I'm ready to be a "Soft Black Girl"

Because the “Strong Black Woman” trope is killing us.

I read a Fortune magazine article yesterday that really resonated with me. 

Written by L’Oreal Thompson Payton, “It’s time to leave the Strong Black Woman trope in the past. Meet the Soft Black Girl,” explains the “Soft Black Girl” aesthetic and how it contrasts with the “Strong Black Woman” trope we have been force-fed our entire lives. 

“Strong Black Women” push through no matter what. They are “naturally strong, resilient, self-contained, and self-sacrificing” — all things we’ve been taught make us better people. 

This is not to say those ideas are wrong, but when they come at the expense of our personal wellbeing, they become problematic. 

Zee Clark, author of Black People Breathe, told Payton, “I was thinking recently about how Black women don’t have models for rest because our mothers didn’t rest. Our grandmothers didn’t rest. And when you go back to the times of slavery, we took care of white women’s children and then went home to take care of our own. That comes with a lot of fatigue and exhaustion, so the status quo becomes overworking and not taking care of yourself.”

Shanelle Genai, a colleague from my days at The Root, agreed with Clark and added that “previous generations prioritized being strong—physically, emotionally and mentally. Oftentimes as a means of survival.”

I felt so seen after reading that. My entire life has been about being the so-called “Strong Black Woman.” But what happens when I want to say “fuck it” and be weak for a little bit? What if today I am not feeling so strong? 

In explaining what exactly the “soft life” is, Genai told Payton, “What soft life aims to do is highlight that we don’t always have to be strong. There’s strength in vulnerability and there’s strength in being soft. There’s strength in easing into things. I’m not saying that taking charge is negative, but we don’t always have to jump to be the saviors. I think there’s a way for the Strong Black Women and Soft Life Girlies to coexist.”

That message was so timely yesterday, I started crying. 

Depression

The clinical term for my diagnosis is dysthymia, also known as “persistent depressive disorder.” 

The easiest way to explain this to people is to say that even when I am absolutely happy and loving life, depression is following me around like a stalker—a dark bully lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to pounce on me and take me down. Sometimes there isn’t a definitive reason for it. It will just sweep over me and everything changes. I can’t focus; I can’t get things done; my mood changes; I don’t want to be around people; and sometimes, I just sit around and cry a lot. 

Those episodes don’t occur as frequently, but when they do, even the basic functions of human life seem insurmountable. If it weren’t for the fact I have a dog who needs to pee and poop outside of the house, and those days, I probably would never even get out of bed or see the sun. This is why I often tell people that Lady rescued me and not the other way around. 

My depression can also be triggered by life events—a disagreement with a loved one, something disappointing happening, my period taking me down—all of these things can lead to me burying myself in a cocoon of sorrow that I then have to fight my way out of. Some days the fight to get out is easier than others. Some days it’s just fucked up and I live there for a while until it goes away on its own. 

To manage my depression, I do regular talk therapy. I don’t take any anti-depressants, and I have no desire to. My healthcare providers and I have come to the conclusion that while I can get a bit dark and gloomy, it hasn’t reached the point where I need those things. Besides, I don’t think there is a pill for apathy. 

Two days in the valley of hurt feelings

On Monday, my depression was triggered by something that was totally out of my control. I didn’t do anything to cause it, but the incident itself was confusing and overwhelming, and before I knew it, I was a mess of tears and snot, crying and trying to understand what exactly was happening. I felt like I wasn’t getting clear answers, and that added to the despair I was already feeling. 

I spiraled. 

I lost focus for the rest of the day. I couldn’t get any writing done. I wasn’t interested in any of the things that usually help boost my mood. I didn’t even want to smoke weed. I told my best friend I was going to drown my sorrows in a bottle of wine, but I didn’t do that either. Instead, I turned off all the lights and electronics in my house and went to bed at 7:45 p.m. I thought I could sleep it off. 

I couldn’t. 

I woke up yesterday still feeling morose. This only intensified when I once again tried to figure out what went wrong. There was no figuring it out, and there were no answers forthcoming. I was confused and hurt, and all of this was encased in the glass box of hormonal emotions my period brings with it each month. It was a double-whammy of bullshit, and by 8 a.m., I decided I wasn’t going to try to fight my way out of it. 

I leaned right into that shit. 

I cried all day long. 

I posted about it on social media because I have always been open about my struggles with depression. People sent kind words and messages. People sent encouraging text messages. Some people called, and to those people, I say bless you for being you, because I couldn’t do anything but break out sobbing every time someone asked “What’s wrong?”

I didn’t want to explain what was wrong, and I still don’t. The why doesn’t matter; only the result does in this case. 

My default when these depressive episodes happen is to work very hard to fight my way out of it. Who has time to be depressed? A depressed mind can’t write, and if I can’t write, I can’t eat or make money. Get up girl. Pull yourself together. Stop fucking crying. Fuck that nigga. Fuck that thing. Fuck that job. Fuck that situation. Fuck whatever it is that is making you feel bad because if you don’t say fuck it and get your ass up out of this funk right now…

Frankly, I’m tired of that shit. 

There is no shame in being depressed. There is no shame in allowing yourself to feel your feelings. 

There is no reward for busting out of it before you are mentally ready. There is no prize for being the Bad Bitch Who Beat Depression. There is no prize for forsaking your mental health in the interest of fitting a certain image, or writing that piece, or getting this job done, or whatever the fuck other reason we give for not allowing ourselves the proper time to heal from our funk. 

You don’t win shit, but you could potentially lose so much more when you aren’t properly taking care of yourself. 

In the interest of self care

Instagram would have us believe that self care is expensive manicures, pedicures and massages; trips to the spa or the beach; girls trips to luxury hotels; or fancy dinners where we don’t bother looking at the check and just let our metal Amex cards clank on the table like the boss bitches we are. 

Yes, I do all of these things, but self care is so much more than that.

I have recently been leaning more into true self care. I watch what I eat. I exercise regularly. I go to sleep early each night and wake up early in the morning. I have set the “do not disturb” function on my phone to allow myself 12 hours of quiet time that includes the two hours immediately after I wake up (at 5 a.m. by the way, and if you know previous iterations of me, you know I have always been a night owl, so going to bed at 9 p.m. every night has been an adjustment, but one I have adapted to quite well) and the two hours before I go to sleep. 

I shut my screens off two hours before I go to sleep, and I spend that time doing something analog like journaling or coloring in my adult coloring books, or reading. 

I have been doing intermittent fasting as a means of managing my blood sugar, and it has been paying off in spades. 

Your girl has leaned into this real self care shit like a fucking pro, and honestly I like it here. 

I’m ready to lean into the soft life

I believe the way I have already been practicing true self care made it easier for me to work my way out of this most recent funk. 

I meditated before I went to sleep last night and conceded that I have no real power over this current mess/situation/whatever the fuck, so driving myself crazy over it isn’t going to change anything. 

What I can do, however, is focus on the things I do have control over. I have control over my responses. I have control over how I proceed going forward. I have control over my actions, my words, and my thoughts—and no one else’s. 

I also have control over how I come out of this. 

I am over the worst of it, for sure, but there is still some lingering sadness there, and so I am allowing that to run its course. 

But I am leaning into the soft life. 

Oludara Adeeyo, a psychotherapist and author of Affirmations for Black Women: A Journal, told Payton, “Soft life, to me, is really about embracing self-care in every aspect of your life from home to work to your relationship with wellness and how you manage your relationships. It touches everything.”

She went on to say, “I believe that self-care needs to start practical and once you start it practical, it begins to become instinctual and bleeds into other parts of your life. It’s not just about buying stuff, it’s saying no at work. It’s saying no in your personal life. It’s saying no because you changed your mind and you want to rest. It’s about building community with people that make you feel whole and healed.”

Today, I said “no”

There is a famous Audre Lorde quote cited in this article that I have heard many times before. 

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

I woke up this morning resolved to put myself before anything else. My phone is on “do not disturb” until I decide it won’t be anymore. This means I will probably not answer your call or text. Don’t be offended or think it’s anything personal; it has absolutely nothing to do with you and everything to do with my own personal healing process. 

When my alarm went off at 5 a.m., I did not rush out of bed. I turned it off, and slept for another hour. I deserved it. 

I didn’t rush to read emails or answer texts or messages from yesterday. I’ll get to everything on my own time. 

I made myself a good and healthy breakfast. I made a pot of coffee. I took my medicine and my supplements and thought about what I would write today. 

Then I sat down and wrote this. 

This is what depression looks like. It’s pretty, with a happy smile, great lipstick, and cute graphic t-shirts. It’s quick-witted and good with a pen. It loves to laugh and have a good time, but it gets sad. It gets lonely. It gets despondent sometimes. 

It’s me. I am depression. 

And I am totally OK with that. 

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Credits: L’Oreal Thompson Payton wrote the brilliant article I referenced multiple times today for Fortune Well. Please read it, and then go subscribe to her newsletter. We all we got, Black girls.

A few personal notes from your favorite depressed Black woman:

• I appreciate all the texts, inboxed messages, and calls yesterday. I’m working through responses slowly but surely. I love you all for wanting to be supportive.

• For me personally, my depression is something that I speak openly about. That said, I don’t always go into the details about the particular triggers because quite frankly, it ain’t none of y’all damn business. While I appreciate the concern, nosiness dressed up in concern’s clothing is just that—nosiness. Please don’t message me asking me privately to tell you what I have deliberately chosen not to discuss publicly. If I want you to know, you will know. #Pleasantries

• Likewise, please don’t ask me questions about why I don’t take antidepressants or anti-anxiety (yes, I have anxiety too) meds. You aren’t my doctor.

• Furthermore, please remember that as well-intentioned as it may be, unsolicited advice is just that—unsolicited. Please be mindful of that before you jump in my texts or my inbox telling me what I should do. My therapist helped me eliminate the word “should” from my vocabulary when dealing with other people because “should” is entirely subjective.

• Love you. Mean it.