I'm Not a Strong Black Woman; I'm Weak

The first time I voiced it, my therapist’s pen halted in mid-air.

“I’m not a resilient Black woman.”

Those words had a bitter taste, like medicine I had been avoiding. She leaned in, her expression serious. “What makes you say that?”

I took a breath, gripping the arms of the couch. “Because it’s the truth. I’m not tough. I’m not unbreakable. I’m… exhausted.”

The Burden of a Crown I Never Wore

People often refer to Black women as resilient. It’s a compliment that comes with a weight. “You’re so strong.” “You manage everything.” “Nothing seems to shake you.” But what if I want to stumble sometimes? What if I need to?

I recall the first time I broke down. My last year of college, juggling two jobs, sending money home, pretending I wasn’t suffocating with panic attacks. Then one night, my roommate found me curled up on the bathroom floor, crying.

“But you’re the strongest person I know, she said, confused.

As if being strong meant I couldn’t fall apart.

The Falsehoods We Wear as Armor

My mother exemplified the “strong Black woman.” She raised three children on her own, worked double shifts, and never missed a payment. When I called her in tears after losing my first job, she sighed. “Sweetheart, we don’t have the luxury to fall apart.”

So I didn’t.

I patched up my brakes and kept going. Smiled through exhaustion. Said “I’m alright” when my chest felt like it was caving in. Because that’s our way—swallowing pain as if it’s sacred.

But last year, my body revolted. Migraines. Sleepless nights. A doctor informed me my cortisol levels were “indicative of chronic stress.” I laughed until I cried.

The Liberation in Crumbling

The change occurred in a grocery store, of all places. I stood staring at a cereal box, unable to decide between Honey Nut and Frosted Flakes, when the tears flowed. Not gentle, quiet ones—messy, snot-filled sobs. A white woman tapped my shoulder. “Do you need assistance?”

I wanted to shout, Yes. But not the kind you can provide.

That evening, I called my sister. “I think I’m vulnerable,” I murmured.

She was silent for a long moment. Then: “Perhaps vulnerable is just another term for human.”

Relearning the Myth

I’m learning to say “I can’t” without shame. To seek help. To acknowledge that “strong” was never who I truly was—it was my way to survive.

Some days, I still feel like I’m betraying my community. Like I’m failing an unspoken agreement. But on other days, I allow myself to be vulnerable. Be delicate. Be weak.

"Authorization to Crumble"

They erected a shrine of my backbone

and named it "poise amid adversity"—

revered the way I supported the heavens

while overlooking the quiver in my structure.

But this evening, I release my hands from supplication.

Allow the melodies to fade from my voice.

I strip the luster from my fingers,

exchanging my shield for a faded jacket.

Let it be noted:

I released the universe

It fractured as if it was destined to.

And I—I did not restore it.

Let them refer to it as failure.

I refer to it as returning home.

The initial truth I’ve shared:

This body was never unyielding.

Let it be noted:

I let go of the universe

It fractured as if it was destined to.

And I—I did not restore it.

Let them refer to it as failure.

I refer to it as returning home.

The first honest thing I've spoken:

this body was never solid