A Love Letter to Black Women Who Carry the Weight of the World

I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately, about how much we carry, how much we give, and how deeply we love even when the world forgets to love us back.

This past weekend in New Glasgow–Guysborough, the culture connector advisory gathered not for a meeting, not for work, but for rest. For reflection. For remembering. We came together to breathe, to listen, and to see one another beyond the titles, the expectations, and the invisible labour that so often defines our days.

It made me reflect on how much we carry, how much we give, and how deeply we love even when the world forgets to love us back.

I was asked to provide a session and during this session, I witnessed more conversation, honesty and hearts wide open than I have in a long time. With every hug, every shared laugh, every tear, I could feel what Audre Lorde meant when she said:

“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

We know that caring for ourselves is more than self-care. It is resistance. It’s the quiet refusal to let a world built on our labour also consume our spirit.

I spoke about the tax we pay, one we never signed up for. An emotional and psychological cost that keeps us tending to everyone else. It’s like that HST we can’t escape, it’s heavy, silent, automatic.

And yet, despite all that, we still show up. We still lead. We still heal. But I want you to know: you don’t have to carry it all.

Strength doesn’t mean saying yes to everything or doing it all alone. Sometimes strength sounds like “no.” Sometimes it looks like rest. Sometimes it’s walking away from the table and choosing peace over proving yourself.

You deserve that. You always have.

The conversations became heavy when I spoke about the quiet ways the world teaches us to compete with each other as Black women, when there’s not enough space made for us all. That “Queen Bee” theory is the one that whispers, “There’s only room for one.” But that story isn’t ours to keep.

We know better.

When one of us rises, it doesn’t mean less for the rest. It means the door just opened wider.

Sisterhood isn’t scarcity. It’s abundance.

We talked about showing up as our full selves: our voices, our hair, our laughter, our rhythm. We’ve learned to code-switch, to shrink, to soften ourselves to survive. But what if professionalism wasn’t about assimilation, but authenticity? What if we let our cadence, our warmth, and our heritage breathe in every room we enter?

Maybe you start a sentence with, “Girl, what you saying?” or “What you dem saying?” Maybe you end it with, “That’s right. That’s what’s up.” That’s not unprofessional. That’s beautiful. That’s home.

Every time we bring our full selves into the room, we make space for another sister to do the same.

Finally, we talked about the importance and necessity of healing and how this can look different to each of us. Sometimes it looks like prayer, like stillness, like laughter that fills the room. Sometimes it’s running, painting, or crying until the weight lifts. And sometimes, it’s anger and not the destructive kind the world fears, but the honest kind that tells the truth.

We’ve been told that our anger is too much, that our feelings are too loud. But that anger? That’s sacred. It is truth.

As we closed our retreat time together, we were reminded of a saying that has echoed through generations: “You strike a woman, you strike a rock.”

It reminded me that we are, indeed, unbreakable. Not because we never fall apart, but because we always rise again, together. When we care for ourselves, we strengthen the whole. When we lift each other, we become unstoppable.

Because when Black women come together in truth and tenderness, the world shifts just a little closer to justice.

So, my sisters, rest when you need to. Say no when it’s time to. Speak your truth, even when your voice trembles. And never forget: you are enough. You have always been enough.