The Invisible Black Woman

There’s a lie that keeps us spinning: that being constantly available equals value. We live in a culture that applauds hustle and penalizes pause. A culture that views downtime as a luxury reserved for the privileged or the lazy. But here’s the counter: unplugging is survival. It is strategy. It is the replenishment that makes everything you do afterward better, sharper, and more sustainable.

Unplugging is not abandonment. It is not burning bridges. It is not a moral failing. It is a boundary—clear, kind, necessary. Imagine your energy as a natural resource. You wouldn’t pour gasoline on a dying phone battery and expect it to last; you’d charge it, protect it, conserve it. Your energy deserves the same stewardship.

Why is unplugging so hard? Part of it is conditioning. For many of us, especially Black women, there’s an expectation to be the reliable one: the fixers, the lifelines, the people who will answer at 11 p.m. because “someone has to.” That expectation becomes internalized. We start conflating exhaustion with responsibility. We begin to believe that stepping back is tantamount to shirking duty. But that belief is costly. It steals joy, distorts priorities, and corrodes boundaries slowly, like rust.

There’s also fear. Fear that if you don’t answer immediately, you’ll miss an opportunity. Fear that people will think you’re not committed. Fear that your absence will be interpreted as weakness. But here’s what we know from experience: the most resilient people are those who can step away and return whole. The ones who never unplug become brittle. They perform in short bursts and then crash.

What does unplugging look like in practice? It’s practical and modest:

Schedule “offline” blocks on your calendar and treat them like sacred meetings with yourself. Turn off nonessential notifications; keep only what truly matters. Create an out-of-office message that sets expectations for response times and keeps it simple. Designate one day or even a few hours that are guaranteed device-free. Read. Walk. Nap. Cook. Do anything that requires your full presence and gives nothing transactional in return. Delegate where possible. Ask for help. Set micro-boundaries: “I can do X, but not Y.” People will adapt when you consistently enforce limits.

And yes, there will be consequences sometimes. Missed meetings, a delayed email reply, an annoyed colleague. Let that be part of the cost of owning your life. You’re making a different investment: one in your mental health, in your capacity, in your longevity.

Unplugging also reconnects you to the things you’re trying to protect. Creativity returns when the noise subsides. Relationships deepen when you’re not split between devices. Your ability to lead improves when you model discipline rather than frantic responsiveness. When you claim rest as a right, you create permission for others to do the same.

There’s a practical benefit too. Constant availability communicates urgency where there should be none; it trains others to expect immediate responses and erodes real boundaries. Teaching people how to treat you begins with demonstration. When you consistently prioritize your time, others learn the rhythm of your life and adjust.

Unplugging is an act of love, for yourself and for those you serve. When you are restored, you give better, not less. Your work becomes less reactive and more intentional. Your relationships become less performative and more present. You stop answering for free and start offering yourself in meaningful ways.

So here’s your homework: choose one hour in the next 48 to be fully offline. Put your phone in another room. Notice your chest. Notice your thoughts. Let the silence smell like possibility. Practice telling the people who need to know that you’re taking a break. Watch how quickly your nervous system remembers how to be whole.

You are allowed to unplug without apology. Claim it. Protect it. Repeat it until it becomes as automatic as breathing.

Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the radiantly rested you deserve to be.