The Invisible Black Woman

After yesterday’s post, I thought I would leave it at that—just let the anger settle on the page. But if the post felt incomplete, that’s because I only told half of the story. My anger isn’t just anger about one thing; it’s a mix of things piling on, and for now, they all sit together.

So let’s get into it.

I went into group with mixed emotions. My consultation with the attorney that morning set the tone. It was clear: yes, I have a case. But that “yes” comes with a fat price tag, and suddenly I’m in this ironic place where I’d have to pay money just to try and get what I’m owed. It’s like I’m caught in a paradox—having to spend to potentially win but also knowing there’s no guarantee. So now I’m left weighing my options, wondering if I should just go at it alone and advocate for myself, despite how things went when I reported issues on my own before. I was feeling hopeful about finally taking a stand, but now the practicality of it all feels like it’s strangling the hope right out of me.

The weight of all this was with me as I went into group. By the time I got there, my mood had shifted from wanting to be present and open to just being frustrated. I guess I’d been holding on to hope that group would be a safe space to work through some of this, but it was another story. There are people in group who—let’s just say, have a strong presence. There’s one person in particular who I feel takes up all the air in the room, leaving the rest of us scrambling to find a place to fit in. She talks all the time, about everything, and it’s exhausting. It’s not that I don’t want her to process, but the space feels swallowed up, and sometimes it’s like there’s no room left for anyone else.

It’s frustrating because I keep trying to remind myself that everyone is processing their own issues and has their own way of going about it. But when you’re stuck listening to one person dominate, it makes me wonder if my struggles even have a place here. Does my experience of being stuck in a toxic work environment—so intense that it’s literally sending me to the hospital—compare to the kind of trauma others talk about? Should I even be trying to put my story in that space? There’s this quiet inner dialogue going on, where I’m questioning if I even deserve the space to work through my issues. And maybe that’s what’s stirring up the anger—the sense that I have to justify my pain in a way that others don’t.

Carrie, my therapist, says the feeling of being caught between waiting and acting is common in people dealing with life changes. When we talked during our one on one, I ended up unloading more than I’d planned. She’s supportive, always reminding me that it’s okay to let things unfold rather than trying to force clarity. But what does “letting it unfold” even mean when you’re waiting for the next shoe to drop? Long-term disability is still up in the air, mostly because my primary care physician seems to be playing some sort of extended waiting game that no one signed up for. I keep worrying that the longer this drags on, the more likely it is that I’ll get left behind in the process—like HR will just decide that I don’t deserve what I need. The whole thing leaves me feeling like I’m on unstable ground, trying to balance between waiting it out and pushing for answers.

It’s strange because in this waiting period, I keep finding myself wanting clear instructions. Some sort of roadmap that says, “Here’s what to do next.” I know what I’m meant to be doing, what I’d love to be doing, but right now, my passion isn’t paying the bills. And as much as I’d love to lean into my purpose fully, reality is pushing back. Bills need paying, and I’m left with that familiar phrase playing in my mind: “The job funds the passion until the passion can fund the job.” It’s discouraging because while I’m not expecting overnight success, it feels like I’m standing in the same spot while doors refuse to open.

So, what’s the alternative? Returning to an environment that I know is toxic and, frankly, dangerous for me? I talked this over with the attorney, and his words bugged me more than I thought they would. He’s not the first person to assume that my desire to avoid going back is purely a matter of preference. It’s easy to hear that and assume I’m just not “in the mood” for work. But that’s not it. Returning would be like willingly sticking my hand into a machine that’s already mangled it once. I get frustrated because people don’t see that this isn’t a choice. Sure, I don’t want to go back, but it’s also that I can’t—not without severe consequences. And yet, here I am, still trying to bargain with myself, playing through scenarios in my mind, trying to find a way to make it work.

I don’t want to feel stuck in this waiting game, but that’s where I am. Waiting for clarity, waiting for things to shift, and hoping that by staying open, I’ll get some kind of signal as to what comes next. Carrie encouraged me to try just being still, which sounds simple enough but feels daunting when you’re constantly worrying about the future. I can tell myself to breathe and be still all I want, but at the end of the day, I need to know where I’m going. And right now, the path isn’t clear.

Then there’s the other side of group—the part where everyone’s challenges sit together in the same room, regardless of how different they are. Sometimes, I feel like my challenges aren’t “big enough” compared to others. There’s this constant pressure to measure what I’m going through against the stories of trauma that fill the space, as if there’s a scale, and I have to prove that my struggles are worth the air they take up. It’s hard to feel justified talking about being overworked to the point of hospitalization when others are processing life-altering trauma. But I’m starting to realize that maybe it’s not about comparison; it’s about holding space for everyone’s story, even mine.

Today, I felt torn between speaking up and staying quiet. Part of me wants to open up, to let people see what this job has done to me, but there’s that nagging voice in the back of my mind questioning if I even belong in this room. I don’t know if anyone else has felt like this in therapy, but if you have, let me know. Maybe I’m completely off-base here. Maybe this is just how group is—an emotional balancing act where we all try to hold space for each other while dealing with our own noise. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Here’s what I do know: I’m tired. Tired of trying to fit my story into spaces where it doesn’t seem to belong, tired of waiting for answers that feel like they’re never coming, and tired of the constant doubt that’s whispering in the back of my mind. I’m tired of feeling like I have to prove that my pain is real. It shouldn’t be this hard to give myself permission to be, but here we are.

Maybe this anger is a step in the right direction, a push to demand more—not just from the people around me but from myself, too. To stop minimizing my experience just because it doesn’t fit neatly into someone else’s version of “struggle.” Today’s group session taught me that much. It taught me that anger isn’t just frustration; it’s a spark, a signal that something needs to change. And maybe that’s where I’ll leave it for now—angry, uncertain, but still moving, still fighting to find my way out of this waiting game and into whatever’s next.

Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the amazing you are.