“This Ain’t Therapy. It’s Life.”

Welcome to the Black Daddy Country Club, where real conversations unfold like slow sips of brown liquor on a quiet Sunday. This episode? A certified gem. Mic Dav sits down with Rashad “Bowtie” Mills—a Baltimore-bred therapist, speaker, twin girl dad, and the kind of man who could outtalk your favorite motivational speaker and still make you cry in a therapy session.

Rashad doesn’t wear a cape. He wears a bowtie. And that signature knot? It’s more than a look—it’s a philosophy. “It represents professionalism, it represents confidence, and it represents showing up,” he said, stepping onto the mic like a pastor ready to deliver something healing.

"I didn’t grow up saying I wanted to be a therapist. I grew up wanting to be the next Stuart Scott. But God had other plans."

Raised in the heart of Baltimore, Rashad's life could’ve gone in several directions. In fact, it almost did. He spoke candidly about battling alcoholism, the DUI that sent him back home from a promising broadcasting career in Oregon, and the divine detour that led him to Johns Hopkins University and ultimately into therapy.

But let’s be clear—this ain’t your average therapist. Rashad talks like your older cousin who made it out but never left. He’s the kind of man who says “pray about it” and “book the therapy session” in the same sentence. Because, as he breaks it down: “Jesus was anxious in the garden. If the son of God can be anxious, why can’t I?”

That duality—faith and therapy—runs through the heart of everything Rashad does, including how he shows up for his daughters, Kennedy and Chloe. Whether it’s talking them through anxious moments on the basketball team or just asking the hard questions after school ("Your day was 'good'? What does 'good' mean?"), Rashad is intentional about being both a dad and a healer.

“Fatherhood means wearing multiple hats. Sometimes it’s Rashad the dad. Other times, the therapist shows up, too.”

He’s not shy about discussing the mental health crisis that’s quietly flooding Baltimore. The numbers are alarming—anxiety, PTSD, substance abuse, all disproportionately high. But what makes Rashad different is how he connects his past with the city’s present. Shot at close range in 1997, he still flinches at backfires and fireworks. “That trauma lives in your body. Years later, I still don’t like anyone walking behind me.”

And here’s the heavy truth: Rashad wonders if he’s passing that anxiety on to his daughters. Teaching them awareness, yes. But where’s the line between protecting and projecting?

“I back into parking spots,” he admitted. “My girls ask why. I tell them—it’s about a fast exit if something goes down. But now I wonder... am I giving them my trauma, wrapped as preparation?”

“We teach them to be safe, but we gotta be mindful not to teach them to be scared.”

The conversation hits all the notes—generational trauma, trust issues with therapy in Black communities, and even whether teaching Black history reinforces or relieves tension in the next generation. Rashad doesn’t pretend to have all the answers, but he’s not afraid to wrestle with the questions.

He’s not just raising daughters—he’s building emotionally literate Black women. And that takes more than discipline; it takes self-awareness, softness, and time for self-care. “Every day I touch something spiritual, something physical, and something fun. That’s my trifecta.”

Bowtie Mills ain't just talking mental health—he’s living it. And if Baltimore is listening, it might just start healing.