Let Them: Reclaiming My Humanity and Boundaries

Growing up Black in America often meant living with an acute awareness of white people’s presence. It wasn’t something I was explicitly taught; it was something I learned by observing the world around me. Subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, the message was clear: I needed to be careful, deliberate, and above all, non-threatening.

This awareness shaped my behavior in countless small but significant ways. It meant smiling at white people to silently communicate, I’m friendly, I’m safe. It meant stepping aside on sidewalks or in crowded spaces, letting them pass—even when I had the right of way. It looked like cheerful banter with servers, cashiers, and medical staff, not just out of politeness, but as a kind of preemptive self-defense. I needed to ensure that my service, my food, or even my health care wasn’t tainted by whatever biases might be lurking in their hearts.

At the time, it felt like self-preservation, and in many ways, it was. But the cost of these seemingly small actions was higher than I realized. For every smile that went unacknowledged, every indifferent glance, every cold or outright hostile response, I was reminded that my efforts were not enough to shield me from the realities of racism. Sometimes, they even seemed to provoke a doubling down, as if my attempts to disarm prejudice only highlighted its existence.

It took years for me to understand that these behaviors weren’t just individual habits—they were the echoes of something much larger. They were remnants of a historical trauma that has shaped the collective experience of Black people for generations. This conditioning—the need to be likable, invisible, or exceptional—has its roots in survival strategies from a time when the consequences of not being those things were devastating.

But survival is not the same as freedom.

2024 was a turning point for me. Somewhere in the chaos and clarity of the year, I realized the weight of this burden wasn’t mine to carry anymore. No amount of smiling or stepping aside or softening myself would change the systemic realities of racism. And more importantly, it wasn’t my responsibility to try.

My new motto is simple: let them.

Let white people extend the olive branch first.
Let them smile first.
Let them say hello first.
Let them step aside first.
Let them do the work of making me feel welcome, valued, and respected.

This shift isn’t about anger or resentment—it’s about liberation. It’s about recognizing that the labor of fostering connection, understanding, and respect doesn’t rest solely on Black shoulders. It’s about reclaiming my energy, my boundaries, and my dignity.

By choosing to let them, I am no longer shrinking myself to make others comfortable. I am no longer playing the role of the peacemaker, the buffer, or the bridge. I am standing fully in my humanity, knowing that I am deserving of respect simply because I exist.

This isn’t to say I’ve abandoned kindness or generosity—they remain core parts of who I am. But now, I extend them on my own terms, not out of obligation or fear, but out of a genuine desire to connect. And I expect the same effort in return.

So as I move forward, I hold this truth close: I am enough as I am. And if others want to meet me with the same respect and humanity I offer, let them.