The Invisible Black Woman

They sell us the dream of the corner office like it’s salvation. The big windows, the skyline view, the plaque on the door with your name engraved in bold. They whisper that it’s the pinnacle, the prize, the proof you’ve arrived.

But let’s get real. That office ain’t nothing but a box in the sky if the price tag is your peace. Because every step up that ladder, every rung you fought for, has a way of asking for pieces of you—your joy, your sleep, your wholeness. And if you’re not careful, by the time you sit down in that leather chair, there’s nothing left of you in the room.

The cost of prestige is rarely listed in the job description. You’ll never see “burnout,” “loneliness,” or “daily microaggressions” tucked in between “competitive salary” and “great benefits.” But those are the hidden fees too many of us pay without realizing it.

And here’s the thing: success that silences your spirit ain’t success at all. A title can’t patch the holes in your peace. A paycheck can’t buy back dignity. And a view of the city won’t soothe the ache of knowing you sacrificed yourself for a seat that was never designed with you in mind.

So when the corner office is dangled like a crown, remember this: no view is worth it if it clouds your soul. No prestige is worth it if it shrinks your voice. And no title is worth it if it buries who you are.

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