version of myself that had quietly slipped away. What I didn’t know was that I was also singing for the version of my relationship with Nicholas I had grown so attached to, and which was also shifting, evolving, perhaps even dissolving in the ways I once knew it. I usually pride myself on sensing what’s coming—reading the signs before the storm. This I didn’t see coming: Nicholas and I are separating. It’s been heart-wrenching and ushered the most profound grief I’ve ever experienced. I have been confused. I thought love meant that our relationship would remain fixed, maybe not all of it, but in the fundamental way for us to stay in a romantic relationship.

 

I’m learning that love requires something different from me than I had expected, and that’s to let go of my expectations. Instead, be willing to face and accept much harder truths.  Love, although everlasting, is not static.

 

Maya Angelou once said, “Love liberates. It doesn’t bind. Love says I love you. I love you if you’re in China. I love you if you’re across town. I love you if you’re in Harlem. I love you. I would like to be near you. I’d like to have your arms around me. I’d like to hear your voice in my ear. But that’s not possible now, so I love you. Go. “

 

I’ve been thrust into learning how to be with the fundamental nature of life: impermanent, ever-changing, fluid. Nothing is fixed. Nothing is static. We grieve, grow, let go, and we must choose to love again—differently.  I remain grateful that Nicholas and I, while on separate paths, are still choosing to center love. We have loved each other well for 15 years, and we aim to continue to do so.

 

Hayden Dawes