Skin, Memory, and the Making of Me

What It Means to Be Black in a World That Tries to Define You

I didn’t always understand what it meant to be Black.
When you’re young, you don’t have the words for it — that quiet awareness that you are different. That your skin enters the room before you do. That your laughter, your tone, your existence are under constant observation.

Growing up in a predominantly white community, my Blackness wasn’t something celebrated. It was something dissected, questioned, and occasionally tolerated — but rarely embraced.

I remember feeling out of place before I even knew what belonging was supposed to feel like. My peers could walk into a room and blend seamlessly; I walked in and became the topic. My hair, my skin, my features — things that should have been normal — were instead curiosities.

The Lessons I Never Asked to Learn

As a little girl, I learned to shrink — to take up less space, to quiet my voice, to make my existence easier for others to digest.

I remember the sting of words disguised as jokes.
The times my classmates reached out to touch my hair without asking — like I was some rare object instead of a person. The comments about how it “looked better straight.” The days kids laughed because I used too much lotion and “smelled like cocoa butter.”

There were moments where I laughed along because it felt easier than correcting them. Easier than being called “sensitive.” Easier than trying to explain what it felt like to be constantly othered.

But that laughter came at a cost — each time, a small piece of me folded inward. I began to see myself the way the world saw me: too much and not enough at the same time.

I tried to change.
I straightened my curls until they smoked under the iron.
I avoided the sun so I wouldn’t get “too dark.”
I used makeup that didn’t match my undertones.
I changed my voice — softened it, quieted it — just to fit in.

And still, I was never enough.

When the World Calls You a Threat

Adulthood didn’t erase those wounds — it only revealed new ones.

I’ve had moments with law enforcement that still sit heavy on my chest. Times where I was followed, questioned, or treated like suspicion wrapped in skin.

There’s a particular kind of fear that comes with being Black and realizing your body has already been judged before you’ve even spoken. That fear doesn’t scream — it settles deep, tightening your breath every time red and blue lights flash behind you.

Once, I was pulled over for “matching a description.” Another time, an officer spoke to me with his hand on his holster, like my very presence warranted caution. The tension in those moments is quiet but suffocating. I walked away — lucky, but shaken. And that kind of encounter teaches you something you never forget: safety is not guaranteed when the world refuses to see your humanity.

The Mirror I Had to Relearn

There were years when I hated mirrors.
Not because I didn’t want to see myself, but because I didn’t know how.

Every reflection felt like a battle between who I was and who the world wanted me to be. The little girl who was told her curls were “too wild” grew into a young woman afraid to wear her natural hair to job interviews. The teenager who was teased for her skin became an adult hyper-aware of how she was perceived in every room.

It took years — and a lot of unlearning — to love the very things I once tried to hide.

I started writing to make sense of it all. Writing gave me back my voice — the one I’d buried under other people’s comfort. Through words, I began to reclaim my identity piece by piece.

I learned that my hair is a crown, not a burden. That my skin holds the warmth of every ancestor who survived so I could exist. That my voice doesn’t have to be small to be powerful.

The Weight and the Wonder of Blackness

Being Black in this world means carrying both weight and wonder. It’s knowing that your body is politicized, but your soul is boundless. It’s living in a constant duality — the ache of injustice and the beauty of resilience.

It means existing in spaces that weren’t made for you — and still finding a way to take up space anyway.

It’s fighting to be seen as human in a system that was never built for your protection. It’s being called “articulate” as if it’s a surprise. It’s code-switching without even realizing it. It’s defending your tone before you can finish your sentence.

But it’s also magic.
It’s rhythm and grace.
It’s laughter that fills a room, culture that moves the world, and history that refuses to be erased.
It’s surviving — and not just surviving, but thriving — in the face of a world that once told you you couldn’t.

Unlearning the Shrink

These days, I don’t shrink anymore.
I wear my curls proudly. I speak loudly. I take up space in every room I enter.

Because my existence is not something to apologize for — it’s something to honor.

My Blackness is not a burden; it’s a blessing.
It’s not something to explain; it’s something to celebrate.
It’s the fire in my voice, the resilience in my spine, the softness that still chooses to love despite it all.

Being Black means being part of something bigger than myself — a legacy of beauty, resistance, and rebirth. It’s knowing that even in the face of pain, I carry the light of everyone who came before me.

And that light?
It doesn’t dim for anyone.