I used to despise my softness, wishing I could be different. At the time, I did not comprehend the strength I possessed in my tears, in my anger, and in my hurt. There is no joy in forcing a nature outside of yourself. In this current era of nonchalance, I chose to see the power and beauty embedded in my vulnerability. I revel in my sensitivity. Instead of shying away from my truth, I am a crybaby.

Feelings can be complex, and bearing them to the world is no easy feat. Hiding our feelings did not just begin with this generation. Our culture and many others glorify “thick skin.” With “thick skin,” life riddled with hardships, discrimination, and racial injustice becomes somewhat manageable for us, the victims. Acknowledging the pain gives it life, and once it is alive, we can not deny its existence. Many of us do not even have a choice; race and/or gender meet, intersect, and then dictate our capacity for emotional expression. 

 Women are socialized to be softer, more sensitive, and more in tune with their feelings; meanwhile, men are supposed to be the complete opposite. We are trained to believe boys do not cry, and if they do, then they are not masculine enough. The only emotion men are usually free to express is anger. The normalization of male anger boxes men into a perpetual state of frustration, which negatively affects everyone around them. 

Although women are granted some space to explore their emotions, it is not without conditions. Women’s societal ties with emotional expression have been used as a crutch to uphold gendered roles. The same space where women are conditioned to lean into sensitivity is also weaponized against them and puts them at a disadvantage when it comes to holding positions of power. Suddenly, women are “too emotional” to run for office or do anything besides maintain a home. 

Despite the commonality of gender, Black women are not granted the same grace that white women experience. For Black women, sadness, anger, and fear are reserved only for their white counterparts. Whenever Black women vocalize their hurt, they are demonized and stereotyped as aggressive. Instead of receiving comfort, they are charged with the “Angry Black Woman” stereotype. It does not just begin in adulthood; from the moment they are born, little Black girls learn they are Black before they are children, then they are women before they are girls. Yes, gender plays a massive role, but race is at the forefront, and once they intersect, Black women can not escape the harsh reality of self-policing as a means of survival.

Black people are hyper-aware of their emotions and their image because one wrong move or one misstep could be caustic or even fatal. We know about “white women’s tears” and the way it takes precedence over Black pain. In our society, unfortunately, emotional expression is not always a guaranteed right; it is usually a privilege influenced by both race and gender. Sticking to these oppressive norms does not improve our understanding of the world around us; instead, it is used to maintain systems of power and keep the public docile. 

Often in Black and non-white homes, children are not permitted to explore emotional autonomy. I grew up in a traditional West African household that prioritized meeting physical needs rather than emotional ones. As a child, I was supposed to be seen and not heard, which conflicted with my sensitive nature. I was always crying, but back then, there was always something to cry about, and as I aged, I thought it was shameful to feel, so I decided not to. Since my parents failed to validate my feelings, I was unable to face the world honestly. I wanted to survive, and survival, for me, meant masquerading as someone I am not. I buried my emotions over and over again until it became a habit. In place of asserting my needs, I chose a false sense of peace that would eventually do more harm than good.

Denying myself the space to express my emotions meant denying myself the comfort of boundaries. My boundaries as a child were consistently crossed, so I had a difficult time confronting my discomfort when others overstepped. I tolerated situations and people who did not have my best interests at heart because I believed having “thick skin” meant indifference. While I am stuck in a mental prison, brooding over past grievances, the guilty party walks away unscathed and unaware of their wrongdoings. It is not only a disservice to myself but to the wrongdoer as well to not address the pain I felt in that moment. Especially if I am hurt by someone I love, having open communication with them truly shows how much I care. 

All emotions are deserving of equal attention and acknowledgement. I am not weak because I chose to validate my hurt instead of ignoring it. We often equate feelings with humiliation because it exposes the most vulnerable parts of ourselves to the world, and the world can be a juggle of cruelty. In turn, we try to protect ourselves without even putting up a fight. We choose silence, and we force ourselves to swallow the broken shards of our pain, cutting up our entrails on the way down. These shards do not just sit there waiting to be digested. They move around, wreaking havoc, trying to escape. Feelings, particularly the most difficult to swallow, should not have to fight their way to the surface. 

It might not be that deep to them, but it is deep to me. It does not matter if it was just a joke, a thoughtless gesture, or something said in the dark that was never meant to see the light of day; I felt some type of way about it and refused to let it eat at me. Whether or not I get too emotional and cry or express annoyance does not mean I am “doing too much,” in fact, I am doing right by me. I will not be bullied into abandoning my sensitivity, I commend it for continuing to exist despite cultural opposition. I can never be a part of the nonchalant brigade, to feel less means to live less. 

As a Black woman who grew up suppressing her inner voice, to me, every day that I lean into my true nature is a form of resistance. I am liberated through every year, every confrontation, and every vocalization of my worry. Sensitivity signifies bravery, not a lack thereof. I have fallen in love with who I am, and I want to show up in this world as myself with my heart tethered to my sleeves, and you should too.