When I was young, my mother used to say, “Sometimes, you’ve got to cry your tears on the inside.” I never fully understood what she meant until I found myself working in higher education. I entered this field with pride, knowing I could make a difference in a space that promised growth, learning, and inclusivity. But those promises only went so far. As a Black woman, I quickly learned that expectations here weren’t built for me, and that my experiences would be met with a quiet indifference or outright dismissal.
It started subtly—microaggressions masquerading as casual remarks, all dressed up in polite tones. “How did you get into this field?” “Are you sure you’re in the right department?” Each comment felt small on its own, but over time they added up, chipping away at my confidence, reminding me that no matter how qualified I was, I would have to prove myself in ways my colleagues didn’t. I learned to stay silent, to laugh off the questions, and to keep my head down. Speaking up, after all, meant risking being seen as “difficult” or “angry.”
I remember sitting in meetings, hearing my ideas brushed aside, only to watch them resurface when someone else claimed them. I remember working late, putting in extra hours, only to find my contributions quietly erased from projects. And when I would voice frustration or fatigue, it was met with blank stares or polite nods. “We all have tough days,” someone would say. “Just hang in there.” As if my experiences were no different, as if they didn’t see the unique burdens I was carrying.
At one point, I joined a committee on diversity and inclusion—a role that had fallen to me, one of the few Black women in our institution. They wanted my “unique perspective,” but only as long as it didn’t challenge the status quo too much. I’d sit in those meetings, pointing out the lack of representation among faculty, the biases in recruitment, the gaps in support for students of colour. But it felt like I was speaking into the void. They’d nod, offer platitudes, and then move on without a second thought.
It wasn’t just about being dismissed; it was about the quiet erasure of my voice, my experiences, my existence in spaces that claimed to value diversity. And when I tried to raise the deeper issues—the microaggressions, the stereotyping, the isolation—I was often met with vague sympathy or a quick pivot to other topics. My pain didn’t seem to fit into their neat categories of “diversity work.” Black tears, it seemed, didn’t count in the spaces where “objectivity” and “professionalism” ruled.
One day, a colleague, Sarah, pulled me aside after a staff meeting. She was one of the few people I felt truly saw me. She said, “You’re working yourself to the bone here. Why do you keep putting yourself through this?” I wanted to tell her everything—the frustration, the loneliness, the exhaustion of constantly proving myself—but I just shrugged. “Because I have to,” I replied. It was the answer I had internalized over time: I had to be twice as good to get half as far. I had to keep my head down, keep pushing, because that’s what it meant to be a Black woman here.
But the weight of that expectation grew heavier each day. I started to feel the toll of being “strong” all the time, of burying my frustrations, my exhaustion, my tears. There were days I would sit in my car before walking into the office, bracing myself for the day ahead, preparing my “mask”—the one that smiled politely, nodded along, and never let anyone see the cracks. Because if they saw the cracks, it would be my weakness, my failure, not the institution’s.
Over time, I began to realize how many others shared my story. There was a new hire, a young Black woman fresh out of grad school, brimming with ideas and eager to make a difference. She reminded me of myself in those early days, before the weight of it all had settled in. One day, I found her sitting alone in the staff lounge, looking defeated. I sat beside her, and we began to talk. She opened up about the casual comments, the dismissive looks, the sense of being invisible. In her words, I saw my own experiences reflected back, and I felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility—not just to her, but to all of us who felt unseen in a place that claimed to champion inclusivity.
We started meeting regularly, gathering other women of colour across departments. We shared our stories, our frustrations, our resilience, building a quiet support network within an institution that had never offered us one. Together, we became a force, lifting each other up, reminding each other that we mattered, that our voices mattered. And in those gatherings, I felt something shift. For the first time, I felt seen—not as a statistic, not as a diversity checkbox, but as a whole person, with all the complexity and humanity that came with it.
Slowly, we began to push back, calling for real change, demanding that our voices be heard. It wasn’t easy. Every meeting was a reminder of how much work lay ahead, how deeply ingrained these issues were. But we kept going, not because we expected immediate transformation, but because we knew our experiences deserved acknowledgment, that our pain was real, that it mattered. We were no longer willing to be silent, no longer willing to cry our tears on the inside.
It was in those small acts of resistance, those moments of solidarity, that I found my strength—not the strength of silent endurance, but the strength of unapologetic truth-telling, of refusing to be invisible. I stopped letting their dismissals define me, stopped letting their indifference invalidate my pain. I realized that my tears, my frustration, my voice were all a testament to the resilience of Black women in spaces that weren’t built for us. And in claiming that truth, I found a freedom I hadn’t known was possible.
Today, when I walk into my office, I do so with a new sense of purpose. I am still the only Black woman in many rooms, but I no longer carry the weight of that expectation alone. Behind me are the voices of those who came before me, the community we’ve built, the legacy we’re creating for those who will come after. I know now that my tears do count, that my voice does matter, and that even in a place that tries to silence us, we have the power to create change—one conversation, one act of resistance at a time.
And maybe that’s what they’ll never understand: that for every silent tear, for every swallowed frustration, we are building a legacy. We are rewriting the narrative, proving that Black tears do count, that Black voices matter, and that we will no longer be invisible in spaces that claim to value equality. Our strength lies not in our silence, but in our refusal to accept erasure, in our commitment to create spaces where we can exist fully and unapologetically, where our pain and our joy are equally valid, where we are seen, heard, and valued.
