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Teletherapy, In-Person Care, and the Human Connection: Choosing the Right Level of Care

Teletherapy, In-Person Care, and the Human Connection: Choosing the Right Level of Care

By Lachond Carter, LCSW-C
Acting Clinical Operations Director

As behavioral health continues to evolve, more individuals are accessing care through teletherapy. The question is no longer whether virtual care is effective—it is how it compares to in-person services, and how both fit within a broader continuum of care that continues to expand with new technologies.
 
As a licensed clinical social worker, I approach this landscape with a central question: What level of care is clinically appropriate for this individual, given their presenting needs and life context?
 
Because while access is critical, appropriateness of care is what ultimately drives outcomes.
 
Teletherapy vs. In-Person Care: What Matters Clinically
 
Teletherapy is clinical care.
 
It is delivered by a licensed provider and includes assessment, diagnosis, treatment planning, and an ongoing therapeutic relationship. Whether services are provided in person or virtually, the standard of care remains the same.
 
The difference lies not in quality, but in context.
 
In-person therapy may be particularly beneficial when:
  • Nonverbal communication and environmental observation are critical
  • Clients benefit from a structured, physically separate therapeutic space
  • There are concerns related to safety, privacy, or engagement
Teletherapy, on the other hand, expands access and flexibility. It can:
  • Reduce barriers related to transportation, childcare, or work schedules
  • Increase consistency in attendance
  • Allow clinicians to engage clients within their lived environments
For many individuals, teletherapy provides high-quality, clinically sound care that is both accessible and effective. In some cases, a hybrid approach—combining in-person and virtual services—offers the greatest benefit.
 
The key is not choosing one over the other, but aligning the setting with the client’s needs, preferences, and clinical presentation.
 
Clinical Limitations and Considerations
 
While teletherapy is an effective and appropriate modality for many, some individuals will require additional layers of support.
 
From a clinical standpoint, considerations may include:
  • The ability to fully assess risk and safety in real time
  • The role of environment in treatment and engagement
  • The need for deeper observation of affect, behavior, and relational dynamics
Grief and trauma, in particular, often require a level of clinical attunement and responsiveness that may benefit from a more integrated or higher-touch approach.
 
When a Higher Level of Care Is Needed
 
A more comprehensive, coordinated approach is often necessary for individuals experiencing:
  • Traumatic or complicated grief (e.g., homicide, overdose, sudden loss)
  • Co-occurring mental health conditions such as depression, anxiety, or PTSD
  • Cumulative loss or chronic trauma exposure
  • Functional impairment across home, school, or work settings
  • Barriers related to housing, food access, or healthcare
In these situations, care must be sustained, coordinated, and responsive to the full context of a person’s life.
 
The Role of Integrated Behavioral Health and Case Management
 
At Roberta’s House, our clinical model is designed to meet this level of need.
Our services include:
  • Comprehensive clinical assessment and diagnosis
  • Individual, family, and group therapy grounded in evidence-based practice
  • Intensive case management addressing social determinants of health
  • Ongoing monitoring, coordination, and treatment planning
Our clinicians seek to build trust, provide support within the realities our clients face, and deliver care that is both clinically sound and culturally responsive. Importantly, our services are available virtually—ensuring that accessibility does not come at the expense of quality or continuity.
For many individuals and families navigating grief and trauma, this level of care is not optional—it is essential.
 
Why the Therapeutic Relationship Still Matters
 
Technology can enhance access, but it cannot replace the therapeutic relationship.
 
Effective care is grounded in:
  • Trust and rapport
  • Clinical judgment and adaptability
  • Cultural humility and responsiveness
  • Consistency and accountability
These elements remain central to engagement and outcomes, regardless of the setting.
 
Aligning Care with Need
 
The goal is not to position one approach as superior, but to ensure alignment.
In-person care and teletherapy both offer legitimate, clinically sound pathways. The most important factor is matching individuals to the level of care that best supports their needs and circumstances.
 
Closing Reflection
 
As behavioral health continues to evolve, maintaining clinical integrity is essential.
 
Access matters. Innovation matters.
But ultimately, fit matters most.
 
Because healing does not occur in isolation—it happens within relationships, within systems, and within care that recognizes the full scope of a person’s experience.
 
 

Lachond Carter, LCSW-C
Acting Clinical Operations Director
Roberta’s House

Strength in the Open: A Clinical Perspective on Men’s Mental Health and the Role of Grief

Strength in the Open: A Clinical Perspective on Men’s Mental Health and the Role of Grief

by Gregory Wm. Branch, M.D., MBA, CPE, FACP

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. It is an opportunity not only to raise awareness, but to advance understanding—and to correct long-standing gaps in how we approach men’s mental health.
 
From a clinical perspective, one truth is increasingly clear: men are not experiencing fewer mental health challenges. They are simply less likely to be diagnosed, less likely to seek care, and more likely to experience severe outcomes.
 
The Clinical Reality in 2026
 
Current data indicate that approximately one in five men experiences anxiety or depression each year, yet men remain significantly less engaged in treatment. More concerning, men die by suicide at rates several times higher than women.
 
This is not a failure of individual resilience. This reflects a failure in access, engagement, and cultural alignment in delivering care.
 
We are also seeing a shift in the clinical presentation of distress among men. Increasingly, men present not with stated depression, but with:
 
  • Irritability and anger
  • Sleep disruption and fatigue
  • Chronic stress and burnout
  • Substance use
  • Somatic complaints such as headaches or pain
These are not peripheral symptoms. They are often primary indicators of underlying mental health conditions that have gone unaddressed.
 
The Role of Social Conditioning
 
One of the most persistent barriers remains what clinicians often refer to as “restrictive emotionality”—the learned tendency to suppress emotional expression due to cultural expectations.
 
The “toughness” narrative continues to shape behavior. Men are taught to internalize distress, avoid vulnerability, and delay help-seeking. Over time, this contributes to:
 
  • Delayed diagnosis
  • Increased severity at presentation
  • Lower treatment adherence
Clinical evidence consistently shows that when men do engage in care earlier, outcomes improve significantly. The challenge is not willingness—it is timing and access.
 
Grief as a Foundational Driver
 
In clinical practice, grief is frequently under-identified in men.
 
Grief is not limited to bereavement. It includes cumulative loss:
 
  • Loss of loved ones
  • Loss of identity or role
  • Loss tied to trauma, violence, or systemic inequity
  • Repeated exposure to community-level loss
When unprocessed, grief becomes clinically relevant. It contributes to depressive symptoms, anxiety, substance use, and dysregulated emotional responses.
 
Importantly, men are less likely to label their experience as grief. Instead, grief is often expressed behaviorally—through withdrawal, overwork, irritability, or risk-taking.
 
From a public health perspective, unaddressed grief is not benign—it can evolve into complicated grief with real mental health consequences.
 
 
Dr. Gregory Wm. Branch serves as Vice President with Roberta’s House he is the former Director of Health and Human Services for Baltimore County.

Gregory W. Branch, M.D., MBA, CPE, FACP
Vice President
Roberta’s House

Grief, Burnout, and the Time We Were Given

Grief, Burnout, and the Time We Were Given

by Dr. H. Alexander Satorie-Robinson

There are forms of exhaustion that sleep does not touch.
 
Burnout is often described in the language of work—too many demands, too little time, a steady erosion of energy and focus. But when grief enters the picture, the feeling shifts. It becomes quieter, heavier, less visible from the outside. It is not only about what you are doing; it is about what you are carrying.
 
In July 2025, I lost my mother-in-law. Even now, that sentence feels both precise and incomplete. Loss has a way of rearranging time. There is the period before—when life was structured around connection, care, and attention—and then there is the after, where everything resolves into absence.
 
In the months leading up to her passing, we believed we were already preparing to lose her. At 91, she had faced a serious health challenge. There were more frequent doctor’s visits, more conversations about medications, more moments that asked us to confront the limits of time. It was a season that invited a kind of anticipatory grief—a quiet, steady bracing for what seemed inevitable.
 
But something else happened in that space.
 
She recovered.
 
Not partially, not tentatively, but in a way that allowed us to believe she was on her way back to herself. What we had thought would be a closing chapter began to feel, instead, like an extension—a return. And in that return, there was a gift we did not fully recognize at the time: constant communication, intentional presence, an attentiveness that often only comes when you believe time is short.
 
We spoke more. We checked in more. We noticed more.
 
And then, suddenly, she was gone—taken in a car accident that none of us could have anticipated.
 
The loss was sharp in a different way. Not the slow, expected unfolding we had been preparing for, but an abrupt absence that left no room to ready ourselves. And yet, woven into that grief is something else: a quiet gratitude for those days we thought were the end.
 
If there has been a sense of decline, it has not been hers—it has been mine. Not in any dramatic or visible way, but in the subtle erosion that follows loss. The kind that shows up as fatigue that lingers longer than it should, as a narrowing of emotional bandwidth, as a quiet depletion that touches even the ordinary parts of the day.
 
This is where grief and burnout begin to overlap.
 
Burnout, at its core, is sustained depletion without enough restoration. Grief does not operate on a schedule that allows for easy replenishment. When the two meet, you are left trying to draw energy from a place that is still in the process of adjusting to absence.
 
You may find yourself moving through responsibilities with competence—meeting expectations, fulfilling obligations—while feeling, just beneath the surface, a persistent tiredness. Not overwhelming enough to stop everything, but steady enough to change how things feel.
 
There are signs.
 
A shorter patience than you recognize in yourself. A sense that even small decisions require more effort than they once did. A quiet pulling back from things that used to feel engaging. And perhaps most telling, a subtle distance from your own sense of purpose—not a loss of it, but a dimming.
 
And still, there is hope.
 
Not the kind that insists everything will resolve neatly, but the kind that allows for complexity. I remain hopeful, if not fully optimistic. Hope, in this context, is less about outcomes and more about endurance. It is the belief that, over time, the weight may shift—even if it does not disappear.
 
There is no quick fix for this kind of exhaustion. I know that. Still, there are moments when I wish there were. Not out of impatience, but from a very human desire for relief.
 
If there is anything steady to hold onto, it may be this: the recognition that grief and burnout are not signs of failure. They are responses—to love, to loss, to the effort of continuing.
 
And perhaps, alongside that, a willingness to remember the gift we were given in those final months. The conversations. The presence. The awareness of time, even when we misunderstood its direction.
 
Not everything about that season was loss.
 
Some of it was grace.
 
And that, too, is something that remains.
 
 

H. Alexander Satorie-Robinson, Ed.D., MBA
External Affairs Director
Roberta’s House

Maryland in 2026: Grief, Loss, and the Uneven Weight of Death

Maryland in 2026: Grief, Loss, and the Uneven Weight of Death

By Dr. H. Alexander Satorie-Robinson, External Affairs Director

When we talk about deaths in Maryland in 2026, we often talk in numbers—rates, percentages, trends moving up or down. But behind every statistic is a story. Someone’s father. Someone’s child. Someone’s partner, friend, or neighbor.

Across the state this year, Marylanders continue to navigate several overlapping public-health crises: drug overdoses, violence, and infant mortality. In some areas there are signs of progress. In others, the losses remain deeply uneven, falling hardest on particular communities.

And for many families already living with loss, the anxiety of the broader worldwide, political tension, economic uncertainty, and constant streams of distressing news—can intensify the grief they are already carrying.

Understanding what is happening in Maryland requires looking at the numbers but also recognizing the human experience behind them.

Some Progress in Overdose Deaths — But the Crisis Is Not Over

Maryland has seen encouraging signs in the fight against opioid overdoses. Preliminary state data indicate that about 1,315 people died from overdoses in 2025, a significant decline from earlier years and the lowest level the state has seen in roughly a decade.

This progress reflects years of public-health work: wider distribution of naloxone, expanded addiction treatment, harm-reduction outreach, and community-based interventions.

But even with the decline, more than a thousand lives lost in a single year still has an enormous toll on families and communities.

And the crisis is not affecting everyone the same way.

A Disparity That Stands Out: Black Men and Overdose Deaths

One of the most troubling patterns in Maryland’s overdose data is how heavily the crisis now falls on Black men, particularly older Black men.

In Baltimore, Black residents account for roughly two-thirds of overdose deaths, with Black men representing a large share of those fatalities. Across Maryland, Black men over age 55 have overdose death rates roughly three times higher than white men of the same age.

This represents a major shift in the opioid epidemic. Earlier waves of the crisis were often associated with white populations in suburban and rural communities. But the fentanyl era has dramatically reshaped the landscape.

Public health researchers point to several factors that help explain why this disparity exists:

  • A more dangerous drug supply. Synthetic opioids like fentanyl are far more potent than earlier drugs, making overdoses more likely and harder to reverse.
  • Unequal access to treatment and harm-reduction services. Studies have shown that Black patients who experience an overdose are less likely to be referred to addiction treatment and may have less access to lifesaving interventions like naloxone.
  • Long-standing structural inequities. Housing instability, economic hardship, and historic barriers to healthcare continue to shape health outcomes in many communities.
  • An aging population of long-term drug users. Many older men who began using heroin decades ago are now encountering a far more lethal drug supply than the one they once knew.

The result is a crisis that, in many neighborhoods in Baltimore and other cities, has become concentrated among older Black men.

Each death leaves behind families and communities struggling with sudden, complicated grief—often layered with stigma and silence.

Violence and Community Trauma

Maryland has also seen changes in violent crime. Baltimore recorded 133 homicides in 2025, the lowest number the city has experienced in decades.

That decline reflects significant work by community organizations, violence-interruption programs, and public-health initiatives treating violence as a preventable condition rather than simply a law-enforcement issue.

Yet even in years when numbers improve, the emotional impact remains profound. Families who lose loved ones to violence often experience grief that is sudden, traumatic, and deeply destabilizing.

Entire neighborhoods can feel the weight of repeated loss.

Infant Mortality: A Quiet but Persistent Tragedy

Another form of loss receives less public attention but affects hundreds of Maryland families each year: infants who die before their first birthday.

Maryland’s infant mortality rate is roughly six deaths per 1,000 live births, close to the national average. But averages can hide stark disparities.

In Baltimore City, infant mortality has historically been closer to seven or eight deaths per 1,000 births, higher than the statewide rate.

And the racial disparity is particularly striking.

In Maryland, Black infants die at more than twice the rate of white infants. Recent data show infant mortality rates of roughly 9–10 deaths per 1,000 births for Black babies, compared with about four per 1,000 for white babies.

Researchers point to several underlying causes:

  • unequal access to prenatal care
  • higher rates of maternal health complications
  • environmental stress and housing instability
  • the long-term health effects of structural racism

The result is that the chances of a baby surviving its first year can still depend heavily on race and neighborhood.

Geography Matters Too

The disparities are not just racial—they are also geographic.

Urban communities like Baltimore often face higher overdose and infant mortality rates. At the same time, rural parts of Maryland—including areas on the Eastern Shore and in Western Maryland—experience their own health challenges related to limited healthcare access and economic hardship.

In many ways, the patterns of death mirror the patterns of opportunity.

Communities that have experienced decades of disinvestment often face higher risks of preventable loss.

Grief in an Anxious World

For families who have lost someone, grief rarely exists in isolation.

Many people today are also navigating a world that feels unsettled. Wars dominate headlines. Economic uncertainty shapes daily decisions. Political divisions and social media amplify fear and anger. News cycles deliver tragedy after tragedy.

For someone already carrying the loss of a loved one, this environment can intensify emotional strain.

Grief often makes people more sensitive to the suffering around them. A news story about violence or disaster can reopen wounds that never fully healed. Anxiety about the future can compound the pain of what has already been lost.

Public-health experts increasingly recognize that grief is not just a personal experience—it is a community experience.

When large numbers of people experience loss at the same time, communities themselves can begin to carry collective trauma.

Why Support Matters

Every overdose death, homicide, or infant loss creates survivors—parents, siblings, children, partners, friends—who must find a way to live with the absence of someone they love.

Support systems matter.

Grief counseling, peer-support groups, community spaces for healing, and compassionate public-health responses all play a role in helping families navigate loss.

As Maryland continues to make progress in preventing deaths, it must also continue investing in the systems that help people heal when prevention comes too late.

Remembering the Lives Behind the Numbers

Statistics can tell us where problems exist. They can guide policy and public-health responses. But numbers alone never capture the depth of what is lost.

Every person represented in Maryland’s death data had a story. They had people who loved them. They had dreams, struggles, and connections that shaped the lives of others.

When we talk about death rates and disparities, we are ultimately talking about something much more personal: the lives that were lived, and the communities that continue to carry their memory.

And for many families across Maryland this year, the work of grief—and healing—continues.

 
 

H. Alexander Satorie-Robinson, Ed.D., MBA
External Affairs Director
Roberta’s House

To Monrovia — With Love, Matila

To Monrovia — With Love, Matila

A reflection on Loss, Culture, and the Grief Our Children Carry

When my father died, he was only thirty-three years old. 
 
I was seven. 
 
On the well-loved futon we proudly called our couch, my mother sat my brother and me down and told us—clearly, calmly—that our father had died. She had always been good at saying hard things plainly. A nurse by training and instinct, she believed in truth, in information, in meeting reality head-on. Her parenting was modern before it had a name: open conversations, books placed in our hands, science and facts offered as anchors.
 
I remember feeling confused more than anything else. That was the first time death entered my life in a real way.
 
My parents met in New York in the early 1980s. They fell in love, got married, and for a time, tried to make a family work. Their relationship was tumultuous, and by the time I was three years old, they had separated. I remember calling his job when he worked security—asking for the supervisor, convinced that if I could just reach the right person, someone would put him on the phone. 
 
I didn’t know my father well enough to grieve the way movies or books said I should, but I knew enough to feel that something important had ended.
My father was Muslim, and his funeral was unlike anything I had ever experienced. There was no casket at the front of the room. I didn’t see his body. Instead, we gathered quietly, sitting together in a solemn space. 
 
People spoke about my father—stories of who he was, how he showed up, what they remembered and admired.
 
I felt out of place.
I didn’t have anything to share.
 
At one point, a gentleman asked my mother if she forgave my father. In Muslim tradition, forgiveness is believed, from what I understand, to help release the soul to Jannah (جَنَّة). She said yes. No one asked me or my brother how we felt.
 
Children are often expected to be resilient, to move on, to “be okay.” But grief that isn’t named doesn’t disappear. It waits. It shows up later—in identity, relationships, questions about belonging, and unanswered longing. As a child, I didn’t have the words to say I was grieving. I wasn’t crying every day. I wasn’t visibly falling apart. But I was trying to understand loss without context, culture without explanation, and a father I barely knew who was suddenly gone forever.
 
At Roberta’s House, we create space for children to grieve in ways that make sense to them. We don’t rush them. We don’t minimize their experience. We recognize that a child can grieve a parent they barely knew, and that those feelings can change over time.
 
Our work is informed by national leaders like National Alliance for Children’s Grief (NACG), which emphasizes the importance of developmentally appropriate, honest conversations about death. We also draw inspiration from the Sesame Workshop and its “Forgotten Griever” resources, which remind us that even very young children experience loss—and deserve support that honors their perspective.
 
When we support families, we often share a few guiding principles:
 
  • Use clear, simple language. Children deserve the truth in words they can understand.
  • Invite questions, even repeated ones. Repetition is how children process.
  • Include children in rituals when possible, with preparation and choice.
  • Allow mixed emotions—or no visible emotion at all.
  • Remember that grief evolves. A loss at seven will feel different at fourteen, and again at adulthood.
Grief isn’t a single moment. It grows as children grow.
 
I never got to say goodbye to my father.
I never got to forgive him out loud.
 
But now, I help create spaces where other children can. And in that way, the story doesn’t end where it once did—it continues, with intention, care, and room for truth.
 
I care for you. You care for me. We take care for each other.
 
Be well,
 
Matila
 

Matila S. Jones, II, MS, HS-BCP
Executive Director

 
 

The Mask of Leadership: How 25 Years of Grief Taught Me to Truly Lead By Tracy Turner, PhD, CHLC 

The Mask of Leadership: How 25 Years of Grief Taught Me to Truly Lead By Tracy Turner, PhD, CHLC 
In my family, secrets are the gatekeepers of trauma, and silence is the border patrol that keeps us segregated. For twenty-five years, I lived behind that border, wearing a mask of “fine” while carrying a heart that had been shattered since I was nineteen.

Born into a Blueprint
My aunt, Cecelia, was my everything. Our lives were cosmically linked from the start: I was born exactly 54 minutes after her 18th birthday. In a family that demanded we walk in the footsteps of those before us, she was the one who taught me to carve my own path.
 
She was a masterful creator, a songwriter, a poet, a journalist, and a Black Panther. She taught me the art of authenticity and the power of internal validation. But while she could achieve anything her mind conceived, she could not master the weight of her unresolved childhood trauma. When she passed away from what I believe was a heroin overdose, a truth my family buried under more acceptable stories. I was left with a haunting realization: my unconditional love, as steadfast as it was, was not enough to save her from her pain.

Leading in the Shadow of Loss
For the next two and a half decades, I navigated life without a map. I was angry, but I suppressed it. After all, who stays angry at the dead? I avoided leadership roles because I was terrified of being responsible for others. I avoided emotional intimacy because I didn’t believe I could protect the people I loved.
 
By age 35, I had the “Bowie, Maryland” life, the townhouse, the late-model car, the external markers of success. But I was hollow. My breakthrough only came when I finally addressed the God I had spent years hating for taking her away. The healing began with a single book, You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay, which opened the door to a radical reclamation of my own existence.

From Trauma to Transformation: My Mission at Roberta’s House
That healing journey led me back to my education and into the depths of world philosophies and trauma-informed care. I didn’t just learn how to survive; I learned how to revise my traumatic experiences into a methodology for leadership.
 
Today, my expertise is rooted in the intersection of grief and professional excellence. My work at Roberta’s House is the culmination of this journey. I have moved from a woman who feared the responsibility of others to a transformative leader who builds rapport across cultures and perspectives through a trauma-informed lens.
 
What I have learned is this:
  • Authenticity requires courage: To lead others, you must first be willing to look at the “ghosts” in your own head.
  • Grief-Informed Leadership: Understanding that everyone carries a “hidden story” allows for a deeper, more effective level of professional connection.
  • The Power of Release: I am finally free from the need to be responsible for how others love themselves. This freedom allows me to love and lead with a purity I never thought possible.
I am no longer the 19-year-old girl waiting for her “Wonder Woman” to protect her. I have become the sovereign architect, the mentor, and the leader I was always meant to be. I am free.
 
 

Tracy Turner, PhD, CHLC
Maternal and Infant Loss Director
Roberta’s House

Winter Work, Spring Promise

Winter Work, Spring Promise
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By Fr. Gregory M. Satorie-Robinson, Chair, Roberta’s House Garden Club
 
Dear Garden Lovers and Mother Earth Enthusiasts,
 
As winter settles in, I want to pause and share my deep gratitude for the care, energy, and generosity you have already poured into our rooftop and ground-level gardens this year. Even in the quiet of the colder months, the work you’ve done continues beneath the surface—preparing beauty that will soon emerge.
 
Winter gardening is often unseen, but it is essential. Thanks to your efforts, our rooftop now holds 72 planted containers, many of which were thoughtfully extended into our ground-level gardens to strengthen and unify our green spaces. Already, we are seeing encouraging signs of life—hyacinths pushing through the soil, quietly announcing that spring is on its way.
 
This season, together we planted:

  • Approximately 100 pansies
  • A dozen mums and asters
  • 120 pink and purple tulips
  • 42 blended white and orange narcissus
  • 21 white narcissus
  • 16 yellow daffodils
  • 40 grape hyacinths
  • Several lilies, coneflowers, and black-eyed Susans
  • And a few beloved mystery plants still waiting to reveal their names
We also planted three young trees—a Redbud, Tulip Poplar, and Red Maple—with more to come. These saplings represent a long-term commitment to shade, beauty, and life for years ahead.
 
Winter gardening is about preparation and trust. It is about mulching, planting bulbs deep enough to weather the cold, protecting roots, and believing in what cannot yet be seen. The work you’ve done now ensures that, come spring, Roberta’s House will be surrounded by color, texture, and renewal—offering comfort and beauty to everyone who passes by or walks through our doors.
 
This season of quiet growth carries personal meaning for me as well. This summer, my mother, Mary Lou Satorie, died in a sudden car accident, and my father was seriously injured and continues his recovery. In the midst of grief and uncertainty, my work at Roberta’s House and my faith have sustained me—much like these gardens, teaching patience, resilience, and hope even when the ground feels cold and uncertain.
 
There is much to look forward to, and much to be grateful for. Thank you for helping create spaces that bless the spirit, invite reflection, and remind us that growth is always underway, even in winter.
 
I invite you to join me in lighting a candle in honor of your special someone and, if you are able, supporting the life-changing and life-saving work of Roberta’s House:
 
 
With gratitude for each of you—and for the earth we care for together,

— Fr. Gregory M. Satorie-Robinson

Chair, Roberta’s House Garden Club 

 

Honoring Lives Lost: National Day of Remembrance for Survivors of Homicide

Honoring Lives Lost: National Day of Remembrance for Survivors of Homicide
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On September 23rd and 25th, Roberta’s House hosted two deeply moving ceremonies in recognition of the National Day of Remembrance for Survivors of Homicide—one at our Prince George’s County office and the other at our Baltimore location. These gatherings served as sacred spaces for families, friends, and community members to honor the lives tragically lost to violence and to uplift the voices of those left behind.

A Night of Reflection in Baltimore

In Baltimore, the evening unfolded with powerful moments of reflection, healing, and unity. Survivors courageously shared their stories, offering glimpses into their journeys of grief and resilience. The atmosphere was filled with compassion as attendees lit candles, embraced one another, and stood in solidarity. Through music, spoken word, and heartfelt tributes, the community came together to affirm that while loss leaves a permanent mark, healing is possible—and no one has to walk that path alone.

Solidarity and Support in Prince George’s County

Simultaneously, at our Prince George’s County office, the spirit of remembrance was equally profound. Survivors, advocates, and supporters gathered to share memories of loved ones and to find comfort in community. The event featured candlelight vigils, resource sharing, and opportunities for connection. Attendees were reminded that healing is not only personal but also collective—fueled by shared experiences, mutual support, and the unwavering belief in hope.

A Commitment to Compassionate Communities

These ceremonies were more than commemorations—they were affirmations of Roberta’s House’s ongoing commitment to supporting survivors, promoting healing, and fostering safe, compassionate communities. By creating spaces where grief is honored and voices are heard, we continue to stand with those impacted by homicide and advocate for a future free from violence.

We extend our deepest gratitude to all who attended, shared, and supported these events. Your presence and participation are a testament to the power of community and the enduring strength of the human spirit.

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Planting Hope, Cultivating Healing

Planting Hope, Cultivating Healing

By Fr. Gregory M. Satorie-Robinson, Chair, Roberta’s House Garden Club

At Roberta’s House, healing takes many forms. For some, it is found in the embrace of community; for others, in the quiet reflection of remembrance. For me, it has always been rooted in the soil.

I grew up on a farm in Nebraska, where I learned at an early age the restorative power of tending the earth. My paternal grandmother, Josephine Rose Satorie, a devoted farm wife, loved to grow all kinds of flowers and plants, and food to nourish her family. I can still picture her in the kitchen making pickles and sauerkraut, showing me how the harvest could be preserved and shared. From her, I discovered that working the land not only feeds the body but also grounds the spirit, offering strength when life feels overwhelming.

Later, during the height of the AIDS pandemic, when I witnessed far too many deaths, gardening once again became a lifeline. When words failed, planting and tending the earth gave me release and renewal. Some find that release in lifting weights, punching a bag, or running for miles. For me, it comes through digging into the soil. Over the years, I have planted hundreds of trees with my own hands—each one a living testament to resilience, a way to transform grief and frustration into growth and hope.

Today, grief has come to me in a new and painful way with the loss of my mother, Mary Lou Satorie. My mom lived her faith every day. She was a woman of deep kindness and quiet strength, whose love and care for family and community continue to guide me. Her memory inspires me daily to turn grief into purpose and to create spaces of healing for others.

That is why the Roberta’s House Garden Club exists. Our mission is to cultivate healing spaces where families can connect with nature, honor their loved ones, and find renewal. From the rooftop garden at our Baltimore center to the green spaces we are building across the community, our goal is simple yet profound: to care for the earth as it cares for us. As Scripture reminds us, “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it” (Psalm 24:1). We are called to be faithful stewards of creation, and it is through this stewardship that we nurture both the planet and the human spirit.

As we move into this new season, I find myself eagerly awaiting the fall asters and goldenrod that are just about to bloom on the rooftop. Soon, it will be time to tuck bulbs into the soil, trusting in the promise of spring yet to come. Each planting is an act of hope, a reminder that even in seasons of loss, renewal is possible.

“Each planting is an act of hope, a reminder that even in seasons of loss, renewal is possible.”

I invite you to join us—whether by volunteering in the rooftop garden, supporting our Garden Club initiatives, or simply pausing to witness the beauty that grows here. No experience necessary: you don’t need to be an experienced gardener to connect with others who seek to be grounded in the earth, find satisfaction in making the world just a little bit better, or feel nurtured by beauty. Together, we can spread healing not only for our communities, but also for our planet.

—Fr. Gregory Satorie-Robinson

Chair, Roberta’s House Garden Club

About Gregory Satorie-Robinson

Father Gregory Satorie-Robinson is a musician and Minister of Music. He is the co-founder of Positive Voices, a vocal trio that brought HIV/AIDS education and healing through song.

Men’s Wellness Summit 2025 Recap: “Game Changer – Elevating Men’s Wellness”

Men’s Wellness Summit 2025 Recap: “Game Changer – Elevating Men’s Wellness”
Crab Feast

On August 23, 2025, Roberta’s House brought together men from across the community for a transformative day of connection, healing, and empowerment. The summit, themed “Game Changer: Elevating Men’s Wellness,” was designed to break barriers and foster open conversations around mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being.

 

Highlights from the Summit:

  • Men’s Mental Health Panel: Experts and community leaders shared insights on coping strategies, resilience, and the importance of spiritual connection.
  • Brotherhood & Support Networks: Attendees engaged in discussions that emphasized the power of community and peer support in navigating life’s challenges.
  • Tailgate-Style BBQ & Ravens Watch Party: The event blended wellness with culture and camaraderie, featuring a live football watch party and free BBQ to create a relaxed, welcoming atmosphere.
  • Resource Fair & Giveaways: Participants accessed valuable community resources and received free football-themed giveaways, reinforcing the summit’s spirit of celebration and support.

This summit wasn’t just an event—it was a movement to redefine how men heal, connect, and thrive. Roberta’s House continues to lead the way in creating safe spaces for men to explore wellness and build lasting bonds.

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