–Abby E.  Murray, Tacoma Poet Laureate (2019-21) and author of How to Be Married After Iraq

“In The Art of Naming My Pain, Richardson not only names but calls out and takes to task her pain – Black pain, Mother pain, Woman pain, Queer pain – and its sources. Her words and art are charged with a pulse that resonates along a scale holding humor as well as fear, delight as well as anger. In an era that feels more dangerous every day, The Art of Naming My Pain reminds us that we are not alone as we navigate through the darkness.”

– Lydia K. Valentine, poet and playwright, Aliquippa

“With lyric grace and searing vulnerability, Kellie Richardson generously offers us insight into how an artist can make – create and name – her way through the painful geographies of contemporary America.”

– Tamiko Nimura, writer

“The Art of Naming My Pain is testament to the power that we (re)claim when we name all of our selves. This is a work that charges us to face our own hearts while becoming familiar with Richardson’s. With each painting, essay, and poem, we are gifted the affirmation that beauty coexists alongside its many antonyms, and that we can be both bruised and brave.”

 – Thy Nguyễn, poet and community organizer

“The Art of Naming My Pain is a powerful second act to Richardson’s first book of poetry, What Us Is. From the brilliant first essay, which critiques the common and not-so-critically-engaged assumptions about ’safe space’ to her vulnerable and self-empowering exploration of what’s wrong with institutions meant to heal mental health … to the uplift of ‘Love Wins,’ you won’t want to miss the journey and truths Richardson offers us through her words and art. This is a must-read for everyone interested in the power of words, the power of the visual, and the liberatory power and redemption in the call for all of us to continue to refine and reignite our individual and collective commitment to social justice.”

 – Shelli Fowler, Associate Professor, Virginia Commonwealth University

“This is a book of stunning bravery and beauty. Richardson reminds me of Frida Kahlo in the way she’s perfected the deep inward gaze. Readers will feel as if they know Richardson as she describes moments of mental illness, racism, and feeling awkward in one’s body. But, she assures us ‘it’s much less lonely in the dark than you think’ and by the end, when she writes ‘we are dancing anyhow,’ that’s exactly how the reader feels.”