I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes and try, my mind meanders back to the latest story that wants to be told: my strained relationship with the expectation, pressure, and exploitation that comes with ‘strength’. These conflicting thoughts and feelings are, of course, inevitably shaped by my experiences navigating the world as a Black girl, and , more recently, as a Black woman.
I went through a phase in my early twenties where I didn’t want to be known as strong anymore. I got tired of being defined by how many punches I could take while still standing, how much pain I could endure without crumbling. And honestly? In many ways I still feel that way. I want to be more than my ability to survive despite—to endure.
As Black women, “strength” seems to be the highest badge of honor we’re given. Not lovely, happy, beautiful, or creative. We’re not recognized for something innately carried within us, but for how much we can do for others. For the weight we can carry without making a sound.
We grow up watching our mothers, aunts, and grandmothers be strong. We see them work themselves to the bone, often without a hand to help. The most recognition they get is a “well done.” ‘Look how much struggle she can endure’. ‘Look how that one woman carries all that load, pulls meals out of scraps, holds our entire community on her back.’ ‘Look how much life she can give.’
The world glamorizes our pain; our struggle becomes a spectacle. But who actually steps up to help? Who tries to ease the load? Who sees us for more than our labor, for more than what we can do for others?
And who exactly benefits from this glorification of self-sacrifice disguised as strength? It’s like we’ve been groomed to be overworked, underappreciated, and unsupported.
But, I don’t aspire to be a mule—defined and valued only for how much load I can carry on my back without breaking.
Call it selfish, call it shallow, call it weak—but if strength means a fast road to burnout, then I don’t want it.
Working on a post to come later this week…. <3