The Invisible Black Woman

There’s a strange sort of loyalty we sometimes hold to spaces, jobs, or relationships that no longer serve us. It’s like we convince ourselves that because something once fit, it still does. We remember when the shoes were new, when they hugged our feet perfectly, when they carried us without a blister or a pinch. But now they’re tight. They rub us raw. And yet, instead of tossing them, we keep trying to cram our toes in, telling ourselves that maybe it’s us who need to adjust.

But real talk? Growth and comfort don’t always travel together.

Corporate America loves to sell us the idea of flexibility. “Be adaptable.” “Learn to pivot.” “Find a way to make it work.” Those words are supposed to sound empowering, but too often they’re coded language for “shrink yourself.” When you’re constantly expected to make room for others while no one makes room for you, that’s not adaptability, that’s erasure.

You can bend and twist yourself into every shape imaginable, but if the environment was built without you in mind, you’ll always feel like you’re taking up “too much space.”

Sometimes it sneaks up on you. A project that once excited you now feels like pulling teeth. The people you used to laugh with suddenly feel like strangers. Meetings leave you drained, not inspired. Or maybe it’s simpler: you’re just not the same person you were when you walked through the door years ago.

And that’s the point. You’re not supposed to be the same. Growth demands change. Evolution demands leaving behind the old skin, the old spaces, the old ways of being.

If you feel like you’re constantly dimming your light so someone else won’t feel threatened, if you’re swallowing your opinions so the room won’t label you “difficult,” if you’re tiptoeing just to avoid shaking the table. That’s your sign. You’ve outgrown it.

Let’s be clear: shrinking isn’t free. It costs you energy. It costs you joy. It costs you authenticity. Every time you bite your tongue when you know you should speak, every time you play small when you know you should shine, you pay. And the price is always higher than the paycheck.

Because eventually, that shrinking becomes habit. And habits become identity. And then one day you wake up and realize you’ve been living a life two sizes too small.

Here’s what I want you to hear: you don’t have to stay. You don’t have to prove loyalty to spaces that refuse to evolve with you. You don’t have to shrink to soothe fragile egos.

You are allowed—no, required—to expand. To take up space. To find (or build) tables that don’t just give you a seat but welcome your presence, your brilliance, and your growth.

Expansion is scary, yes. But so is suffocation.

So, stop trying to wedge yourself back into spaces that no longer fit. Growth is supposed to feel different. It’s supposed to stretch you, challenge you, demand more from you. But it should never require you to be less of yourself.

And if walking away feels like rebellion, remember this: your expansion is the revolution.

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