There’s an unspoken rule within the Black community — a rite of passage, a hymn passed down from one family to the next. It’s just known: Black women can and should endure anything because we are inherently stronger than everyone else.

You’re not given a guidebook on how to be a Black woman in America, but you learn from those who come before you. I knew that my mother was strong. She was a single mother who worked long hours, kept the bills paid, and affirmed to me that I was a leader, never a follower. She didn’t show fear, sadness or pain, and she moved with strength, power and constant control. She was a warrior in my eyes, and I felt empowered to be her daughter.

If she was a warrior, so was I.

For years, I prioritized my job above everything else ― above love, above peace, above my wellness. I was built to work. I was built to sustain, to maintain, and to push through. My mother worked. My mother still works well into her 60s ― she doesn’t know how to take a break or how to pause.

If she can keep going, so can I.

But what happens when your body and spirit no longer align with your mind? What happens when everything you once thought was the solution becomes the cocktail for your undoing?

It started with little things. Forgetting deadlines. Feeling frustrated with every customer call at work — like, damn, I have to answer that again? Oversleeping. Turning on my computer, only to lie back down in bed and sleep the day away. I was once the go-to jokester at our weekly team meetings — they looked to me to keep things light and jovial, but my joy was diminishing.

I was known as the woman who worked faster than everyone else. I was ahead of all my tasks. I didn’t require much guidance because I was already on top of the issue before it could even be brought to my attention — that’s how good I was. And yet, I find myself behind. No matter what I do, I still can’t keep up with my daily work tasks.

It’s as if someone has overtaken my body, and I can’t operate properly. I am out of order. My battery isn’t functioning correctly.

I stop caring about how I present myself. I no longer want to be seen on camera at meetings, and I often make excuses for not feeling like talking to anyone. Still, they continue to try to engage with me anyway.

What struck me was that no one noticed I was suffering.

Black women are often perceived to be the warriors, the healers, the comedians and the fixer-uppers in society, and we aren’t given grace for the vast, conflicting aspects of ourselves. The parts that need holding. The parts that need encouragement. The parts that require rest.

Instead, we’re seen as impenetrable. Nothing can shake us.

The programming from our ancestors, our mothers, our communities has become embedded in us: We can endure, we can fight, and we can overcome anything. We’re taught to become educated (some studies show we are the most educated group in the United States). We’re taught to be wives, parents, CEOs and builders. We’re taught that achievement, structure and creating a legacy have no place in the presence of uncomfortable emotions.

I was never taught to face pain, grief or sadness. And by refusing to face the truth of what my body was trying to tell me, my internal struggles bled out into my everyday life.

Eventually, I was forced to admit a truth that my mind wouldn’t accept: I needed help. I booked a therapy appointment expecting to vent my frustrations — and hopefully, that would be enough. Hopefully, I could breathe a little easier and sleep a bit better.

I went to my first session and unloaded the clip. I spilled my truth — the ugly parts I had previously refused to acknowledge. I expected her to provide me with a set of daily instructions to persevere. I expected her to prescribe me antidepressants.

What I didn’t expect was her response: “It’s time to initiate the FMLA process.”

FML — what?

She continued to review the process and its necessity, but I felt like she was speaking in an entirely different language. How could that be an option? I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t in visceral pain. Sure, I’d had a few months of slowing down at work, but that didn’t mean I needed time off.

Who would pay my bills?
Who would keep the lights on?
How would I eat?
Like, let’s be serious.

“You need rest,” she reaffirmed. “Do you think your job will save you when burnout leads to hospitalization?”

Oh, there it was. That word: burnout.

I sat with that thought. My job would be OK. But if I didn’t prioritize myself, at least this one time, I might reach a point where taking a break was no longer a choice, but a requirement.

I had seen friends take Family and Medical Leave Act time off before. I knew what came with it. But I’d always thought it was weak. My mother would never take a break — she doesn’t now. So how could I?

“What am I supposed to do with time off from work?” I asked.

She laughed.

“Rest, Jelisha.”

Rest — what was that?

“You can rest,” she said. “You can play. You can rediscover yourself. This job can wait.”

For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to cry. My friends hadn’t seen me. My family hadn’t seen me. My job hadn’t seen me. But this stranger — this Black therapist — saw me hiding behind my warrior mask and encouraged me to find myself again before I lost myself to a grind that would not catch me if I were to fall.

And with that, I began the FMLA process.

It wasn’t easy — not by a long shot. I couldn’t sleep in those first few days because I felt so much guilt. The wounded doer in me wasn’t satisfied with just being still, but as the days passed, my body began to find its way back.

If she wanted to sleep, I slept.
If she wanted to walk in nature, we walked.
If she wanted to write, we wrote.
If she wanted to dance to Beyoncé, we danced.
If she wanted to be creative, we tapped into our inner child.

The more I unlearned the hustle of work and the expectation of simply surviving, the more my spirit began to emerge from its cocoon of hiding. Financial worry still crept in from time to time — I wasn’t bringing in the funds I usually did — but I was managing to stay afloat.

And in the stillness, it became clear: I had lived my life functioning at the behest of the silent hymn of the Strong Black Woman, believing it to be my birthright.

What this time away revealed was that I had been living a lie the world wanted me to believe, so I would never truly know myself.

The soft self.
The sensitive self.
The creative self.
The self that needs and deserves rest.

Black women are taught to keep a poker face. We’re trained to suppress our emotions and needs because the world doesn’t care. But that’s a myth. The world imitates our beauty, our dialect, our natural talents and skills. Yet we believe we must be quiet, dimmed, overworked and underheld.

My mother taught me to be a warrior. And while I am a strong Black woman, I am also a woman who needs rest, who needs stillness, who requires softness in her days — and time to let her heart speak what her mind cannot compute.

This time away from work has been more than a reset; it has been a complete transformation. A rebirth. A catalyst for healing the wounds of survival that were imprinted on me by my mother and the ancestors who came before her.

I plan to utilize the entirety of my FMLA, not knowing what resolution will come, or if I’ll return to work. However, during this time, I choose to reclaim the silent hymn of my ancestors and create a new one.

A hymn that is sung loudly:

Black woman, you deserve love.
Black woman, you deserve rest.
Black woman, you don’t have to struggle.
Black woman, you are meant to flourish.
Black woman, flourishing looks like peace, feels like softness, and tastes like surrender.
Black woman, remove that cape.
Put it down.
You’ve done enough surviving.
It is now time for you to thrive.

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