I don’t know a single Black woman in my life who has taken a break just to rest. Like, really rest. Not a family trip where you’re still the planner, the fixer, the keeper of everyone’s peace. Not time off to work on a side project or another meaningful piece of labour. Just… rest.
A few months ago, for the first time in my life, I took two weeks off. No big plans. No deadlines hanging over my head. Just me, figuring out what it feels like to wake up and have nowhere to be. I still handled life admin, because bills don’t stop and responsibilities don’t vanish. But I rested. I took care of my body. I went back to the gym. I let salt water hit my skin. And somewhere in between all of that, I realized how much I had been holding.
The Anxiety of Rest
Very few non-Black folks will understand the deep, gnawing anxiety that comes with resting. The fear that stepping away, even briefly, means making yourself disposable. That while you’re gone, something will shift, and suddenly your job—your position, your security—won’t be there when you return.
Because when you are a Black woman, your job never really belongs to you. Not when we are handed leadership roles in moments of crisis, expected to clean up messes we didn’t make, only to be blamed when the fall inevitably comes. Not even in the most liberal of spaces, where the pressure to perform, to excel, to be the first and the best, is still there—unspoken but ever-present, passed down through generations like an heirloom of survival. Not when we are one of the only, or one of the few, and the weight of that sits in your body like a second spine. Not when the rules for survival read like a never-ending list of contradictions:
Be excellent, but not intimidating.
Speak up, but don’t be too passionate.
Be assertive, but not angry.
Be warm, but don’t be too familiar.
Wear your hair “professional.”
Smile more.
Make space.
Be grateful.
Be twice as good.
Be patient.
Be silent.
Be everything.
Be nothing.
And that’s just work. That’s before you come home and hold space for your partner, your family, your friends. Before you tend to the group chats, the check-ins, the remembering of birthdays, the caregiving, the culture-keeping, the weight of feeling that if you don’t hold it all together, nobody else will.
The Toll of Always Holding It Together
So, yeah. I’m tired.
And I know I’m not the only one.
This is why rest matters. Not the kind people pretend is rest—“self-care” wrapped up in productivity, in wellness routines that still feel like work. I’m talking about real, unapologetic, I don’t owe you my exhaustion kind of rest. Because in a world that demands we be everything and nothing at the same time, choosing rest is choosing survival.
People say, “Set boundaries.” They say, “Just take a break.” But what they don’t understand is how high the stakes are. How the fall from grace, for us, is steep. How for Black girls from the Global South, rest was never part of the plan. We were raised with the expectation of greatness, of excellence beyond reason. And failure? Failure is not an option.
So here I am, learning. Learning how to slow down. Learning how to sit still. Learning how to believe that the world won’t fall apart if I put it down for a while.
A Reminder for Those Who Need It
If you needed to hear this today, let this be your reminder: You deserve rest. Not when you’ve earned it. Not when you’ve crossed everything off your list. Just because you do.
