The first semester of law school is rough. You get warned about it before you even step foot in your first lecture hall. For me, those warnings didn’t soften the blow; they made it worse.
I take my role as my own protector and caretaker seriously, shaped by the little girl in me who had no choice but to exist in environments that harmed her sense of self. Now, I’m intentional about where I place my time and energy, choosing spaces that feel safe—mentally, emotionally, and physically. So, when it became clear from the very beginning, even at orientation, that emotional and mental safety weren’t priorities in law school, being there felt like a betrayal of the care I’ve worked so hard to build.
It was completely disorienting: I was at Harvard Law School, the place that had always twinkled off in the distance like an unreachable north star guiding my life’s decisions. Yet, I had never felt more out of place, unsteady, and unsure in almost every area of my life. And when life feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, it’s easy to grab onto the one thing you think you can control: your body.
I know I’m not alone in saying that my relationship with my body has been complicated. For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried to create a compassionate, safe space within myself. But when the stress hit that semester, the temptation to turn that frustration inward hit just as hard. I was trying hard to keep my focus elsewhere, but being in a new environment where people felt comfortable openly commenting on my body made that nearly impossible.
One night in particular sticks out in my mind. It was a Friday and I had forced myself out of bed and to a party because I wanted to belong, to feel part of something.
Instead, I found myself being asked by a group of guys if parts of my body were “real.” I can’t begin to describe how that made me feel—surveilled, judged, embarrassed.
For weeks I had been working to convince myself that my thoughts about people critiquing me were just in my head. And then here it was, loudly confirmed: I was being watched and judged.
Talking to other Black women, I’ve realized this is not uncommon. At predominantly white institutions (PWIs), Black women are often subjected to invasive, dehumanizing questions about their bodies. “Are your lips real?” “Is your butt real?” It’s not just incredibly invasive—it’s accusatory. It’s as if your very existence is up for debate, as if they are entitled to dissect you, no matter how it might affect your self-image.
It’s exhausting. And it doesn’t just hurt because of the audacity of the questions. It hurts because it shows how little Black women are seen as sentient beings—as people—people who might already be struggling with body image, dysmorphia, or insecurities.
That night at the party reopened old wounds, reminding me of the unique scrutiny Black women face. Our bodies are treated like public property—constantly questioned, picked apart, and subject to a sense of entitlement that demands explanations or proof of authenticity. It’s a painful reality that reinforces how little autonomy and respect we are afforded.
If you’re reading this and thinking, Should I be reading this? I’m not a Black woman, the answer is yes, you should. Because this isn’t something Black women can or should fix alone. The constant barrage of aggressions, micro and macro, hypersexualization, and critiques isn’t something we can counteract with self-love alone. It requires change from the people who claim to care about us and those who say they “see us”. This asks of you all to be mindful to approach Black women and conversations about our bodies (and our relationship with our bodies) with thoughtfulness, and empathy. Because this shit is heavy, especially when you’re carrying it alone and then being judged for how you carry it.
To Black women reading this: I see you. Your feelings are valid—all of them, even the ones you think you shouldn’t have. Your insecurity, your doubt—there’s space for that too. I’m not here to shame you for how you feel. I’m here to sit with you in it, to remind you that you’re not alone. Because too often, we are.
As Black women, there’s an unspoken labor just to exist. It’s not just the societal conditioning to always “show up” a certain way. It’s the added layer of knowing your natural self might not even be seen as enough.
We’re expected to be natural, but only if our natural hair is “good” hair—long, curly, or even straight but never coily, kinky, or (god forbid) nappy. Our appearance has to be polished, our bodies curvy only in the “right” places. Beauty standards rooted in anti-Blackness and colorism weigh heavily on us.
The standard for femininity is rooted in whiteness—flowing hair, light features, pale skin that blushes. What does femininity mean for Black women, especially darker-skinned Black women, big Black women, non gender conforming Black women? What does it mean to exist outside these ideals—to never be seen as delicate, or deserving of gentle care, or soft? And if you are read as a feminine or “soft” Black girl, it’s often commented on in a negative way ie. you’re ‘bougie’ or you ‘think your White’ etc. It’s like there’s no way to win or escape the burn of constant scrutiny.
We don’t talk enough about what it does to our psyche to constantly stand alone at the axis of harsh polarities: to be both both hyper-visible yet invisible.
To be the object of desire but never the subject of care.
To be hyper-sexualized but rarely seen as a viable romantic option.
To have people feel entitled to your body but never to your heart.
It’s no wonder so many Black women grapple behind closed doors with self-confidence and body image issues. Society tells us our bodies aren’t our own. Our defining features: the deep richness in our skin, the swell of our lips, the weight of our hair—don’t become something more than the butt of a joke until they are on women who aren’t us. We watch as the same features we were bullied for our entire lives are tried on like trends and then discarded when the charade isn’t fun anymore. And yet we’re still, more often than not, left out of conversations about body image altogether, as though our struggles don’t exist. But they do—acutely.
The entitlement others feel toward Black women’s bodies only magnifies the problem. Media hypersexualizes us, and in real life, complete strangers feel comfortable making comments about our bodies, our skin, our hair. For someone struggling with body dysmorphia, this surveillance can be crushing. It feeds into the narrative that our bodies are not ours that they exist only for others to assess, to critique, to sexualize—to claim.
To Black women reading this: I know we are faced with the pressure to constantly have it all together. To be paragons of unshakable confidence. To be super human—unbothered and unfazed by the constant attacks on our sense of self.
But, the last thing you need is to judge yourself for feeling shitty in a world that constantly tries to make you feel that way. It’s not your fault. It’s not in your head. It’s real, and it’s harmful. And it’s okay to feel affected by it.
Why wouldn’t you feel shitty? And what is shaming yourself, beating yourself up, and calling yourself insecure — like it’s the dirtiest, nastiest thing you could ever be, like it’s your fault — going to do or fix about it?
It reminds me of that Elle Varner song So Fly where she says:
And worst of all
I’m reminded in the cruelest ways
Of how I don’t look and I should look
And that’s why I say…
Because being a Black girl in situations of desire often means you’re constantly reminded that you’re not ___ enough (fill in the blank yourself): dainty,light, thin, ‘normal’, acceptable etc.
It like that balloon-popping dating show on instagram. I don’t watch it because, tbh, it seems retraumatizing af, but being a Black woman, especially in non-Black spaces, means you walk into a room, and before you even open your mouth, one look at the shade of your skin, your hair—your body and balloons start popping. It feels like that. All. The. Damn. Time.
It is so hard to have a positive image of yourself when the world constantly sending you messages—overt and covert -that you are unwanted, overlook-able, or even undesirable.
When the only time you see Black women who look like you being cast as the subject of love is when it’s ironic.
My Offering To You
I went back and forth on the offering I wanted to leave you with after this heavy kitchen-table talk because I don’t want to leave you alone in your feelings. Solitude is a place too many of us know far too well.
The deeper I get to know myself, the more I realize how central love and connection is as a guiding force in my life. I often cope by giving others what I wish I could give myself. I’m giving you this: this honesty, this space to be seen exactly as you are, even if, for the moment you are hurting. Because I wish I’d had someone to give it to me when I needed it — or, perhaps more honestly, when I need it.
To be seen in my entirety, without judgment. To be held in someone’s gaze and not be placed on some invisible scale to measure my worth.
At first, I thought I’d give you an uplifting playlist to end this convo out. But then I decided on something different — a playlist that recognizes your feelings in all their shades. Because we don’t always feel 100%. I don’t always feel 100%. And I’m learning that that’s okay.
You are still worthy on the days when you hide from mirrors. You are still worthy on the nights when the sound of your own heart thrumming in your ears chases sleep away.
You are still lovable.
You are not wrong or bad for not feeling perfectly good.
You are worthy, even when you feel or think you are unworthy.
You are enough and deserving of compassion, even if you struggle to treat yourself like you know it sometimes.
You are allowed to feel doubt, insecurity, and sorrow. Who wouldn’t, in these conditions?
You can be human and still be met with kindness. By me in this space I’ve created, and, more importantly, by yourself.
Till next time,
Lots of love <3 🤎💕
Playlist
Healing Is Not My Purpose – Toni Jones
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