Building Stronger Communities Through Collective Healing

Lydia Nimbeshaho founded Beyond the Veil Mission, an organization that provides culturally relevant mental health support for communities impacted by trauma, displacement, and systemic barriers in Ontario. With over seven years of experience in the mental health field, Lydia has developed a deep understanding of the unique challenges faced by individuals from Black and immigrant communities. Her work is rooted in empathy, cultural competence, and community well-being, aiming to create spaces where people can access mental health resources without shame. 

In addition to her leadership at Beyond the Veil, Lydia has her own practice, Tranquil Minds Psychotherapy & Counselling Services, where she supports individuals seeking psychotherapy care. Her approach integrates professional expertise and a commitment to ensuring that mental health care is accessible, supportive, and culturally aware. Lydia’s work is a testament to her belief in the power of community-based support and the importance of addressing mental health in ways that respect individual identity and history. 

Lydia Nimbeshaho is a mother, a psychotherapist, a survivor, and founder of Beyond the Veil, an organization committed to culturally grounded mental health care for Black communities impacted by trauma, displacement, and systemic barriers. Drawing from her lived experience and professional training, Lydia offers a perspective on healing that centers on hope, collective resilience, and the power of community. In this conversation, she reflects on the experiences that shaped her, the limitations of Western systems, and the tools she’s using to help others move from survival to empowerment. 

Can you tell us what inspired the creation of Beyond the Veil and its mission?

Lydia Nimbeshaho: Beyond the Veil was born out of personal pain and deep purpose. I am a survivor of the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda. I lost my parents when I was six years old, and that grief followed me as I grew up navigating life in displacement. After our parents were killed, my sister, who was just a teenager herself, took on the role of raising me and my siblings. She had to become a caregiver far too early, carrying the weight of our family while still trying to grow up herself. That burden, along with the unaddressed trauma we all carried, took a toll on her mental health. Her struggles were compounded by stigma, silence, and the complete absence of culturally relevant care. She also turned to alcohol addiction as a way to cope with the weight of everything she carried, which eventually led to major depression, a reality many in our communities face when trauma is left untreated. When she passed away in 2018, I realized how little support existed that truly understood our experience. I didn’t want anyone else to suffer the way she did, isolated, unheard, and carrying pain alone. That loss became my turning point. 

I remember walking into therapy sessions when I was pregnant, where I couldn’t speak, not because I had nothing to say but because I didn’t feel seen, or the social worker did not know how to support people like me. It became clear that we needed spaces that were not only trauma-informed but culturally grounded, that recognized our histories and honored our ways of healing. In 2019, I founded Beyond the Veil with friends and community members who shared the same vision. We wanted to create a space for education, connection, and transformation, beginning with the Rwandan community and extending to Black communities more broadly. Our name reflects our belief in looking past suffering and reclaiming what lies on the other side: strength, purpose, and collective healing. Everything we do centers on community, from workshops to commemorations to narrative therapy sessions. Healing is not just about the individual, it’s about restoring the village. 

You’ve spoken powerfully about the importance of collective healing. Can you share how that shows up in your work?

Lydia Nimbeshaho: Collective healing is at the heart of everything we do. For many Black communities, healing doesn’t happen in isolation. We heal in groups, in conversation, and in the community. One of our most powerful tools is the “Tree of Life Narrative Therapy” method. This approach was co-developed by Ncazelo Ncube and David Denborough to assist colleagues working with children affected by HIV/AIDS in Southern Africa. Today, Ncazelo continues to train practitioners across the world, as this practice has proven to help individuals and communities living in environments that face unending life storms and trauma. It allows people to reflect on their lives through the metaphor of a tree, with roots, strengths, dreams, and storms they’ve weathered. In a group setting, these personal stories become a “Forest of Life,” where each person shares their tree and recognizes shared patterns of survival and resilience. 

This process creates powerful connections. People begin to realize they’re not alone, that their experiences, while deeply personal, are also profoundly collective. This method is especially transformative for survivors of war, poverty, chronic illnesses, caregivers, displacement, systemic racism, and gendered violence. We’re not asking people to perform their trauma. We’re offering a space where they can hold it, name it, and be witnessed without judgment. In addition to narrative therapy, we facilitate support groups, cultural gatherings, and commemorative events centered on shared histories. These practices not only help reduce isolation but actively rebuild the community. That’s what collective healing really is. It’s not about fixing broken people, it’s about mending broken systems and restoring connections. 

How do culturally grounded approaches shape your mental health programming? 

Lydia Nimbeshaho: Culture is the foundation of everything we do. If you strip healing from its cultural context, you risk offering care that doesn’t actually land. When I first started therapy in Canada, I felt disconnected. I didn’t grow up using words like “stress”, “anxiety” or “depression”, those weren’t the words that shaped my understanding of pain. So, when therapists asked me questions, I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t feel understood. 

That experience taught me to lead with cultural humility. At Beyond the Veil, we don’t approach people as problems to be fixed, we approach them as full human beings with context. Some of our workshop’s center on storytelling or music. Others incorporate rituals of remembrance, reflection, or prayer. We draw from African traditions while also holding space for Caribbean and diasporic practices. We understand that healing is not one-size-fits-all, and we try to make room for everyone. We also partner with other practitioners when someone needs something beyond our scope. That’s the difference between cultural awareness and cultural responsiveness. Our goal is to create spaces that are not only safe, but sacred, spaces where people can feel seen, respected, and invited to show up as their full selves. 

What do you see as the biggest challenges Black communities face when trying to access mental health support? 

Lydia Nimbeshaho: There are many barriers, and most of them are systemic. A person can’t prioritize mental health if they’re navigating poverty, immigration stress, food insecurity, or unsafe housing. Yet so often, Black individuals are referred to therapy when what they truly need is material support. That disconnect is part of the problem, we treat symptoms without addressing root causes. 

And then, even when someone does get through the door, they may be met with racial bias, cultural misunderstanding, or approaches that don’t resonate with their lived experience. I’ve had clients tell me they left therapy feeling more exhausted than when they walked in, because they had to educate the therapist while trying to heal. That’s not okay. There’s also the issue of stigma in some communities, especially among elders or those with religious backgrounds. But I’ve seen that changing, more people are open to talking about mental health now. 

Cost is still a massive obstacle. Quality care is expensive, and public services are often underfunded and overwhelmed. At the deeper level, I think we need to shift the narrative. Black pain is not just an individual issue, it’s a product of systems. Until our care models acknowledge that, healing will always be incomplete. That’s why we center context, history, and community in everything we do. 

What role does storytelling play in your healing work, and how can it support intergenerational resilience? 

Lydia Nimbeshaho: Storytelling is everything. It’s how we understand who we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re going. In my culture, stories were our teachers. They carried our morals, our memories, our survival strategies. During the genocide, the stories I heard in church and through testimonies of survival kept me anchored. They reminded me that I came from strength, even in the darkest times. 

Today, I see storytelling as a tool of reclamation. Trauma often disconnects us from our sense of self. It shrinks our world. But when someone tells their story, especially in a space that honors their truth, they begin to reclaim that lost ground. That’s why we use the Tree of Life approach. It helps people name not just their struggles, but their values, their sources of support, their dreams. And when we gather those trees into a forest, people realize they’re part of something bigger. 

This is especially powerful across generations. When elders and youth share space, something sacred happens. Wisdom gets passed on. Silence breaks. Pain is named and released. That’s intergenerational resilience, not just surviving, but creating new roots together. Stories make that possible. They remind us that healing is not about erasing the past but carrying it with intention into the future. 

What have you learned through this work that’s changed your perspective? 

Lydia Nimbeshaho: I’ve learned that healing isn’t something you arrive at and stay, it’s something you return to, again and again. I used to believe that I had to be fully healed to offer healing to others, but that’s not true. Healing is circular. Some days you feel grounded, other days you’re pulled back into grief. The point is not to be perfect. It’s to show up with honesty and care. 

Losing my parents, the majority of my extended family, my sister, and later the death of the father of my children, Erixon Kabera, at the hands of the police of Hamilton on November 9, 2024, cracked me open in ways I can barely put into words. That level of loss is not something you simply move through. It reshapes you. It forces you to find meaning where there is devastation. Those experiences didn’t just deepen my understanding of grief, they made me ask what kind of healing is possible in a world where we are still so vulnerable to violence. And yet, even in that pain, I’ve learned that grief and purpose can live side by side. Sometimes, the pain doesn’t go away, but it transforms. And that transformation becomes a kind of offering. 

This work has also taught me to release control. I’ve learned to embrace change, some programs are short-lived, some grants don’t get renewed, and not every vision unfolds the way we plan. But if a single workshop gives someone language for their story, or a gathering reminds someone they’re not alone, that’s success. I’ve learned to trust that impact isn’t always visible. It often lives in the quiet shifts. Most of all, I’ve learned that healing doesn’t always look like joy. Sometimes it looks like staying. Like choosing life. Like saying, even in the midst of everything, “I’m still here.” 

What does self-determination mean to you in the context of Black mental health? 

Lydia Nimbeshaho: For me, self-determination means we stop waiting for systems to save us and start building what we need. It’s about creating care that reflects our values, our stories, our survival. Too often, Black people are forced into systems that don’t understand our pain. They see symptoms but not the root. They treat what we’re going through like a personal problem instead of understanding where it comes from, our history, our environment, our lived experience. 

Self-determination is saying, we know what healing looks like for us. We know what safety feels like. It’s trusting our own wisdom, what our elders taught us, what our ancestors carried, and what our bodies remember. It’s being able to walk into a space and not have to translate your pain into language that fits someone else’s model. 

At Beyond the Veil, we’re not asking permission. We’re not waiting for others to validate our ways. We’re building spaces where Black people feel seen and held. That’s what liberation looks like. Not just surviving but choosing how we care for each other. On our terms. In our time. And in a way that feels right for us. 

What gives you hope right now? 

Lydia Nimbeshaho: What gives me hope is that we’re still here. Still showing up for each other, even after all the loss. Hope looks like a young person saying, “I want to heal.” It looks like an elder breaking years of silence to share their truth. It looks like someone choosing rest and not apologizing for it. 

I see hope in our small acts of care. In the food we cook for each other. In the way we check in. In the way we hold space when someone breaks down. Our people have always found ways to survive, but what gives me hope is that we’re learning how to live. How to care deeply. How to build joy alongside the grief. 

Hope isn’t about pretending things are fine. It’s about refusing to give up. Even after everything. Even when it hurts. We still dream. We still build. That’s what keeps me going. That belief that we’re worthy of more. 

To learn more about the work Lydia Nimbeshaho is doing through Beyond the Veil and to support their ongoing efforts in mental health and trauma healing, please visit their website or contact them directly at [email protected]. 

Additionally, if you would like to support the family of Erixon Kabera during their pursuit of justice, donations to his GoFundMe will help cover legal fees, investigations, and support for his three sons. 

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the interviewee(s) and do not necessarily reflect the position of the Network for the Advancement of Black Communities (NABC). NABC is committed to providing a platform for diverse voices across the Black community sector and sharing stories that deepen understanding.