As Black women, we’re used to getting things done. Often without help, too. But that shouldn’t come at the expense our self-worth and putting ourselves first
The now iconic fist bump between the newly inaugurated Vice President Kamala Harris and former First Lady Michelle Obama on Inauguration Day 2021 said it all: “We’re doing the damn thing,” it signified. But there’s also a subtext in the gesture that only Black women recognize: “We’re doing the damn thing—like we always do.”
Before Kamala Harris and Michelle Obama, there was Shirley Chisholm. Before Amanda Gorman and Maya Angelou, there was Phillis Wheatley. Before Venus and Serena Williams, there was Althea Gibson. Before Oprah, there was Madame C.J. Walker. These extraordinary women are just on the shortlist of monolithic achievements that Black women have accomplished throughout American history. But because we learn history from the vantage of the victor, we are unaware of the full extent of the impact of Black women and their contributions to society.
Black women have always been powerful and ground-breaking. We possess a strength and determination that has shattered the boundaries of society but now it’s time for the doors to be held open for Black women instead of us having to break them down.
The future of Black women in America is a future where society enables our success and supports our ambitions. It is a future defined by self-love—understanding that we are worthy and deserving. A future where our self-worth is innate and not based on our achievements and the extent of our selflessness. A future where we don’t feel that we have to carry the world on our shoulders while achieving our dreams and being phenomenal. Ultimately, a future where we don’t have to constantly be the “strong, Black woman.”
It’s time that we turn inward and prioritize our health, our healing, our continued advancement, and it’s time that we do it consciously and as a collective. It is time that we move forward in life with grace and the helping hand of others instead of reinforcing enduring tropes that are impossible to maintain.
Being “strong” has been glorified to the detriment of Black women because the expectation is not just about resilience but also about silently carrying on, shouldering everyone’s burdens, and being exceptional, all while sacrificing our joy and our well-being.
Black women have been conditioned to believe that we have to do it on our own. And while we can, we don’t have to! We don’t have to reach the top exhausted and alone. Even when we have supportive partners, we turn their helping hand away because we’re so used to being “strong.” But vulnerability is strength. Vulnerability means you are courageous enough to be honest; it means you have the foresight to understand that support creates better results, and it means that you know you are worthy even when you can’t do it alone.
I think of my best friend’s mother who died of colon cancer because she didn’t make it to the doctor early enough to get ahead of her stage four diagnosis. The stress of being the sole provider for her immediate and extended family—despite being married, putting herself on the backburner, and shouldering all the pressure without asking for help–took its toll on her. The details of this story are unique, but the circumstances are not. I know way too many Black women who have sacrificed their mental and physical health because of the pressures and expectations that society puts on Black women.
In his 2002 academic article “Racial/Ethnic Variations in Women’s Health: The Social Embeddedness of Health,” Dr. David R. Williams reinforces how the socioeconomic conditions impact the health of BIPOC women, stating that “the health of minority women is to an important extent a product of their location in larger historical, geographic, sociocultural, economic, and political contexts. Thus, policies that target and change existing social arrangements can improve the living circumstances and health of minority women.”
The state of the Black woman in America is a tangled web that needs to be carefully undone—starting with the idea of self-worth. From an early age, Black women receive messages from society emphasizing that they are unworthy and undesirable. Notions like “bad hair” to statements like “you’re pretty for a Black girl,” or “did you write this?” constantly echo in the foreground and embed themselves in our consciousness. This messaging influences our love life (hello, struggle love!), how we advocate for ourselves in our careers, and it influences how much grace we give ourselves. No matter what we do, how much we achieve, there’s always that little voice, saying it’s never enough.
Self-love means we know we don’t have to prove our worth any more than the next race of women. We need to internalize the fact that we are magnificent even without our achievements, even without caring for our families and having successful careers. Having to constantly prove our worthiness is so passé and as part of our healing, we have to take control of our narrative, and we need to hold others accountable and ask for support. It’s time for others to uplift us, support us, and give the backbone a rest.
Remember, Black women: we are powerful, mystical, and awe-striking humans and for centuries, America has sought to undermine us and has failed miserably. As we continue to shatter the boundaries of society, let’s take care of our physical, mental, and emotional health. Believe in ourselves and erase all doubt that we’re not enough. Let’s acknowledge our magnificence, embrace love, and unabashedly receive praise.
We are deserving Black women. Embrace that.
