Remembering my why
Darrell Hudson
James S. Jackson Collegiate Professor and Department Chair, Health Behavior & Health Equity
I knew I wanted to pursue a PhD when I arrived at Michigan as an MPH student. I had just left the National Institute on Drug Abuse in Baltimore, where I’d been doing research on teenage smoking cessation. I was eager to prepare myself for doctoral training and ensure I would be a competitive applicant. I received tremendous support from my advisor, Harold “Woody” Neighbors. I’ll never forget his candid advice: “I’ll make sure you get into a PhD program somewhere—but I can’t promise it’ll be here at Michigan.”
Fortunately, I was admitted to several programs. When I was awarded the Rackham Merit Fellowship, I chose to stay at Michigan. That same year, to my delight, Woody’s daughter, Kamilah, entered the doctoral program in Health Services Organization and Policy. Kamilah was upbeat and social—the driving force behind the formation of the SPhD student organization, which, to my surprise and joy, is still active today.
We started our PhDs at the same time and shared a workspace, so I have vivid memories of those early days. Kamilah had grown up at Michigan; everyone knew Woody, and he often brought her along to classes, meetings, and events. She had access to incredible mentorship, especially from her father.
Eventually, I finished my degree and headed to a postdoc at UCSF. Kamilah was still working on her dissertation, which is not unusual. I ran into her on South University just before I moved. We exchanged small talk. A few months later, I received shocking, devastating news: Kamilah had passed away suddenly. She was only 33 years old.
She had everything we think of as protective—access to healthcare, social support, drive, and brilliance. It didn’t matter.
It was the first of many losses.
I looked up to my friend ShaJuan Colbert. She was a PhD student in Health Behavior & Health Education when I was an MPH student. Back then, I was living on my "infamous poverty diet," which I would characterize as high-level foraging. Friends would occasionally take pity and treat me to a meal—especially when they wanted to go out and I couldn’t afford to join. ShaJuan was one of those friends.
She had already completed her MPH at Emory and worked at the CDC. Even as a student, she ran her own consulting firm with active contracts. She was all business, unapologetically so. I admired how confidently she advocated for what she wanted.
At the time, I didn’t expect much out of life and struggled with self-doubt. ShaJuan helped change that. She saw my aptitude, curiosity, and potential long before I did.
She later married one of my Morehouse brothers. I still remember begrudgingly attending their November wedding—missing what’s now called the “Game of the Century” between Michigan and Ohio State. I’m so glad I went.
Eventually, we both completed our PhDs in HBHE. ShaJuan remained in Michigan, working remotely for the CDC’s Division of Tuberculosis Elimination and later in the Office of Health Equity. After my move to San Francisco, we caught up over the phone—chatting about work, life, and the transition ahead. I didn’t know it would be the last time we’d speak.
She passed away suddenly. She was 34.
She had a great job, strong education, and supportive relationships. To my knowledge, she was healthy. Nothing in our public health training would have predicted this kind of outcome.
As a postdoc, I was a Kellogg Health Scholar, part of a national network. Each summer, we gathered in Washington, DC. That’s where I met Shalon Irving, then a fellow at Morgan State University. At 25, Shalon had already become the first person to earn a dual PhD in sociology and gerontology from Purdue. She went on to earn an MPH from Johns Hopkins and joined the CDC, also serving as a Lt. Commander in the U.S. Public Health Service. After giving birth to a healthy baby girl, Shalon died just three weeks later. She, too, was in her 30s.
Having grown up in Detroit, I was no stranger to loss. But these losses were different. These were brilliant, talented, committed people—each of them deeply dedicated to health equity, and all taken far too soon. Unfortunately these are not the only cases I can think of. Some received national attention. Some did not. But all left a tremendous void.
I say “we” because their loss isn’t just personal—it’s communal. I often wonder what they would have contributed to public health, to the world, had they lived longer. And I can name many more Black colleagues—graduate-educated, professionally successful—whose lives were also cut short. It’s terrifying, honestly.
This is why, whenever I teach or give a public lecture, I remind my audience: Behind every number, chart, and statistic are real people who had hopes and dreams and who left behind people who loved them.
This is why I do the work that I do. I think about the people who are no longer here. Their lives remind me of the urgency of pursuing substantial, sustainable solutions to health inequities.
As I reflect on my own “why” in this work, I think of them. In a time when grants are being defunded and equity-focused offices are being eliminated, I remember their names, their brilliance, and their unrealized potential. I remind myself that I owe it to them—to all of us—to keep pursuing health equity.
So in this moment of turmoil and uncertainty, I invite all of us to pause and reflect: What is your why?
About the author
Darrell Hudson, MPH ‘05, PhD ‘09, is the James J. Jackson Collegiate Professor and Chair of the Department of Health Behavior & Health Equity at the University of Michigan School of Public Health. He has dedicated his career to the elimination of racial/ethnic inequities in health. His research agenda centers on how social determinants of health, particularly racism, affect multiple health outcomes. Dr. Hudson is also striving to develop researchers and professionals who are both well trained and passionate about achieving health equity.