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Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about strength.
Not the kind people celebrate.
The kind people expect.
As Black women, we’re often described as resilient, independent, capable, unbreakable.
It’s meant as a compliment.
But sometimes, it feels like permission for the world to ask more of us than it asks of anyone else.
Because she’s strong.
She’ll figure it out.
She always does.
And somewhere along the way, strength stopped being something we chose.
It became something we were expected to carry.
⸻
I’ve recently experienced a loss that has changed me.
Grief has a way of slowing everything down.
The mornings feel quieter.
The evenings feel longer.
Some days, the smallest task feels impossibly heavy.
And yet…
The world doesn’t stop asking things of you.
Emails still need replies.
Meetings still happen.
Bills still need to be paid.
The coffee still needs to be roasted.
Life simply keeps moving.
Sometimes before you’ve even caught your breath.
⸻
I’ve found myself asking one question over and over again.
How do you overcome grief when you’re expected to keep going?
I don’t have the answer.
But I do know this:
Black women have been surviving impossible things for generations.
We know how to endure.
We know how to show up.
We know how to carry entire families, workplaces, communities, and sometimes even complete strangers on our backs.
But here’s what I don’t think we say enough.
We don’t always want to be strong.
Sometimes…
We want someone else to carry us.
We want someone to ask how we’re really doing, and wait for the honest answer.
We want to feel protected.
We want to feel safe enough to fall apart without worrying about who’s depending on us.
Strength is beautiful.
But so is softness.
And Black women deserve both.
⸻
The truth is, our bodies have been telling this story long before many people were ready to hear it.
Researchers have documented that Black women experience disproportionately high levels of chronic psychological stress and the long-term health effects that come with it. Scientists describe the cumulative biological toll of repeated stress as allostatic load, and studies consistently show Black women carry some of the highest levels of this physiological burden. ([Yale School of Medicine](https://medicine.yale.edu/news-article/black-women-excluded-from-critical-studies-due-to-weathering/))
Public health researcher Dr. Arline Geronimus gave this phenomenon a name more than thirty years ago: weathering.
The idea is heartbreaking in its simplicity.
Living under the constant weight of racism, sexism, financial pressure, caregiving, and chronic vigilance doesn’t just affect our emotional health.
It affects our physical health, too. ([NPR](https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2023/03/28/1166404485/weathering-arline-geronimus-poverty-racism-stress-health))
Researchers have even identified what they call the [“Superwoman Schema,”](https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC3072704/) describing the cultural expectation that Black women suppress emotions, care for everyone else first, resist vulnerability, and succeed despite limited resources, often at the expense of their own well-being. (Developed by Dr. Cheryl Woods-Giscombé)
Reading that felt like someone had written down what so many of us have quietly lived.
⸻
For years, my mornings belonged to Uncharted Coffee.
Making coffee wasn’t just a routine.
It was my ritual.
Grinding the beans.
Waiting for the water to bloom.
Holding a warm mug in both hands before the day began.
It was twenty quiet minutes where I could collect my thoughts and remind myself that today was another opportunity to build something meaningful.
Coffee represented possibility.
Hope.
Momentum.
Lately…
Those same quiet moments have felt different.
Grief has a way of making silence louder.
Instead of clarity, I’ve found sadness.
Instead of excitement, I’ve found tears.
Some mornings, sitting alone with my coffee has meant sitting with emotions I wasn’t ready to face.
I’ve learned that grief doesn’t care about your calendar.
It arrives when it wants.
⸻
I’m sharing this because I know I’m not the only one.
Maybe your grief looks different than mine.
Maybe you’ve lost a parent.
A child.
A marriage.
A friendship.
A version of yourself.
Maybe you’re grieving a dream that never came true.
Loss wears many faces.
But whatever you’re carrying…
You don’t have to pretend you’re okay.
You don’t have to earn your rest.
You don’t have to perform strength for the comfort of other people.
Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak.
Sometimes it’s the bravest thing you can do.
⸻
If you’re walking through grief right now, here are a few things that have gently helped me.
Not because they’ve fixed it.
But because they’ve helped me keep breathing.
1. Let yourself feel what you’re feeling.
Grief isn’t linear.
Some days you’ll laugh.
Some days you’ll cry in the grocery store.
Both are normal.
2. Keep one small ritual.
Mine is still coffee.
Even on the hardest mornings, I make a cup.
Not because it changes everything.
Because it reminds me to begin.
3. Accept help before you’re desperate.
People often want to help.
Let them.
Whether it’s a meal, childcare, or simply someone to sit beside you in silence.
4. Move your body gently.
A short walk.
Stretching.
Five minutes outside.
Movement won’t erase grief, but it can remind your body that you’re still here.
5. Speak their name.
Love doesn’t disappear because someone is gone.
Tell stories.
Look at photos.
Keep their memory alive.
6. Lower the bar.
The laundry can wait.
The email can wait.
You don’t have to win today.
Sometimes surviving is enough.
7. Talk to someone.
A trusted friend.
A therapist.
A pastor.
A support group.
Grief becomes lighter when it isn’t carried alone.
8. Don’t compare your grief.
There is no timeline.
No gold medal for healing quickly.
Your journey belongs to you.
9. Protect your peace.
It’s okay to say no.
It’s okay to leave early.
It’s okay to disappoint people while you’re learning to care for yourself.
10. Hold onto hope.
Not the kind that says you’ll “get over it.”
The quieter kind.
The kind that whispers:
“One day this won’t hurt in exactly the same way.”
⸻
If no one has told you lately…
You don’t have to be the strong one today.
You don’t have to carry everyone else.
You are worthy of care.
You are worthy of softness.
You are worthy of rest.
And if you’re grieving, know this:
You’re not walking through it alone.
With love,
Jasmine
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