Black, Alt, And Logged On: How Gaming Became My Therapy Before I Became A Therapist

It’s the end of the day on a Thirsty Thursday in the early 2000s. You’ve just wrapped up your classes for the week. While your friends are out drinking Four Loko, chasing Jägerbombs, and eating tacos at house parties, you’re home stressing over a pending breakup or a paper deadline. You pick up the controller and dive into the worlds of Grand Theft Auto, The Sims, or Final Fantasy. You lose yourself in fantasy—far away from real-life drama, wrapped in a world that feels both distant and safe. Maybe you even hop online to talk to strangers, a virtual slice of life that, at that moment, feels like exactly what you need.

You dyed your hair pink earlier this week, you’re planning your next tattoo at the upcoming convention, and you’re counting the hours until a new episode of Rosario + Vampire drops. These were the early days of a now thirty-something Black demisexual female therapist. Back then, I didn’t realize how much those moments of escape were actually practice for something deeper: healing.

Growing up Black and alt often meant being misunderstood. Our music tastes were “too white,” our hair “too loud,” our clothes “too weird.” But when artists like FKA twigs, Oxymorrons, or Magnolia Park took the stage, none of that mattered. Music and gaming were lifelines—intertwined veins of culture and expression that helped many of us survive adolescence. For me, they were also the earliest forms of therapy.

Gaming as a coping mechanism has always existed, even if the world didn’t always understand it. While the media often scrutinized games as a waste of time or a bad influence, studies have shown that cooperative gaming can actually reduce loneliness and depression, and even build communication and problem-solving skills. In those digital universes, storytelling opened portals to parts of ourselves we couldn’t access anywhere else.

In fact, the act of entering these immersive storylines was my first experience with what I later recognized as narrative therapy. The characters I played weren’t just avatars—they were vessels for rewriting the story I told myself about who I was. Narrative therapy teaches us that we’re not defined by our problems—we’re the authors of our lives. And in each game, I chose what kind of character I wanted to be, which challenges to face, and what victories to claim. I wasn’t just escaping reality—I was reshaping it.

The stories in these games mirrored our emotions, reflected our families or friendships, and offered possibilities far beyond our lived realities. These worlds, rich in life and layered with meaning, were woven together like the fabric of our favorite concert tees. Somehow, in the chaos, we found community through our differences.

As a child, video games were my safe space. Later, they inspired me to become one for others. As a therapist now, I look back on those nights with my headset on, controller in hand, talking to other weird, artsy kids who didn’t quite fit in. They welcomed me. We became a tribe. Our conversations drifted from gameplay to real-life struggles: parents, identity, anxiety, home life. We fought together in League of Legends and Smite, rode out in Halo, and caused chaos in GTA. Gaming taught me that even when you feel alone, you’re never truly by yourself. It also taught me that survival is stronger with community.

Whether you’re a tank, healer, or DPS, each role matters. The gameplay taught me that our unique skills and traits—no matter how unconventional—hold value. Games became metaphors for resilience. Super Mario showed me the importance of family and loyalty. Final Fantasy taught me that obstacles don’t mean failure—they mean strategy, patience, and growth. Dead by Daylight reminded me that even when sacrifices are made, empathy and teamwork can move you forward.

I now see how that sense of play itself was therapeutic. In psychology, we call this play therapy—a method often used with children, but deeply effective for anyone needing a space to explore identity, emotion, and relationships through imagination. That’s what gaming was for me: unstructured, creative self-exploration. And like in formal play therapy, my digital choices were expressions of my inner world.

As an only child, games gave me a sense of connection I didn’t get at home. My console was my portal to the world. I made online friends across the U.S. that I’m still grateful for. Now, as a therapist, I get to step into the healer role in real life. I’ve even joined the ranks of Black alt folks who play Dungeons & Dragons. If I’m being honest, I wish I had started playing sooner.

Tabletop games like D&D are still underrated. For many Black and brown players, it hasn’t always felt inclusive. Popular media rarely reflected us in the fantasy genre. But the beauty of role playing games is the infinite possibility—possibility for our own character creation, story arcs, and narrative voice. Contrary to popular belief, there’s no limit to the characters we can imagine and embody. As a Black woman at the table, claiming space in fantasy feels like reclaiming space in reality.

And let’s not ignore the deeper significance of identity in these spaces. Being Black and alt in predominantly white settings, you learn early what it means to be “the Other.” You’re the different one. The one that doesn’t match the backdrop. But what gaming taught me is that “the Other” often becomes the most powerful figure in the narrative—the unexpected hero, the misunderstood mage, the wildcard that changes the game. Being othered offline hurt. But in-game? It gave me purpose.

Being Black and alt in predominantly white spaces has always been more than aesthetic—it’s rebellion. It’s resistance. It’s a refusal to be boxed in by the limitations imposed on us. It’s a reclamation of self. To walk into a room with pink hair, combat boots, and a playlist full of rock and experimental R&B is to say: “I will not shrink for you.”

And for those of us who grew up poor, queer, neurodivergent, or emotionally overlooked, being alt gave us a new kind of agency. A new way to customize our avatar. To be the main character in our own story. Before I had a degree in therapy, I was already helping my team heal. Supporting others helped fill the absence of the support I didn’t always receive—after my parents’ separation, after being punished for daydreaming in class, after struggling to find the words to express myself.

Gaming gave me a place to process. It helped me rewrite my story when the chapters were hard to read. I still remember one moment in college that felt full circle: As a kid, I dreamed of being a pirate—sailing the seas, building a crew, seeking adventure. Years later, I attended a university whose mascot happened to be a pirate. I went from cosplaying as a rogue to cheering them on at basketball games. Life really is an RPG.

Gaming didn’t just help me escape—it taught me to explore. It showed me that therapy isn’t always a couch and a clipboard. Sometimes, it’s a headset and a controller. Sometimes, it’s a late-night Discord call or a character sheet filled with possibility. Now, when I sit across from clients who feel like outsiders—Black, queer, alt, neurodivergent—I don’t just empathize. I recognize them. Because I was them. I still am.

The screen might separate us, but the story brings us together. For me, gaming wasn’t just entertainment—it was preparation. For the empathy I’d need, the listening skills I’d sharpen, the teamwork I’d practice, and the healing I’d one day help others find.

Before I was a therapist, I was the support class. And in many ways, I still am. The game just changed.