I almost didn’t write this.
Almost.
I keep thinking the last episode (lighter ones aside, if that’s even a thing) is the hardest one I had to write. Until the next one. And this one—well, it’s a doozy. But here goes…
Even though I was “on break,” one thing I hadn’t quite shaken off in the beginning of my medical leave was LinkedIn. I still habitually and instinctively checked my LI profile to see who was checking it and what the latest post was from the people I follow. On one particular evening, I found myself on the page of Dr. Tiffany Bowden, one of the LI influencers I follow (I think that’s what they call them). She held no punches that day and I frankly was not at all ready.
She wrote about a topic that (rightfully) went viral. She opened with the unfortunate and untimely passing of Dr. Nakita Mortimer. And I was mentally fist-bumping along most of the way, as she talked about how we as Black women are tired. Then almost toward the end, she verbally punched me in the gut: “When Black women are exhausted suicide looks like ‘rest.’”
And I didn’t read the rest of the article because I felt like all the air in my chest exited left. And more than not feeling like I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t hold back the guttural sobs as I laid there reading those words in bed. I had had an “okay” day as most days go. Not too bad, not too great. But up until that very moment, there was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Why was the idea of “just going to sleep” so appealing to me?
I grew up in the church, so “S-word” was a nonstarter. It was the unpardonable sin that no one comes back from. Yet oftentimes I wondered internally if that applied to Samson since very technically speaking, that’s how he went out. But Imma leave that philosophical discussion for another day.
There were more days than I could count that I was just dog tired. More so and more often than before—especially in the last two years since the regime change at work. I would sign off or come home and just wish or long for sleep in perpetuity. And for the life of me, I couldn’t make heads or tails of why.
Until that night when I read those words. And it wasn’t until that moment that I very much overstood the words of Lori Lieberman’s “Killing Me Softly” by way of Lauryn Hill.
I couldn’t stop crying. In that moment, my body and brain were so in sync. It was as if they’d been on totally different chapters—hell, different books—and someone finally put them back where they belonged. I was as relieved as I was heartbroken. Relieved that someone had finally put into words what I struggled to articulate for God knows how long (likely my entire professional life, if I’m being honest). Heartbroken at my belief that the only way I could turn my brain off and take a real well-deserved break was by taking a permanent one.
In between the guttural sobs, I felt this overwhelming fear that I wouldn’t ever stop crying. And at the same time, my brain had the presence of mind to turn those sobs to quiet yet heavy heaves, lest I be heard by hubby in the next room.
I wasn’t okay. The exhaustion I felt was not just physical; it was the exhaustion of being strong when I felt anything but, of pouring into others when I was running on empty, of navigating a world that demanded my resilience while simultaneously chipping away at it.
And despite that, I did have to make sure my hair was in place. That I smiled and had a bubbly disposition when I was at work. In other words, I had to always be on, lest I be branded an ABW (ya know, Angry Black Woman). I didn’t always pull it off, if I’m being completely honest.
Dr. Bowden’s words were a mirror reflecting a reality I avoided acknowledging. They spoke of an exhaustion so pervasive, so profound, that the finality of death masqueraded as a comforting blanket of rest. And in that moment of clarity, bathed in silent tears, I allowed myself to feel it all—the fear, the fatigue, the fragility of my carefully constructed facade.
Honestly, I’ve never felt so seen and so exposed at the same time. It was as freeing as it was terrifying, to have words that are so taboo in my culture resonate as deeply as they did. But yet, there I was.
More than anything else, my visceral, involuntary reaction made me realize that there was no way in the entire Fraggle Rocking hell that I was ready to go back to work. Heck, I had only barely cracked the very first thin layer into what was really going on with me. It also made it abundantly clear that before I could make any decisions into what was next for me in the corporate world, I would need to put my all into IOP—just as soon as I could get an open spot.
In the days after the emotional levees broke wide open, I sat with the weight and sheer magnitude of Dr. Bowden’s words that I would never be able to unread and the what they opened within me. But more importantly and thankfully, I began to understand that my longing for “rest” wasn’t a desire for the end but a desperate plea for pause—a respite from the relentless tides of expectation and exertion.
My body was desperately trying to tell me that my brain couldn’t keep up with the tireless onslaught of what it takes to be an overperforming Black woman in the workplace that most people see as a workhorse.
Fun fact—spoiler alert, there’s nothing fun about this—an executive once told me that a higher-higher up told them they needed 10 more of me. That night, when I found myself ugly crying in silence, I realized that wasn’t a compliment. They were literally saying that they wished they had more workhorses that could produce the same level of work that I did. I bet they’d find a way to pay them even less…
As overwhelming as my tears were that night, they were utterly cathartic. The tears were a cleansing, washing away layers of unspoken pain. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling more than a bit ashamed by how much those words spoke to me. But I no longer carry that shame. I can honestly say that today, I am okay with not being okay… Most days, anyway. I’m still a work in progress.
To the Black women reading this, know that your exhaustion is valid, and your need for rest is so absolutely critical. It is not a luxury; it is essential. If any of this hit you a way you weren’t expecting, I implore you to get help. Don’t wait until it’s too little too late and don’t beat yourself up for feeling how you’re feeling. Please get the help you need now. Not tomorrow, but right this very moment.
I have more to say on the matter and I’ll probably revisit this post. So I hope what I managed to get out for now helps, if even just a teeny bit.
Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows and unicorns, which are no less real than the amazing person you absolutely are.
Stay strong.
The Invisible Black Woman 
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