Heavy is the Head...

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. I will only say it once because I don’t want this to read like a cliché. I don’t want to be pacified with affirmations about strength when I am tired of being strong. I don’t want resilience to be my only defining trait, as if endurance is all I was born to do.

This year has wrung me dry—not just in the classroom but in the spaces in between, in the moments when no one is watching when I am left alone with the weight of expectation pressing against my chest. I have navigated the storm with no umbrella, no reprieve, and no room to stumble without someone reminding me that I should have known the rain was coming. And I am exhausted.

I want Black women to rest. Not because we have earned it through some extraordinary feat, not because we have reached the next milestone or shattered another ceiling. But because we deserve it. Full stop.

I am exhausted of the narrative that exceptionalism is our birthright, that the struggle is just part of the package, and that we must bear the load with grace, with gratitude even.

No. Dismantle it.

Break it down to its foundation and ask why we are expected to carry so much, so often, so quietly. Stop telling us that this is just the territory we walk on as if we are not allowed to redraw the map. Stop romanticizing our endurance, stop praising our ability to withstand the impossible as if that is the highest honor we can achieve. We are not just survivors of struggle; we are whole human beings who deserve softness, ease, and rest. We should not have to earn gentleness. We should not have to justify why we deserve to breathe, to pause, to exist without proving our worth.

I have not celebrated my wins because I have been too consumed by the next obstacle, but I am living the things I once wrote down as dreams. I have accomplished more than I give myself credit for. However, I am not ignorant enough to think I have not fallen short; I know that mistakes and mishaps are part of growth. I have been knocked down and did not always get back up with poise. But I am doing my best. And that is a win. I am not invincible, nor do I want to be. I want space to be human. I want space to rest. And I want the same for every Black woman. Notice that I didn’t include a condition—because rest is for all of us, not just those who have nothing left.

I intended for this post to be a diary entry. Thus far, this space has been about sharing experiences, giving advice, and reflecting on lessons learned. But today, this post is simply me saying: I need a break. I missed two Sundays of posts, and I won’t apologize like bloggers do, as if consistency is the highest virtue, as if missing a post is a failure. I know for some, it is an obligation, a job, a source of income, and that is fair. But this space, this post, is for me—to remind myself that I am allowed to step back, to pause, to exist outside of productivity. To be seen as human.

Heavy is the head. But some days, I just want to take the crown off.