Kirisha Marshall’s story begins in Spokane, Washington – but it evolved in Washington, D.C. Hers is a story of survival and transformation. It’s about what happens when a young Black woman leaves the Pacific Northwest and, for the first time, breathes freely in an environment where she is not one of a few, but one of many. It’s a journey from microaggressions and psychological isolation to affirmation, purpose, and power.
“I didn’t even realize I had been shrinking myself until I got to Howard,” Kirisha said. “Suddenly, I could breathe. I didn’t have to explain my existence anymore.”
Raised in Spokane, Kirisha was shaped by the deep-rooted Black faith community. Her grandmother, Florence Everett, was a well-known figure at New Hope Baptist Church – a woman of grace, authority, and reverence. Her legacy gave Kirisha early lessons in belonging and spiritual grounding.
“Everyone knew who my grandmother was,” she said. “You couldn’t get away with anything – our family was known.”
Although she was raised attending St. Matthews, it was under Reverend Happy Watkins’ leadership at New Hope that she shares memories of bonding with the community where she saw representing and felt kinship. Even though she didn’t belong to Calvary Baptist, she sang in youth choir and attended events there – evidence of how tight-knit and spiritually resilient Spokane’s Black community remains.
But outside that sanctuary, Spokane could be isolating.
She was only five when a white classmate called her the N-word. She punched him.
“They wanted to suspend me,” she remembered, “but my parents said ‘absolutely not.’ They told the school, ‘This stuff starts at home. His parents are the problem.’”
At 12, she visited Coeur d’Alene with a white friend’s family – only to find herself in the middle of an Aryan Nation rally.
“I was terrified,” she said. “And the adults with me just said, ‘You’ll be fine.’ That moment never left me.” Later came trucks with Confederate flags at Central Valley High. Being ignored at bars in Idaho on her 21st birthday. “I thought that was just how things were.”
“It wasn’t until I left that I realized – this isn’t normal.”
After high school, she enrolled at North Idaho College. The few other Black students were athletes. She wasn’t. She drifted – until a cousin who played soccer at Howard told her, “Apply.” She did. She got in. She turned down a full ride to San Diego State and chose the campus that spoke to her soul.
“When I got to Howard, I felt seen. I didn’t have to try to fit in with white people. I already fit, just by being.”
Howard changed everything. She no longer had to explain racism. She no longer carried the burden of being “the only one.” She recalls laughing the first time the one white student in her class became the default respondent in a conversation on race. “It was the first time I didn’t have to carry that weight.”
She earned her bachelor’s degree in 2013 and her J.D. from Howard Law in 2016. But her education didn’t just come from textbooks. It came from surviving.
“I’ve wanted to be a lawyer since I was four years old. But becoming a lawyer wasn’t just about a career. It was about being a voice for people like me – people who’ve survived.”
Kirisha is a survivor of sexual assault and domestic violence. Those experiences shape her legal work today. She practices family and immigration law, serving youth, survivors of abuse, and immigrants seeking legal protection. Her clients often carry invisible wounds – wounds she recognizes.
“I’m a domestic violence survivor myself. I was raped at 16. I survived an abusive relationship during law school. That experience informs everything I do.”
In court, in classrooms, in quiet conversations with clients – her advocacy is deeply personal. Her work centers not only on justice, but on healing.
“You can’t help people unless you listen to them. And sometimes, people just need someone who understands the pain they haven’t been able to say out loud.”
She teaches young people how to recognize healthy relationships. She challenges systems that fail them. And she’s adamant that mental wellness isn’t a luxury – it’s a necessity.
“When you’re taught to suppress your feelings, that becomes a habit. You internalize harm. And when something truly traumatic happens, you don’t even feel like you deserve to speak up.”
Kirisha is breaking that cycle – for herself, and for others.
And even as she rises, she remains grounded by the community that shaped her.
“Spokane gave me roots,” she said. Kirisha explains that even though she had to leave to fully see herself, Spokane still provided the soil that grew her.
To the next generation of Black youth growing up in Spokane, her message is clear:
“Get out and see the world. Be around people who are dreaming big, who challenge you to grow. And when you do – come back and give something to the place that raised you.”
Kirisha Marshall’s story is one of return – not just geographically, but spiritually and emotionally. Her journey from Spokane to Howard University wasn’t just about changing locations – it was about reclaiming herself. She left to heal, to breathe, to rise – and now, she advocates so that others can do the same.
Her work with youth – teaching them to recognize healthy relationships, advocating in court on their behalf, pushing back when the system fails them – is a direct response to the silence she once felt forced to maintain.
“You can’t help people unless you listen to them. And sometimes, people just need someone who understands the pain they haven’t been able to say out loud.”
Mental wellness is central to her advocacy. For Kirisha, it’s not just about therapy – it’s about creating the psychological safety that so many young Black girls, especially in predominantly white spaces, are denied.
“When you’re taught to suppress your feelings, that becomes a habit. You internalize harm. And then when something truly traumatic happens, you don’t even feel like you deserve to speak up.”
She’s breaking that cycle – one case at a time.