Before I ever stepped into a classroom, I learned how to read a room at home, and I learned how to act accordingly. My mom always taught me that as a young Black woman, I had to be aware of where I was and how I represented myself. I couldn’t always act the same way as everyone else. I had to be mindful of my tone, my volume, and how I might be perceived. Not because she wanted me to feel smaller, but because she wanted me to be safe.
That kind of awareness doesn’t just come from nowhere. For Black women, safety and perfection are often tangled together. Raising your voice, even slightly, can get you labeled an “angry Black woman.” Laughing too loudly or speaking too freely can get you called “ghetto.” So you start editing yourself before anyone else does. You start believing that being “perfect” might keep you safe.
This belief followed me into Catholic school, where I was often the only Black girl in my grade. The school itself was small, small enough that my entire middle school experience took place in one hallway. Growing up in Northern Virginia — specifically Loudoun County, a predominantly white area — meant there was nowhere to blend in. There was no disappearing into the crowd. Differences were noticeable, and I became aware of how quickly attention could turn into judgment.
I tried to be quieter in my classrooms, but it never came naturally to me. When I felt comfortable in a space, or when I was around people I trusted, my real personality came out. I talked more. I laughed louder. I took up space without meaning to. But those moments rarely lasted. They were usually followed by reminders to quiet down, to pull back, to be less noticeable. Even when I tried to contain myself, it didn’t always work. I learned quickly that my presence was something others wanted me to manage, that it was easier to be quiet than to risk being shut down.
What my mom taught me as awareness became restraint. Being mindful of myself turned into monitoring myself, constantly checking my tone, my reactions, and my presence. I could tell pretty quickly that this smaller version of me was easier for other people to accept, even if it wasn’t who I actually was. Over time, that constant effort became exhausting. I spent more energy thinking about how I was coming across than actually being present.
I thought going to college would be a reset, but the habits I learned followed me there. As a Black student at a predominantly white institution (PWI) in Southern Virginia, I found myself slipping back into familiar patterns. I softened my voice in classrooms, hesitated before speaking, and code-switched constantly. Even in spaces where I thought I would naturally belong, like the Black cultural center on campus, I struggled to feel comfortable taking up room. I only attended one meeting. After that, I convinced myself I did not quite fit there either, because shrinking had become something I did without thinking.
Unlearning that reflex has been a slow process. I still catch myself pulling back, especially in unfamiliar settings, but now I notice it when it happens. I’m learning to let myself exist without constantly reeling myself in.
This shift did not come from one dramatic, life-changing moment. It came from getting older and realizing I was tired. Tired of overthinking every interaction. Tired of adjusting my personality depending on who was in the room. At some point, I realized there was no one I needed to impress, and the only person I was hurting was myself.
The more I tried to “perfect” my personality to make other people comfortable, the more I was losing parts of myself. And nothing was worth that. Not approval. Not fitting in. Not avoiding someone else’s assumptions. I don’t want to look back and realize I spent years holding myself back just to be easier for other people to understand.
I get why my mom taught me what she did. Those lessons, which I still carry with me, came from a place of protection; she was teaching me how to navigate the world safely. But I am learning that safety does not have to come at the cost of being myself, because I deserve to be seen.