The Invisible Black Woman

This goes out to all my sistas who are going through it, tryna juggle integrity and accountability against likability. Imma light some candles and some sage for us all…

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Seeing hubby dealing with all this stuff on the health front got me thinking about how my chronic pain journey began, and all the wild things that happened along the way. Inevitably, my chronic ailments would bleed into work and for reasons I don’t quite know, one of those memories came into my mind while I was keeping vigil over hubby.

“So what we gon’ do right here is go back, way back—back into time…”

If you get that reference, have a cookie with a side of your favorite beverage. If you don’t, I’m truly showing my age. SMDH. This was legit 20 years ago…

I clearly remember during one of my surgery stints, being just barely a week out of surgery, still bandaged, and having to go to work—because yeah, bills don’t get paid on good intentions and well wishes, and I didn’t have that much PTO. I was working an hour’s drive from where we lived. But we didn’t have a car. I had to take the metro, several buses, and ultimately a cab to get to work. And because I was still too young to know better, I didn’t do a dry run. I got lost, fully turned around, and got to work over an hour late. I called to let them know I would be there as soon as I could.

Despite the fact that it was my first day back, that I had come back entirely too soon, I got written up for being late for the first time in the entire time I’d worked there. I’d been there going on a year. When I tell y’all I was never late, I mean I got there with time to spare.

It’s important to note for the record that my coworker was never on time. And I don’t exaggerate when I say that if he got in 15 minutes late that was early for him. He strolled in whenever the hell he pleased, and it was never ever an issue. I was much, much too wet behind the ears back then to fully grasp the difference between us two.

So, I was asked to sign the disciplinary letter they planned to put in my file. I was in pain, on the equivalent of sugar pills so I could be coherent enough to work, and being told that “if it happened again, they would have to let me go.” Even though I had no idea what I would do next, I knew I didn’t deserve to work for an organization that would be so callous when they knew enough details about the surgery to give me a bit of grace while I got back on track. And in that moment, it was more important for me to leave with my head held high than agree to sign a document that was horse shit—given the number of times I had to cover for my colleague who strolled in to work when the mood struck him.

“What happens if I don’t sign?”

“Well, it’s just a written warning we need to add to your personnel file; it’s just a formality.”

“Okay. What happens if I don’t sign?”

“Well, you need to sign to acknowledge you received this warning.”

“Seeing as though I came back entirely sooner than I should have, and this is the first time I have ever been late, I will not be signing. We can just make today my last day.”

Y’all, my boss and the HR person looked dumbfounded.

First, dead silence.

“Oh, okay. Ummm. Wow. Okay, so I guess—ummm—well, you can finish out the day then.”

“How about I just go home now?”

Dead silence and stunned looks.

“Yeah. I’ll go home now.”

I wish twenty-four-year-old me knew how proud I was of her.

The thing about being a Black woman in the workplace is that you’re often expected to just grin and bear it. No complaints. No pushback. Just show up, do the work, and hope that you’ll be seen as just good enough to keep your job. And if you show up one iota less than perfect, one moment too human, well… they make it clear that you’re dispensable.

That wasn’t the last time I found myself standing in that familiar space—caught between the need to survive and the deep desire to preserve my self-worth. There’s something about navigating chronic illness, though, that really crystallizes things. It makes you recognize the fragility of your own body, your own existence, and how little the people around you may actually care about that.

I remember how often I had to swallow my discomfort because, God forbid, I showed vulnerability. There’s always that unspoken expectation that I should be stronger. Tougher. That I’m supposed to endure without complaint because that’s what “strong Black women” do, right? We’re supposed to be stoic. Unbreakable. The foundation everyone else leans on when their world starts to shake, but Lord help us if we show any cracks of our own.

So, I did what I had to do. I gritted my teeth. Took my painkillers like they were Tic Tacs. Showed up, smiled through it all, and let people believe that I was fine.

But I wasn’t fine. Not then. Not now.

And that’s what pisses me off.

Because even after all these years, it’s the same shit, different day. It’s be liked or be ostracized. Be the pet or be the threat. Be the “docile, nice Black woman” or be the “Black woman who never smiles.” And the worst part? If you don’t fit into one of these convenient little boxes, they label you difficult or angry, and it sticks to you like glue.

This isn’t just something from 20 years ago; this is something I still face today. We still face today. The circumstances have changed, but the bullshit remains the same.

Just this week, I found myself back in that place of being put on trial, of being accused before being asked. And for what? For speaking up. For holding people accountable. For reminding folks that integrity still matters—even when it’s inconvenient for them. And wouldn’t you know it? The moment you point out someone else’s failings, you suddenly become Public Enemy Number One.

And that’s what got me reminiscing (and not in the good way) to twenty years ago. This most recent encounter got me thinking about my old coworker from back in the day. I remember him so clearly: strolling into the office at whatever time he felt like, with a stupid, sheepish grin on his face, his only worry being what he was having for lunch that day. Meanwhile, I’d bust my ass, showing up early, staying late, making sure every ‘i’ was dotted and every ‘t’ was crossed. But I got written up the moment I was late, just that once.

People always talk about how we need to hold each other accountable, right? But let’s be real. Accountability looks very different depending on who’s being asked to shoulder it. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, because something almost identical happened recently. Same dynamic, different players. I found myself standing in that same familiar spot—pointing out the discrepancies, calling out the hypocrisy, and watching the fallout happen in real-time.

It’s the same old game, y’all. I spoke up, and it felt like everyone suddenly turned on me. No one asks for your side of things because you’re always presumed guilty. If they said it, then it must be true. It doesn’t matter how good your work is or how much time and money you save them. You only get to misstep once—correction, NOT. AT. ALL. And when you do, that one misstep follows you around like a stench that never, ever wears off. And everyone who you were ever direct or matter of fact with gets to jump on the bandwagon and add their two cents about how they never liked you either. All because you had the audacity to tell the truth. To put them to task. To hold them accountable while holding on to your integrity.

Y’all, I’s tiyad.

I’m tired of having to choose between my values and my paycheck. Of being told that the only way to “get ahead” is to play along. Smile more. Agree more. Complain less. How do you balance integrity with the very real fact that bills don’t pay themselves? And the thing about entrepreneurship? There’s no fast track to success. It’s a grind. Every. Single. Day.

So what do you do in the meantime? When you’re trying to make your side hustle your main hustle, but the bills keep coming? When you have to weigh every confrontation, every conversation, and ask yourself, Is this worth it? Is this the hill Imma die on today? Because you know that holding people accountable—while absolutely the right thing to do—could mean losing a paycheck you desperately need. It could mean getting passed over for a promotion. It could mean getting iced out altogether.

And look, I’ve walked away before. I’ve stood my ground, handed in my resignation, and left with my head held high. But as I’ve gotten older, the stakes have gotten higher. Now, it’s not just about me. It’s about making sure I have the resources to support the people I care about. It’s about ensuring that I don’t just survive, but that I thrive. And thriving means navigating systems that weren’t designed for people like me to succeed in the first place.

The truth about entrepreneurship (or corporate America, if I’m being a buck), especially for Black women, is that we are expected to be ten steps ahead at all times. We have to be our own marketers, our own sales team, our own accountants, and our own cheerleaders. There’s no safety net. No fallback plan. So how do you maintain your integrity when every day feels like a tightrope walk between doing what’s right and doing what’s necessary?

I’m still figuring that out.

I want to believe that there’s a way to hold on to both—that I don’t have to sacrifice my integrity for the sake of survival. And you’ll notice the BlueNotes have had that theme this week. Truth be told, I’m reminding myself. We live in a world where being a Black woman who demands to be seen and heard just the way she is, is still considered a radical act. Where asking for basic respect can get you blacklisted. Where telling the truth comes with consequences that are often harsher than the crime itself.

So yeah, I think back to that moment in my twenties when I walked away from that job, and I’m proud of that young woman who refused to compromise her dignity. But I’m also living in a time where walking away isn’t always an option.

Sometimes, the hard part isn’t choosing between integrity and survival—it’s figuring out how to keep both intact when the world is determined to strip you of one or the other.

Because even as I sit here, still grinding, still working toward my goals, still trying to build something that’s mine, I can’t help but wonder: What’s the cost? What’s the price of speaking up, of holding people accountable, of telling the truth, when the world tells you that being liked is more important than being respected or having a good moral compass? How do you find peace in a system that was never built for you in the first place?

I don’t have all the answers. I wish I did. But I do know this: I’m not going to stop speaking up. I’ll be damned if I let this world convince me that my voice doesn’t matter.

Because it does. And I do.

So do you.

Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the phenomenal force to be reckoned with that you are.