We Are (Still) Resting: And We Are Still Here.
I can only speak from my own lived experience. I don’t presume to speak for all Black women — we are not a monolith. But I do speak from the life I’ve lived, the women in my family, and the Black women in my circle. And for many of us, the weight of simply existing in this country has never been light.
Existing as a Black woman in America is an act of endurance — one that begins before we even understand what we are enduring.
From the moment we are old enough to walk, we are taught, explicitly and implicitly, that life will not meet us with softness. That our childhood will be cut short by a world that sees us as older, harsher, less deserving of innocence. That the expectations placed on others — gentleness, protection, patience — will not be extended to us. Instead, we learn how to absorb, how to navigate, how to exist in a society that expects everything from us while giving almost nothing in return.
This is not just intuition — it is inheritance. A survival guide passed down from grandmothers who watched the world take everything and still found a way to press on. From mothers who wanted better for us but had to prepare us for the weight of what was coming. We are raised with the knowledge that pain will come, struggle will come, lack will come. And that when it does, we will be expected to carry it with dignity.
And so, we adapt. We learn to anticipate disrespect before it arrives. To steel ourselves for the moments our humanity will be debated, diminished, or outright dismissed. We become fluent in navigating white spaces, male spaces, spaces that will never truly belong to us, but demand we perform in them anyway. We soften ourselves where others are allowed to be raw, lest we be seen as angry. We shrink where others are allowed to take up space, lest we be seen as too much. We are told that strength is our greatest asset, even when that strength is the very thing people use as an excuse to deny us care, rest, or grace.
And yet, we are still expected to give. Our labor, our wisdom, our resilience — consumed like a resource, a well that never runs dry. We are expected to show up, to fight, to organize, to save, all while knowing that when it is our needs on the line, the room will empty.
People wonder why so many of us are opting out. Why we are resting. Why we are no longer willing to fight for a world that refuses, time and time again, to fight for us.
The truth is, we are tired. Tired of being the backbones of movements that discard us. Tired of being expected to absorb injustice with grace. Tired of strength being mistaken for invincibility.
To the 92%, to the Black women who see themselves in these words, who have carried more than should ever be asked of them — I see you. I respect you. I honor every ounce of strength, brilliance, resilience, and joy you hold. Because yes, we are tired, but we are also so much more than what this world tries to take from us. We are artists, thinkers, builders, healers, creators of culture, architects of movements, and protectors of legacies. And we deserve rest. Not just sleep, but rest from expectation, from obligation, from being seen as the fixers of what others refuse to repair.
If you are choosing yourself in this season — choosing self-care, choosing survival, choosing to protect your peace instead of stretching yourself thin for a country that never prioritizes you — you are not alone. You do not owe your exhaustion to a system that has never reciprocated your labor. And you damn sure do not owe guilt to those who only notice our absence when it inconveniences them.
For those seeking a space to exist in that joy — to connect with like-minded women who understand the weight and the freedom of stepping back — I welcome you. Whether to share, to build, or simply to rest without apology, know this: we do not need permission to prioritize ourselves.
So no, we will not keep carrying this country on our backs. The burden is heavy, and this time? It’s not ours to bear.
