For years, I believed that career success was mainly about competence, excelling, delivering results, staying prepared, and consistently surpassing expectations. While competence is crucial, it’s not the whole story.

The real accelerator is this: I don’t succeed alone.

I build with a personal board of directors, not a formal committee with quarterly meetings, but a carefully chosen circle of people who influence my thinking, advocate for my growth, sharpen my leadership, and expand my opportunities. If you’re serious about professional growth and long-term career progress, you need one too…especially if you’re ambitious, navigating leadership, or aiming for sustained upward momentum.

Let’s break down who belongs on your personal board, and why each role is essential to your trajectory:

1. Mentors: Strategic Advisors for Your Growth

What they do: Mentors provide guidance rooted in experience. They’ve navigated similar paths, faced comparable inflection points, and made decisions you may soon encounter.

They help you think through:

• Career pivots

• Leadership challenges

• Skill development priorities

• Long-term positioning

They offer pattern recognition. They’ve seen this movie before.

Why they matter: Mentors help you move smarter, not just harder.

Instead of relying only on trial and error, you gain valuable insight. They challenge your assumptions, broaden your perspective, and help you identify blind spots before they become obstacles. Mentorship is about gaining clarity and building capability. It sharpens your judgment and enhances your executive thinking.

If you want to grow intentionally rather than reactively, you need at least one mentor who can see beyond your current level.

2. Sponsors: Advocates for Your Advancement

Mentors advise you. Sponsors advocate for you.

What they do: Sponsors are senior leaders who actively use their influence to create opportunities for you. They recommend you for challenging assignments. They endorse you for promotions. They link your name to high-visibility initiatives. They speak about you in rooms where decisions are made.

Why they matter: Performance builds credibility. Sponsorship builds access.

Many professionals believe that strong results automatically lead to advancement. In reality, moving up often depends on someone with influence who is willing to advocate for your readiness. Sponsors speed up your career progress by helping you overcome barriers you couldn't pass alone.

If your board does not include someone with positional authority and influence, you are likely operating below your ceiling.

3. Workplace Allies: Real-Time Navigators

Every organization has formal structures and informal dynamics.

What they do: Workplace allies are trusted colleagues who help you interpret culture, politics, and internal decision-making patterns. They may be peers, cross-functional partners, or leaders at adjacent levels.

They help you understand:

• Who truly influences decisions

• How messaging will land

• When to push and when to pause

• What the unspoken norms are

Why they matter: Professional growth isn’t only about skill. It’s about situational awareness.

Allies give you context. They help you avoid mistakes and boost your influence. They offer honest feedback that protects your reputation and increases your effectiveness. They are often what separates being technically proficient from being strategically strong.

Growth requires more than talent. It requires navigation.

4. Mentees: Leadership Mirrors

This role is often overlooked… but it’s powerful.

What they do: Mentees are professionals earlier in their journey who seek your guidance. They look to you for perspective, direction, and encouragement. They ask questions that force you to clarify your own thinking.

Why they matter: Teaching refines mastery.

When you mentor others, you clarify your frameworks. You formalize your lessons. You reflect on your personal growth. This deepens your leadership identity and boosts your confidence. Mentees also extend your influence. As they develop, your impact expands with them. Mentorship creates a legacy and broadens your professional presence.

If you aspire to senior leadership, mentoring others is not optional…it is developmental.

Why a Personal Board of Directors Elevates Your Career

Professional growth is not a straight path—it’s shaped by key turning points: when to stay versus when to move, when to specialize versus when to generalize, and when to take a risk versus when to stabilize. Your personal board of directors offers the multi-dimensional input needed to navigate these choices confidently. Mentors share wisdom, sponsors provide leverage, allies deliver context, and mentees help reinforce your leadership. Together, they form a dynamic ecosystem that supports both feedback and progress. While high-performing professionals often rely on themselves, executive-level growth is rarely a solo journey.

The most successful leaders deliberately surround themselves with diverse perspectives…because as the CEO of your career, you shouldn’t be operating without advisors.

How to Build Your Personal Board

1. Audit your current network.
   Who provides strategic advice? Who holds influence? Who gives you honest feedback? Who are you developing?

2. Identify gaps.
   You may have mentors, but no sponsors. Allies but no mentees. Influence without guidance. Clarity without access.

3. Be intentional, not transactional.
   Building your board is about authentic professional relationships. Invest over time. Deliver value. Demonstrate excellence.

4. Diversify perspectives.
   Consider cross-industry, cross-functional, and cross-generational voices. Different vantage points create stronger decision-making.

5. Reevaluate as you evolve.
   As your career advances, your board should shift. The advisors who serve you at one level may not be the ones you need at the next.

Final Thought

Professional growth is both strategic and relational. Your skills, results, and ambition all matter…but the structure around you matters just as much. A personal board of directors helps ensure you’re developing with intention, advancing with advocacy, and leading with perspective. Success isn’t accidental; it’s architected, and building the right board around you is part of that design.

They say the key to happiness is money.

And I get why people believe that. When you’re struggling to pay bills, when your credit card limit dictates your mood, when one unexpected expense can throw your life into chaos…money feels like the answer to everything. Stability feels like happiness. Relief feels like joy.

And yes…money helps. Let’s be clear about that. Money buys time. It buys safety. It buys choices and access. It removes certain kinds of stress and gives you room to breathe. I will never pretend that money doesn’t matter, especially for people who live with poverty PTSD.

But money is not the key. Because eventually…if you’re lucky, if timing and opportunity align, you reach a moment where you stop checking your bank account before every purchase. The salary hits consistently. The title looks impressive on paper. The external markers of success line up. And that’s when a quieter realization creeps in:

Your problems didn’t disappear. They just evolved, sis.

For years, I chased a specific version of success, a certain title…a certain number. I believed that once I crossed that invisible threshold, life would soften. I thought peace lived on the other side of compensation. That security would finally quiet my anxiety. That happiness would arrive fully formed.

It didn’t.

What arrived instead was clarity and exhaustion. Because I was still doing everything myself. What I eventually understood is that what I was really chasing wasn’t more money. It was relief. It was support. It was help. I just didn’t have the language—or the permission—to name it.

We live in a culture, especially as Black women, that glorifies self-sufficiency to a dangerous degree. Figure it out. Handle it. Be strong. Don’t ask. Don’t need. Don’t rely. We’re taught that independence is not just a skill, but a moral obligation.

We wear “self-made” like a badge of honor, even when it’s slowly killing us.

Burnout doesn’t come from working hard alone. It comes from working hard without support.

You can earn six figures and still be deeply exhausted if you’re the only one holding everything together. You can be accomplished and still feel overwhelmed if every decision, every crisis, every emotional load lands squarely on you. You can be financially stable and profoundly unhappy if you’re living life unassisted.

Money can buy comfort, but help buys capacity.

Help is what allows you to show up without being depleted. Help is what gives you margin—space to think, to rest, to breathe, to recover. Help is what keeps success from becoming another form of survival.

But here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: having access to help is one thing. Allowing yourself to receive it is another.

For a long time, I treated help like something temporary. A bridge you use until you’re “established.” Training wheels you discard once you’ve proven yourself. I believed that needing support meant I hadn’t arrived yet—that if I were truly successful, I wouldn’t need as much backup.

That belief is a lie rooted in grind culture and respectability politics.

Look around. CEOs have teams. Athletes have coaches. Artists have managers. Wealthy families have accountants, attorneys, advisors, and assistants. Nobody at the top is doing life alone, yet somehow the rest of us are shamed into believing we should.

We romanticize struggle and call it character. We glorify exhaustion and label it ambition. We equate ease with laziness and rest with weakness. Then we wonder why so many of us thrive on paper and are miserable in practice. Happiness isn’t about eliminating the need for support. It’s about normalizing it.

Help doesn’t just mean hiring people, though sometimes it does. Help looks like therapy instead of pushing through. It looks like delegating instead of proving. It looks like asking questions instead of pretending you already know.

It looks like a community. Friendship. Partnership. Shared responsibility.

Help looks like not being the expert, the fixer, the planner, and the emotional regulator in every room.

For many of us, especially Black women, asking for help feels unsafe. We learned early that competence was our currency. That being low-maintenance kept us employed, respected, and chosen. That needing less made us more valuable.

So we shrink our needs. We overfunction. We overdeliver. We become indispensable at the expense of ourselves.

But here’s the quiet truth: being needed is not the same as being supported.

And no amount of money can replace the peace that comes from knowing you don’t have to do everything alone. I’m no longer interested in a version of success that requires me to be superhuman. I’m not chasing titles that demand my burnout as the entry fee. I’m not impressed by lives that look good but feel unbearable.

I’m chasing a life where support is built into the structure—not something I reach for in crisis.

A life where my nervous system doesn’t rely on Lexapro (iykyk) and isn’t constantly on high alert. Where rest isn’t a reward for exhaustion. Where ease is intentional, not accidental. The real shift wasn’t my paycheck. It was my permission.

Permission to ask.
Permission to outsource.
Permission to not know.
Permission to be held.

So no…the key to happiness isn’t money. It’s having some damn help.

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I turned 40 this year with a sense of calm optimism. Not the performative kind, but the earned kind. I believed, maybe even trusted, that most of my hardest seasons were behind me. My family was healthy. My friendships (and relationship) were solid and life-giving. I felt content in ways I hadn’t always allowed myself to feel. I even made a list before my birthday... my “bad bitch at 40” list, complete with goals, milestones, and long-delayed personal wins.

Then the year took a left turn. The rabbit got me.

Instead of momentum, I met friction. Instead of expansion, I experienced constraint. What unfolded wasn’t chaos; it was silent grief. The kind that doesn’t stop your life, but makes you carry it differently. I still showed up. I still produced. I still led, created, and delivered. But I was also navigating uncertainty, questioning parts of my foundation, and holding emotional weight privately because that’s what many of us have been trained to do. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I had entered what I now understand as a threshold year.

What Is a Threshold Year?

A threshold year isn’t about failure or collapse. It’s not a breakdown. It’s a crossing. It’s the space between who you were and who you are becoming, before the new identity is fully formed, but after the old one no longer fits. Threshold years are uncomfortable because they ask you to keep moving while something internal is being dismantled and rebuilt. Nothing is “wrong,” but nothing feels settled either.

You may:

• Outgrow people, patterns, or roles without drama

• Feel grief that doesn’t have a clear name

• Lose tolerance for things you once excused

• Perform well externally while feeling internally disoriented

• Question assumptions you thought were permanent

This kind of year doesn’t announce itself. It just changes you.

Why Threshold Years Are Especially Hard for High-Performers

Many of us have been conditioned to interpret productivity as proof that we’re fine. We know how to compartmentalize, to deliver through discomfort, to keep things moving even when we’re unsure. So when a threshold year arrives, we often misread it as a sign of weakness or regression. But threshold years don’t take away your competence; they reveal your capacity.

You’re not struggling because you’re failing. You’re struggling because you’re evolving. And evolution is rarely fun.

This year didn’t demand reinvention. It demanded discernment. It stripped away my tolerance for emotional inefficiency, habit of over-explaining and willingness to carry what wasn’t mine.

I didn’t become colder. I became more precise.

That’s the work of a threshold year...refinement, not erasure.

How to Move Forward After a Threshold Year

If you’re coming out of - or still standing inside - one of these years, here’s what helps:

1. Name it. Stop calling it “a bad year.” It was a necessary one. Language matters.

2. Honor what you carried. You don’t need a breakdown to justify rest or compassion.

3. Don’t rush clarity. Thresholds resolve in stages. Let the answers arrive.

4. Move lighter, not louder. Forward motion doesn’t have to be dramatic to be real.

5. Choose alignment over acceleration. Speed isn’t the goal...sustainability is.

A threshold year doesn’t mean you’re behind. It means you’re standing at the edge of something more honest. And when you finally step forward, you won’t be the same...but you will be more yourself.

So what now?

What’s next for me is an intentional pause followed by a deliberate choice. I’m pivoting out of my career and leaving my job...not out of urgency or burnout, but out of clarity. I’m giving myself the space to rethink how I want to work, create, and contribute without defaulting to momentum or expectation. The following season is about simplification: fewer commitments, sharper focus, and an honest audit of what actually brings me joy and peace. I’m choosing to sit still long enough to hear myself again, to move without performing, and to let alignment...not pressure...set the pace for whatever comes next.

I started teaching at the collegiate level in 2018, and in true big Pisces energy, I let confidence carry me places my résumé wasn’t even packed for yet. By my second year, I applied to teach at an Ivy League institution. The dean — very politely — told me to cool my jets… then went ahead and added me on LinkedIn. I took the L, kept it cute, and kept it moving.

Fast-forward to this year: I pursued a new leadership role that required a full presentation during the interview process. I usually don’t agree to that kind of extensive pre-hire “free labor,” but something in my spirit prompted me to do it anyway. I built the deck. I delivered the pitch. I did not get the job.

Still, something told me not to hide the work. So I shared the pitch publicly — not for applause, but for accountability. I wanted folks to know exactly where those ideas came from. And I didn’t expect anything from it…but the universe had already moved six steps ahead.

A month after being rejected for the job, the same Ivy League dean reached out. She wants to discuss teaching a course next spring — on the exact topic I presented for that interview. A full circle moment I couldn’t have scripted if I tried. But here’s the twist: I couldn’t move on to the next round of the interview process for a lecturer role because I didn’t have my old student evaluations. I lost access to them when I left my previous university, and they only kept final scores — not the qualitative feedback that reflected my teaching impact.

And that’s when the lesson landed:

Opportunities don’t wait for you to scramble. Doors don’t hold themselves open while you gather your documents. Staying ready isn't about being perfect; it’s about preparation aligning with action.

Staying Ready Is a Mindset

When people say “stay ready,” it might sound like cliché hustle-culture talk. But there’s a deeper, wiser meaning behind it — especially for us. Staying ready isn’t about overworking or constantly being on edge. It’s about nurturing your gifts. It’s about respecting your journey. It’s about tracking your impact, even when no one’s asking for proof. It’s trusting that your life will lead you back to things you didn’t realize you needed to save. The universe will guide you on a path, but will you prepare for it?

That’s on you.

The Season You Want vs. the Season You’re Assigned

That Ivy League “no” back in 2018 wasn’t a rejection…it was a timestamp. A receipt. A reminder that I asked for something that wasn’t aligned yet.

And the “yet” is important.

We often mistake delay for denial because we’ve had to hustle our way into many rooms. But sometimes, the door stays shut because the room isn’t ready for you — not because you’re not ready for it. Staying prepared means respecting the timeline even when you don’t understand it. That version of me wanted the opportunity, but this version of me is actually more equipped to take it on.

The deck, the ideas, the strategy — they were seeds for something I didn’t see coming. The universe will use every piece of work you create. Nothing is wasted. And because I shared the work “publicly,” the right eyes found it. Not the ones I was chasing… the ones that were meant to find me.

This is the heart of alignment.

What you build in one chapter often becomes the currency for the next. The opportunity that’s yours won’t need you to beg for it. But it will require you to be prepared for it.

But here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: Sometimes you miss out on an opportunity not because you weren’t qualified, but because you weren’t organized. When the university asked for my old qualitative evaluations, I didn’t have them. Not because I didn’t do well, but because I didn’t keep my evidence safe - I was careless.

For us, this is deeper than paperwork. It’s about:

• Documenting your brilliance

• Archiving your impact

• Keeping proof of your excellence

• Owning your narrative

Because in a world that constantly underestimates us, receipts are more than records — they’re protection. Staying ready means keeping the kind of documentation you will need, long before you know why you’ll need it.

If you had asked me months ago why I didn’t get that leadership role (especially after 6 rounds), I couldn’t tell you. But now? It makes perfect sense.

It wasn’t my room.

Had I been overly attached to the outcome, I would’ve missed the bigger purpose. We don’t need to chase every role, audition for every room, or overextend ourselves just to feel worthy. The true power lies in readiness — spiritually, emotionally, and practically.

Staying ready is a gentle discipline — a way of honoring your future self before you meet her. Because when alignment calls, you don’t have time to get your documents together, redo your portfolio, or recreate old work. You step into the moment with ease because you’ve kept yourself prepared. And sometimes, the universe sends the opportunity back around years later — not to test you, but to show you that you were meant for it all along…or not.

I turned 40 this year, and like every year, I wrote myself a little “do list” — not resolutions, but intentions for how I wanted to elevate. This was supposed to be my subtle bad bitch makeover: a few tweaks here and there — Botox, therapy, minimalist wardrobe, clean labs, deep connections. The kind of glow-up that doesn’t scream, but hums.

But instead of feeling renewed, 2025 has been low-key dragging me through the mud. A new job that’s more stressful than fulfilling. A political climate that feels like chaos on loop. A cost of living that makes every grocery run or happy hour feel like a math problem. Friends and family who are struggling in their own ways, where no one is entirely okay, everyone is quietly unraveling.

This is not the 40th year I envisioned.

It’s not the version of me I thought I’d be, either. But the truth is — my body started waving red flags long before I noticed. And lately, it’s been screaming one word at me, over and over again:

Stress.

The Body Keeps the Score (And the Receipts)

We often discuss burnout as if it’s simply being tired. But when stress starts living in your body, it’s not just fatigue — it’s inflammation, insomnia, hair loss, brain fog, anxiety, and in some cases… disease.

Your nervous system remembers every “I’m fine.” Every skipped meal, every “I’ll rest after this project,” every time you clenched your jaw to get through one more meeting, one more month, one more mess.

When you live in survival mode long enough, your body forgets how to thrive.
And by the time it catches up to you, the symptoms don’t look like stress anymore. They look like migraines, routine back aches, digestive issues, panic attacks, and a kind of heaviness that no spa day can fix.

The Reality of Not ‘Having It All’ at 40

There’s a quiet grief that comes with realizing you did everything right — worked hard, saved, hit milestones — and still feel unfulfilled. It’s a different kind of exhaustion.

The kind that sits in your bones.

You start to see how “success” was often just a prettier word for overextension. You realize how much you’ve been performing stability when you actually need support. And you start to understand that stress doesn’t always look like chaos — sometimes it’s a steady hum in the background, dull enough to ignore, but constant enough to erode you over time.

I’ve learned that if you don’t slow down voluntarily, your body will eventually decide for you.

So Now What? How I Plan to Get Ahead in 2026

Here are five unconventional ways I’m choosing to get ahead next year — no “new year, new me” energy. Just a softer, wiser one:

1. Prioritize nervous system regulation over productivity.
   Before you chase another goal, learn what calm feels like again. Breathwork, hot girl walks, midday naps — whatever grounds you, do that first.

2. Unsubscribe from struggle.
   The world romanticizes resilience. Throw in the towel. Let ease be your new default setting.

3. Do a “stress audit” every month.
   Track what’s draining you. Be brutally honest. Then eliminate one thing each cycle — a task, a person, a habit — until your body sighs in relief.

4. Rebuild your joy muscle.
   Make joy a discipline, not an afterthought. Schedule girl dinners, dance, TikTok — even five minutes a day counts.

5. Get radically honest with your doctor.
   Don’t downplay your symptoms. Advocate for yourself. Request the labs. Ask the questions. Stress can be silent until it’s deadly — don’t wait for the warning signs to turn into a lifetime prescription pill regimen.

Final thoughts.

If you’re reading this and your body feels off — listen. If your sleep’s gone, your patience is thin, your spark feels dim — that’s not just getting older. That’s your body saying, “We can’t keep living like this.”

I hope that my biggest flex going into 2026 isn’t a new salary, a new Porsche, or even a new home — it’s peace.

Dear God,

Remind me that joy isn’t a reward for things going right — it’s my birthright.

Even when the vision board hasn’t come to life, when plans stall or shift, teach me to celebrate anyway. Help me see progress in the pauses, purpose in the detours, and peace in what’s still unfolding.

As we move into Q4, I release the pressure to perform for Your favor. I choose gratitude over comparison, and faith over frustration. Because even when the story doesn’t look like what I imagined, there’s still so much to praise You for.

Amen.

When the best employees leave, it rarely happens overnight. It may seem sudden—no notice, no warning, just gone—but the truth is, the process begins months before the resignation email is sent. It starts with the gradual erosion of trust, with boundaries being tested, voices being dismissed, and a system subtly signaling that excellence is expected but never safeguarded. Some may call it crashing out: when high performers reach a breaking point. Not because they’ve found something better, but because they can’t bear to stay one more day.

The Moment It Clicks

For me, it happened over a conference room.

A colleague had occupied a reserved space without communicating her intentions. I waited ten minutes outside the room, making my presence known, as I had booked it for my own meeting before she finally emerged. Calmly, I said, “In the future, please just let me know if you need to take over the room so that I can find an alternate space. I have several people waiting.”

That’s all it was—a request, a boundary in fact.

In my next 1:1, my boss mentioned that this colleague had sent her a private message with feedback, saying I’d been “unfriendly.” My boss warned me, almost apologetically, that she has “a tendency to spin stories.” But that’s when it hit me: it wasn’t about the room. It was about the culture. This scenario was one of many passive-aggressive stunts I had experienced over the year, and at that moment, I decided that I couldn’t give this 110% of my energy anymore. I was done.

The Real Reason Good People Leave

The best employees don’t leave because they can’t handle the work. They leave because they can no longer cope with the environment that refuses to manage itself. They leave when bias gets rebranded as “feedback.” When honesty is punished more than the behavior that caused it, when speaking up makes you the problem instead of the person trying to solve one. When chaos is ignored, and leadership isn’t there to block and tackle. For people of color, this pattern runs deeper. We are often asked to overperform, overexplain, and overaccommodate—until we’re underprotected. And when you realize your psychological safety isn’t a priority, the only logical choice left is self-preservation.

When high performers walk out, it’s not because they stopped caring—it’s because they cared too long in an environment that didn’t care back. The question isn’t, “How do we retain talent?” It’s, “What are we doing that makes talented people desperate to escape?” Because the best employees don’t leave on a whim. They leave when the cost of staying becomes too high to bear.

The Exit Strategy Mindset

Planning your exit isn’t an act of defeat; it’s an act of discipline. It’s saying, “I won’t let this place decide who I become.”

Start quietly:

• Take inventory. Identify what’s draining your energy and what still fuels it.

• Document everything. Protect your narrative before someone else rewrites it.

• Rebuild your network. Reconnect with mentors, peers, and allies who remind you of your worth.

• Redirect your focus. Pour energy into your next move, not your current dysfunction.

• Seek professional support. Take a leave of absence, hire a therapist, or seek advice from your professional board of directors.

You don’t owe anyone your burnout. You owe yourself a plan. It’s all about choosing yourself before the system breaks you.

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I’ve come to realize that my short fuse—my quickness to anger—didn’t just show up one day. It’s been simmering inside me for years, stitched together from early trauma and unmet needs that shaped me, and fueled by the pressures of being a “boss” who still somehow feels like an underdog. That tension is exhausting. It’s a daily struggle to be both aware of my shortcomings and determined to overcome them.

And if you’ve ever felt like you’re doing everything right but still not getting the respect, recognition, or results you deserve, then you know what I mean. You know what it feels like to be the one who leads, who builds, who creates, and yet privately questions your worth when life doesn’t reward you in the ways you thought it would.

This is for you…the underdog who’s still standing, still striving, still showing up.

Why the Underdog Mentality Cuts So Deep

Being an underdog isn’t just about not being chosen. It’s about feeling unseen, underestimated, and overlooked, even when you’re overprepared. It’s being the one who has to fight twice as hard for half the recognition. For me, that feeling is tied back to my childhood. Growing up, I learned early what it meant to survive without certain things other kids took for granted—emotional support, protection, stability. Those unmet needs became fuel. They pushed me to become hyper-independent, ambitious, and sharp-edged. They made me tough, but they also left scars. Because when you don’t feel safe or valued early in life, you carry that belief into adulthood: I’m not enough unless I prove myself.

Fast forward to now. I’ve climbed ladders, broken barriers, built homes…and a strong reputation. On the outside, I wear the badge of “boss.” But inside? Some days I’m still that kid, still fighting for validation, still angry at being doubted, still proving my existence in rooms that weren’t designed for me. That duality is heavy. And it takes work—real, conscious work—to not let it burn me out.

Here’s the hardest truth I’ve had to accept: self-worth isn’t something you earn. It’s not a prize waiting for you at the end of another achievement. It doesn’t arrive when you land the job, secure the bag, or silence the haters. Self-worth is a seed. It’s planted inside you from the beginning, even if trauma tried to bury it. And building it isn’t about proving you deserve it—it’s about watering it daily, even when you feel like nobody else sees its roots.

What that looks like in practice (for me):

• Affirmation without accomplishment. Speaking kindly to yourself, even when you “failed” or fell short.

• Boundaries that protect your peace. Saying no, not because you’re lazy, but because your worth doesn’t depend on being endlessly available.

• Gratitude for progress, not just wins. Recognizing the small ways you’ve grown, instead of only celebrating the big moments.

Self-worth shows up in the quiet. It appears when you allow yourself to rest. When you don’t chase loud claps & standing ovations. When you treat yourself with the love you once begged someone else to give you.

Reframing the Underdog

What if being the underdog isn’t a curse, but a calling?

Think about it: the underdog is underestimated. Which means you have the element of surprise. People doubt you, but that doubt is fuel. People overlook you, but that invisibility gives you space to experiment, to grow, to pivot in ways the spotlight never allows.

Yes, the struggle is real. Yes, it feels unfair. But being the underdog also sharpens resilience, creativity, and grit. And when you stop attaching your worth to whether the world recognizes you—and instead anchor it in the fact that you’re still here, still fighting, still rising—you start to see the underdog not as a victim, but as a threat.

Practical Ways to Build Self-Worth in the Underdog Season

The first step in building self-worth is to name the root. Don’t gaslight yourself into thinking your feelings come from nowhere. That anger, that short fuse, that constant sense of having to prove yourself—they all have origins. Trace them back to where they began. Perhaps it was a childhood wound, a moment when you felt unseen, or a pattern that taught you to prioritize survival over softness. Naming the wound doesn’t make you weak; it makes you aware. And awareness is the first step toward healing.

Next, challenge the lie that your worth is conditional. Many of us grew up believing, “I am only valuable if I prove myself.” It’s time to replace that with something true: I am valuable because I exist. Write it down. Say it out loud. Repeat it until it feels less foreign and more like home. Self-worth isn’t earned—it’s reclaimed.

It also helps to detach from the scoreboard. Stop measuring your worth by external validation—such as likes, promotions, or applause. Ask yourself: Would I still see myself as worthy if no one clapped? When your self-esteem depends on outside approval, you’ll always be hustling for it. But when it comes from within, no one can take it away.

Finally, surround yourself with mirrors. Be intentional about who you let into your life. The people around you should reflect your light, not your limitations. Who reminds you of your brilliance? Who helps you remember your strength when you forget? Those are your people—the ones who see you clearly, even when you can’t see yourself. Because in the underdog season, you don’t just need cheerleaders. You need mirrors that remind you of who you already are.

And I’ll be honest: this is not a journey with a finish line. Some days I still feel small, still feel like the kid who got overlooked. Some days my anger still flares. But more and more, I’m learning to pause and remind myself: I am enough as I am, even when the world doesn’t see it.

And that’s the heart of building self-worth as an underdog. It’s not about denying your struggle—it’s about refusing to let the struggle define you because the world may keep doubting you. But the moment you stop doubting yourself? That’s the moment you stop being the underdog and start being the one who rewrites the game.

When news broke that DJ Enuff was let go from Hot97, many of us who grew up listening to his mixes felt that punch right alongside him. You could see the hurt on his face - the way a career tied to one place, one brand, one role, suddenly ends, and not on your own terms. It echoed Dame Dash’s recent critique of Cam’s loyalty and his praise for Memphis Bleek’s... reminding us that loyalty is complicated. It can seem noble, but sometimes it’s misplaced. For decades, Enuff was part of Hot97’s DNA. But watching his recent interview, and hearing Dame spiral about how loyalty can either hold you up or break you—reminded me of something I’ve had to learn the hard way: staying in a job, relationship, or situation past its expiration date comes at a steep cost.

The truth is, we all overstay sometimes. Out of loyalty, fear, comfort, or even ego. We tell ourselves, “I’ve invested too much to walk away now,” or “things will change if I just stick it out.” But life doesn’t come stamped with an expiration date; you figure it out when the weight of staying starts breaking you down. It whispers, it hints, it nudges—until suddenly, your mind, body, and spirit are paying the price for what your intuition knew months (or years) ago.

The Mental Toll

Overstaying corrodes your mental health in sneaky ways. At first, it feels like fatigue, a short temper, or feeling uninspired. Then, it escalates: Sunday-night dread, burnout disguised as ambition, and anxiety that sticks around long after you shut your laptop or leave that person’s house. When you stay in the wrong place too long, your self-worth starts to tie itself to staying...even though leaving is where your freedom really is.

DJ Enuff’s firing revealed how devastating it feels when a system you gave everything to decides you’re no longer valuable. That’s the danger of tethering your identity too closely to a single employer, role, or title. If the foundation crumbles, where does that leave you?

The Physical Toll

Our bodies don’t lie. They tell us what our minds try to silence. Sleepless nights, migraines, digestive issues, weight fluctuations, hair loss - these are not random. They’re signals. Stress and stagnation lodge themselves in the body. Staying too long in toxic environments literally makes you sick.

Think about how often people look younger, healthier, lighter once they leave a draining job or end a relationship that was suffocating them. Detachment isn’t just spiritual…it’s cellular.

The Spiritual Toll

On a spiritual level, misplaced loyalty becomes a form of bondage. Dame praised Bleek for staying aligned with Jay-Z, implying his loyalty worked in his favor. But what about the rest of us? We’re not guaranteed that kind of payoff. Blind loyalty, especially when driven by fear of the unknown, disconnects us from our inner voice. That whisper telling you to move on gets drowned out by history, comfort, or obligation. Spiritually, that’s dangerous.

It’s not loyalty…it’s self-abandonment.

Faith asks us to trust that what’s next is better, even if we can’t see it yet. Staying past the expiration date is often a symptom of anxiety about the unknown. But here’s the irony: being anxious for something never works. The deals you forced, the relationships you held onto, the jobs you begged to keep… none of them truly flourished. Detachment isn’t about indifference; it’s about choosing alignment over desperation.

Recognizing the Signs

So how do you know when it’s time to exit? A few signals tend to show up across jobs, relationships, and life situations:

1. Your peace feels permanently compromised. If joy feels like a memory instead of a current possibility, pay attention.

2. You’re more loyal to history than the present. You stay because of the time already spent, not because the current reality nourishes you.

3. You shrink instead of expanding. If you’ve stopped growing, creating, or learning, the container may no longer be right for you.

4. Your intuition is restless. That quiet voice doesn’t go away—it just gets louder until you finally listen.

5. You fantasize about leaving more than you dream about staying. Daydreaming about “what if I walked away?” is often the prelude to needing to do so.

Final Thought

DJ Enuff’s departure and Dame Dash’s comments are two sides of the same coin. Institutions will move on, whether you’ve given them twenty years or just twenty minutes. People will praise or criticize your loyalty based on how it serves them. But the wrong kind of loyalty will end you long before change ever has the chance.

Staying too long always costs more than leaving.

And if you never cling, never beg, and never stay anxious over what isn’t flowing—you’ll find that the people, jobs, and opportunities meant for you will always come to meet you. Exits aren’t failures; they’re proof of courage and that you’d rather bet on yourself than settle for less than you deserve. They show that you trust what’s next more than you fear letting go.

The question is: will you move on before you’re forced out?

A few nights ago, over dinner with a dear friend and former colleague, we compared notes on the strange circus of job hunting. Between bites of fries and sips of margaritas, we traded war stories - PTSD from our time at a FAANG company, the surreal experience of interviewing for $300K+ roles, and the constant negotiation between ambition and exhaustion.

At some point, I shared a recent episode with a recruiter that left me seething. I had gone through an extended screening call, followed all the steps, and was told to “save the date” for a follow-up with the hiring manager. I rearranged my schedule, prepped extensively, and sent multiple follow-up emails for confirmation. Radio silence.

Then, on the day of the supposed call, my phone rang urgently. It was the recruiter, frantic: the hiring manager is on the line waiting for you. No invite had ever been sent. No prep materials. No acknowledgment of his mistake. Instead of apologizing, he pressured me to scramble onto the call.

I did it - chest tight, teeth clenched -and when it was over, I sent him a pointed, professional but unflinching note: this is unacceptable.

My friend was amused & surprised. “I don’t think I would have sent something like that.”

But Yes. Yes, I did.

And I would do it again.

Because for me, self-advocacy is a form of protest.

Why I Protest

Protest doesn’t always look like picket signs or megaphones. Sometimes, protest is sending the email no one else dares to send. It’s refusing to laugh off a slight. It’s the quiet but firm declaration: You will not handle me carelessly.

For too long, we’ve been conditioned to swallow disrespect in the name of opportunity. To be grateful for a chance even when the “chance” comes wrapped in chaos, disregard, or outright contempt. But what does gratitude mean if it costs you your peace? What does ambition mean if you have to bleed dignity to get there?

My protest is simple: I refuse.

I refuse to carry the burden of someone else’s incompetence. I refuse to let people believe it’s acceptable to mishandle me because I “need” something from them or I’m supposed to turn the other cheek.

I refuse to operate from a place of lack, because lack is a lie. Whatever is meant for me will come. And it will not require me to be silent in the face of harm.

The Cost of Silence

Silence has never been free. For women, for Black professionals, for anyone living at the intersection of “you should be grateful” and “you should know your place,” silence costs us health, sleep, joy, and sometimes our careers.

How many of us have stayed quiet when a boss took credit for our work? How many of us have smiled through “constructive feedback” that was really a thinly veiled insult? How many of us have let recruiters ghost us, shuffle us, mishandle us - because we were afraid speaking up might “burn a bridge”?

But let’s be honest: the bridges built on disrespect were never stable to begin with.

I’ve watched colleagues lose themselves in silence. The unspoken resentments turned into migraines, panic attacks, and bitterness. Silence corrodes.

Protesting, even in small ways, is how I keep myself whole.

When I say I protest, people assume it must be dramatic. But more often, it’s small acts of alignment.

• Saying no to meetings that serve no purpose.

• Asking, What’s the budget? before I commit to work.

• Correcting people when they mispronounce my name.

• Refusing to answer calls or emails after a certain hour.

• Sending the note to the recruiter.

• Politely declining anything that doesn’t meet my minimum requirements.

These are not tantrums. They are boundaries. And boundaries are protests against a world that benefits when we are boundaryless.

This is the hill I will die on… protecting my dignity, my energy, and my peace.

What Protest Gives Back

The irony? Every time I choose myself in this way, something better comes.

When I walked away from roles where leaders dismissed my contributions, I found environments where my voice mattered. When I stopped entertaining “opportunities” that paid less than my worth, I opened space for work that valued me fully.

Advocacy doesn’t repel blessings; it attracts the right ones.

And more importantly, it teaches others - friends, mentees, colleagues, even recruiters - that mistreatment is not the norm. There is always at least one person in the room who will name what’s wrong.

A Call to You

Maybe you’re reading this while replaying the last time you bit your tongue. The last time you carried home someone else’s disrespect and tried to sleep it off.

I want you to hear this: protest. Even if it’s a whisper. Even if it’s just a sentence in an email. Even if it’s a boundary you set only with yourself.

Protest because your peace is not disposable. Protest because life is too short to let people play with your humanity. Protest because silence costs more than truth.

And most of all…protest because you deserve to live, work, and love in environments that honor you.

That job might not get it. Your friends might be surprised. But your spirit will exhale. And that exhale is everything.

No management textbook prepares you for the employee who makes it their personal mission to challenge you. This isn’t about the occasional disagreement or a minor performance issue. It’s about the direct report who, after months of job hunting or even interviewing for your role and not getting it, now carries that resentment into every 1:1, every meeting, every interaction.

Welcome to the story of my life.

They interrupt in meetings, attempt to upstage you (their manager), and treat every piece of feedback like a personal attack. The immaturity is visible to leadership, but the burden of management falls squarely on you - their leader. For Black leaders especially, the weight of this dynamic feels amplified. There’s no room to “lose it” or react in kind - restraint must be flawless, professionalism bulletproof - while the difficult employee gets to be messy without consequence.

This is the tightrope of managing disgruntled employees while also protecting your peace.

The Root Cause: Ego, Disappointment, and Mismanaged Ambition

When someone interviews for a role, they don’t get or spend months job hunting - it creates a fork in the road. Some accept it, regroup, and recommit to their development. Others turn sour, letting disappointment metastasize into ego and entitlement.

In my experience, the behavior stems from usually one of the 3;

• Unmet ambition. They wanted the role so badly that they couldn’t fathom reporting to me.

• Fragile ego. Instead of seeing feedback as a gift, they interpret it as an insult.

• Identity crisis. They tied their sense of self-worth to a promotion. Without it, they lash out at the person who “took it from them.”

This is human…but it’s also dangerous for team morale. One person’s bitterness can become contagious if not managed carefully.

The Emotional Toll on Leaders of Color

But here’s where race enters the picture. When you’re a person of color in leadership, you don’t get the luxury of being “just the boss.” You’re navigating the workplace with an added layer of scrutiny. Every tone, facial expression, and decision is under the microscope.

For me, that means:

• I can’t “clap back” at them in the way they provoke me to. That would be labeled as “aggressive.”

• I can’t lean into sarcasm or dismissiveness. That would be read as “unprofessional.”

• I can’t even disengage too much, because then I’m “not coaching enough.”

So I carry the burden of being calm, diplomatic, and strategic -while they get to be volatile. The weight of that double standard is exhausting. And this is the part management books rarely talk about: how marginalized leaders must work twice as hard to stay poised while others unravel.

So how do YOU manage the employee who seems hellbent on making your job harder? Here’s what has helped me…and might help you too:

1. Document Everything.
   Don’t rely on memory. Document performance issues, instances of insubordination, and feedback given. Protect your neck.

2. Set Boundaries.
   Immature employees thrive on dragging you into emotional back-and-forth. Refuse to play their game. Keep communication professional, concise, and documented in writing when needed.

3. Use Radical Candor.
   Sometimes you have to say it plainly: “I’ve noticed you cut me off in meetings. That undermines both of us. It needs to stop.” No fluff, no sugarcoating - just clarity.

4. Escalate When Necessary.
   If the behavior continues, loop in HR or your leadership team. Your job is not to be a therapist.

5. Protect the Team.
   Don’t let one person’s dysfunction derail the group. Address behavior swiftly so others don’t think it’s acceptable.

Closing Thoughts on Practicing Self-Care in the Midst of Chaos

Managing a difficult direct report is exhausting, which is why self-care isn’t optional…it’s survival. Protecting your peace requires intentional practices: emotional detachment so their behavior doesn’t become a mirror, leaning on mentors and safe spaces for support, creating micro-boundaries like breaks after tough conversations, and reframing the experience as a lesson in leadership resilience. These practices shift the focus from their immaturity to your growth, ensuring you don’t lose yourself in the chaos.

But the real cost isn’t just the employee - it’s the invisible weight leaders carry. We become coaches, therapists, and shields while still being asked to deliver results, and for Black leaders, that toll is compounded by the pressure of perception. We’re constantly navigating stereotypes, managing optics, and surviving spaces never designed for us. That’s why boundaries aren’t just helpful - they’re essential. You don’t have to martyr yourself for someone else’s growth. You don’t have to tolerate disrespect. You can lead with compassion, enforce boundaries, and still prioritize your well-being.

Because the truth is simple: We can’t pour into anyone if we’re burnt out.

Black leadership is already heavy. We can’t afford to let someone else’s immaturity tip us into burnout. Protect your energy, document your receipts, and never forget: you belong in the seat you’ve earned.

Black Don’t Burn Out is my space for unpacking the invisible weight of leadership, especially for Black professionals navigating spaces not designed for us. If this resonated, share it with someone who might need the reminder today.

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The politics are recycled. The budgets shrink. The layoffs feel like a quarterly ritual. Everyone’s either faking it, phoning it in, or trying to spin a “new” strategy that looks eerily similar to the last one. And if you’re anything like me, you start to wonder…is this it?

For Black leaders especially, the fatigue hits differently. We already carry the unspoken burden of proving ourselves ten times over, navigating bias, and translating our brilliance into corporate-friendly packaging. Once you finally reach the top - or at least high enough where your title carries weight - you realize you’re stuck on autopilot in the same endless cycle of power plays, restructures, and survival games.

And let me tell you, it gets boring.

Not “this meeting could’ve been an email,” boring, but soul-numbing boring. The kind of boredom that makes you question if you’re living in your purpose or just a really expensive hamster wheel.

So, what do you do when the thrill of the climb is gone, and leadership fatigue starts to creep in? You reinvigorate yourself…or risk burning out in silence.

Why Leadership Fatigue Hits Hard

Leadership fatigue isn’t just being tired; it’s a cocktail of disillusionment, pressure, and isolation.

• The weight of responsibility never shifts. At the top, you’re still carrying teams, KPIs, and executive egos. The air might be thinner, but the grind is heavier.

• The cycles repeat. New fiscal year, new jargon, new “bold” strategy…same politics, same pitfalls, same PowerPoints.

• The illusion of freedom. On paper, leadership equals power. In reality, you’re often boxed in by legacy systems, competing priorities, and budgets slashed in the name of efficiency.

• The personal tax. For Black leaders, add code-switching, carrying representation on your shoulders, and constantly scanning for the landmines that others never see.

It’s not a weakness to admit the fatigue. It’s wisdom. Because when we don’t name it, it festers, and before you know it, burnout takes root.

Reinvigorating Yourself Without Burning Out

So how do you reset? Here are a few pathways worth considering:

1. Redefine What Success Means Now

The definition of success evolves. What motivated you ten years ago—titles, paychecks, recognition—may not be the same as today. Maybe now it’s impact. Freedom. Creative expression. Ask yourself: What would success look like if I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone?

2. Lean Into Passion Projects

The corporate machine will always demand more, but passion projects feed the parts of us that the boardroom never will. Writing. Mentoring. Building that business idea you’ve been sitting on. Passion projects don’t just add joy-they can open unexpected doors.

3. Shift From Operator to Visionary

Too often, leaders get stuck in execution. Reignite your fire by pulling back into vision. Mentor others. Shape strategy instead of just delivering it. Give yourself permission to step into the role of architect, not just engineer.

4. Experiment With Micro-Shifts

Big pivots aren’t always realistic. Sometimes you just need micro-shifts: say no more often, delegate without guilt, or block two hours a week to explore something creative. Small moves create momentum.

When It’s Time to Pivot

Let’s be real: sometimes, reinvigoration isn’t enough. Sometimes it is time to pivot.

That doesn’t always mean quitting tomorrow. It might mean laying groundwork for a new career path, building your business on the side, or positioning yourself for a role that excites you again. Leadership fatigue can be the universe’s way of nudging you toward alignment.

For Black leaders especially, pivoting is radical because it says: I deserve more than survival. I deserve joy, freedom, and purpose.

Final Word

The corporate ladder isn’t broken, it’s just repetitive. But you don’t have to climb for the sake of climbing. When fatigue sets in, you owe it to yourself to pause, reflect, and redirect. This season of your life doesn’t have to be about maintaining titles and budgets. It can be about reclaiming your spark, redefining what leadership looks like on your terms, and choosing passion over autopilot.

Because Black don’t burn out…we pivot, we innovate, and we create new ladders entirely.

The news surrounding Fawn Weaver and Uncle Nearest has thrust the spotlight onto a brutal truth we all feel but rarely admit: the climb to elite success can be fraught with ugliness, loneliness, and moral compromise. At its worst, winning means leaving parts of yourself…and the court of public opinion…behind. I don’t know Fawn, never had an experience with her, but I worked in Spirits, and with that…I understand.

The Fall: When Power Becomes Precarious

This month, a federal judge ordered that Uncle Nearest be managed by a court-appointed receiver, stripping Fawn and Keith Weaver of operational control. The decision comes after lender Farm Credit Mid-America sued the company for defaulting on more than $108 million in loans, alleging inaccurate inventory, misuse of proceeds, and structural financial failures. Source: Axios

Weaver’s response? A claim that the crisis originated from the rogue actions of a former CFO and an insistence that she, too, remains “unshaken and unmoved.” Source: AfroTech.com

Whether you view this as a personal attack on a Black-owned brand or the inevitable fallout of aggressive strategy gone awry, the real story lies in the shadowlands of ambition, where bold moves meet fragile optics, and success becomes a pressure cooker for ethical and emotional burnout.

The Ugly Side of Climbing: When Success Costs You

1. Blur of Boundaries
Aggressive moves, buying assets, leveraging future revenue, and stretching collateral have propelled many to the top. But blurred lines between personal ambition and sustainable structure can lead to cracks…financial, reputational, and relational.

2. Isolation by Design
High-stakes leadership often means standing alone. As Weaver urged supporters to “clear the shelves” in solidarity, she underscored how public allegiance becomes a protective moat, yet the fortress can feel empty once bombs drop.

3. Reputation as Currency…and Debt
Climbing hard can leave you leveraged not just in money, but in trust. When everything’s on the line, reputational debt, past missteps, missing paperwork, and overlooked covenants become as dangerous as any loan default.

How to Survive the Dark Slide Without Losing Yourself

If you're climbing - or questioning whether to keep climbing - these are lessons you can carry forward:

1. Own the Narrative, But Don’t Control It Completely

Aim to steer your story, not fake it. Gag orders and legal whisper campaigns might silence details - but authenticity still resonates. Weaver’s call to "keep clearing the shelves" was an attempt to preserve brand love.

2. Fortify Before You Need a Fortress

Financial transparency isn’t a retroactive savior; it’s a preventative measure. Don’t wait for missing reports or overstated collateral to come back as boomerangs in court filings.

3. Delegate With Diligence

The rogue CFO became the flashpoint. Assign tasks - especially financial ones - but don’t abdicate oversight. Build in cross-checks, audits, and second opinions before missteps become boardroom headlines.

4. Cultivate a Trusted Circle…Inside and Outside the Empire

Leaders who surround themselves only with yes-people will falter alone. Whether it's an honest advisor, mentor, or outside counsel, having truth-tellers & free-thinkers can save you from spinning toward collapse.

5. Prepare the Pivot, Even Before You Need It

Sometimes rescues are reactionary. Start side projects or advisory roles before the crisis. If reinvention becomes necessary, as it might for Weaver, you’ll have runway to take off.

Starting Over: When the Ascent Becomes a Slide

Whether you’re at risk of receivership or simply feeling the weight of power, here’s how to begin again…on your terms, with more wisdom:

• Reassess Your Definition of Success
  Titles fade. Impact, legacy, creativity - that’s more lasting. If the grind has soured, maybe it’s time to redirect toward what feeds your soul, not just your résumé.

• Rebuild Trust with Radical Transparency
  Even if you don’t owe the world every detail, owning your narrative - warts & all -shields against suspicion. Vulnerability is disarming.

• Downsize First, Rebuild Second
  Cut what doesn't align: projects, partnerships, even personal expenses. Then, scale gradually with integrity and guardrails.

• Lean on Community, Not Just Creditors
  In crisis, money talks loudest…but your people should carry the weight. Lean on your tribe, loyal customers, your past networks—especially if institutional trust fractures.

• Define New Wins in Non-Financial Terms
  Celebrate rescue -learning, empathy, regained independence -not only profit. Start small, own those moments, and build again.

Final Thought: When Success Refuses to Smile

Success is often painted as glamorous, but the grind to the top can be ugly, lonely, and unrelenting. The Weaver story today isn’t an anomaly; it’s a cautionary tale for anyone building from nothing.

You can climb with your soul intact, but it means choosing clarity over optics, people over projection, and integrity over shortcuts. If you're sliding now, remember: reinvention is not surrender…it’s survival.

You don’t have to spare feelings or expenses to win…but you can win better.

For the past decade, I’ve worked in tech, specifically at FAANG-level companies where the ceilings are high, but the rooms are still overwhelmingly male, white, and confident. During that time, I mastered quite a few life cheat codes: how to lead with clarity, how to translate business problems into tech solutions, how to hold my own in high-stakes meetings. But perhaps the most powerful skill I learned wasn’t about strategy or code - it was this:

I learned how to aim higher and ask for more.

And it changed everything.

This wasn’t a muscle I grew up flexing. I wasn’t raised in a world where people told me to dream bigger than I already dared to. As a Black woman, I was taught to be grateful. To be twice as good. To work hard, stay humble, and wait my turn. Meanwhile, I watched men around me -colleagues, peers, even interns -ask for salaries at the top of the band without flinching. I saw them go after roles they were only half-qualified for. I watched them speak up in rooms they’d barely earned access to. And I couldn’t help but wonder:

What would it feel like to be that audacious?

The Thread That Sparked Something Bigger

A few weeks ago, I posted a thread that simply said:

“Stop applying to be the assistant when you should be applying to be the Director.”

I meant it both literally and metaphorically. Too many of us, especially women -especially women of color - shrink ourselves before the world ever has a chance to. We aim for the safe role, the middle of the band, the just-barely-qualified job because we’ve been told over and over that we’re “lucky to be here.”

But the thread took off in ways I didn’t expect. My inbox filled with two types of messages:

• Stories of people who felt seen - folks who had settled, who played it safe out of fear, imposter syndrome, or conditioning.

• And stories of people who aimed high anyway - and got the job, the title, the salary, the life they wanted.

One woman told me she applied for a Director role she felt “underqualified” for, and landed it with a $40K salary increase. Another admitted she’d never negotiated her salary before, but after reading the thread, she asked for $20K more and got it.

It was beautiful. And it confirmed what I already knew deep down:
Most of us aren’t dreaming too big. We’re dreaming too small.

Where the Fear Comes From

Let’s name the fear for what it is. It’s not laziness. It’s not a lack of ambition. It’s not about imposter syndrome alone.

It’s conditioning.

We are raised in systems that teach us to be safe, to be small, to be agreeable. Especially if you’re a woman. Especially if you’re Black. Especially if you’re first-gen, immigrant, queer, neurodivergent—any identity that’s been historically underrepresented in the rooms where power lives.

We watch others advocate for themselves like it’s second nature while we quietly rehearse how to justify asking for $5K more, when we should be asking for $25K.

We spend hours tailoring resumes for coordinator roles when we’ve already been doing the work of a senior manager.

We tell ourselves we’re not ready, that we don’t have enough experience, that we need one more certification or blessing or title before we go for the thing we really want.

And the result?
We under-earn. We overwork. We stay stuck.

What Happens When You Aim Higher

Here’s what I’ve learned, both from my own journey and from the stories generously shared with me: You often get what you ask for. Hiring managers expect negotiation, salary bands are built with range for a reason, and most job descriptions are aspirational wish lists - not strict checklists. When you aim higher, you’re not being arrogant, you’re simply playing the game the way it was designed. You also grow into the role. No one starts out knowing everything, but if you trust your ability to learn and adapt, you’ll find that growth happens after you say yes, not before. Each time you advocate for yourself, you begin to rewrite your own narrative - one that’s likely been shaped by years of staying small, being grateful, and waiting for permission. And maybe most importantly, your courage becomes contagious. The bold moves you make today could quietly give someone else the green light to dream a little bigger tomorrow.

How to Start Aiming Higher

If this article feels like a call-in, here’s how to take the first step:

• Audit your dreams. Are they based on your true desires—or just what feels safe and attainable?

• Apply for the bigger role. The one that excites and terrifies you in equal measure. Even if you only meet 70% of the requirements.

• Ask for more. Whether it's salary, support, flexibility, or visibility—stop accepting the minimum. You’re not being difficult. You’re advocating for your future.

• Practice saying it out loud. Literally. In the mirror. To a friend. To your journal. Normalize the words “I want more.”

• Track your progress. Every email you send, every job you apply for, every conversation where you spoke up for yourself, write it down. Let the receipts build your confidence.

Final Thoughts

You don’t have to wait for someone to “tap” you. You don’t need to hit every qualification. You don’t need to shrink your dreams to fit into someone else’s comfort zone. And the next time you find yourself doubting whether you’re “ready” for the next level, ask yourself this:

What if I’m already there…and just needed the nerve to claim it?

Six months ago, while on vacation in Panama, I sat up in bed with a glass of wine, opened Canva, and started piecing together a vision board. It was my second year in a row doing it - something I never imagined I’d be into, but here we are. Last year, it was a playful experiment. This year, it felt like ritual. I pulled images from Google: dreamy travel destinations, tender relationship goals, career milestones, affirmations about rest, resilience, and becoming. I layered in words like overflow, alignment, elevation. It became a mosaic of everything a grown woman in her 40s might crave -love, legacy, and soft landings.

And yet…here I am in August, holding a string of L’s like pearls around my neck.

The ideal job didn’t come through.

The friendship fizzled.

The speaking gig ghosted.

The pitch was ignored.

And that one thing I knew was mine? It wasn’t.

Let’s be clear: I’m not new to disappointment. I’m a Black woman in America who’s built a life, a career, and a sense of self that doesn’t crumble with a “no.” But this season has been a masterclass in how rejection hits different when you’ve done the work. When you’ve gone to therapy. When you set intentions. When you thought you were aligned. I’ve paid my dues.

So, I’ve been reflecting…hard…on rejection. And here’s where I landed: rejection isn’t always the universe being cruel. Sometimes, it’s divine clarity. Sometimes, it’s grace in disguise. And most times, it’s just not that deep.

Vision Boards vs. Real Life

There’s something humbling about seeing your vision board collect dust while life drags you through a series of plot twists. But the real lesson isn’t in what didn’t happen, it’s in how you respond. Rejection doesn’t always mean you did something wrong. It doesn’t always mean you weren’t enough. Sometimes, it means that opportunity, that person, that path simply wasn’t your fit. And if you let your ego sit down for a second, you’ll start to realize: misalignment is protection.

That job? Maybe it would’ve burned you out.

That man? Maybe he didn’t have the emotional capacity you needed.

That opportunity? Maybe it would’ve boxed you in instead of setting you free.

I’m learning to treat rejection like a GPS reroute: I don’t need to know where the detour is taking me yet. I just need to trust that I’m still in motion.

How to Take It to the Chin

Here’s how I’ve been navigating these L’s - and no, it doesn’t involve a “just stay positive” speech. I’m not here to gaslight myself into pretending disappointment doesn’t sting like hell. It does. But these practices help me stay grounded:

1. Let yourself feel it.

Rejection isn’t a sign of weakness. Feeling hurt, confused, or even a little embarrassed is human. Cry if you need to. Journal. Call your homegirl. But give that feeling a start and an end—not a permanent address in your spirit.

2. Don’t personalize the “no.”

Not every “no” is about you. Sometimes the budget changes. Sometimes the timing is off. Sometimes they just don’t see the vision, and that doesn’t make you any less brilliant.

3. Revisit your “why.”

When the outcome doesn’t go your way, come back to your intention. Why did you want that thing in the first place? Is there another route to that outcome? Your vision board might not be wrong, it just might need a new timeline or new method.

4. Get quiet.

Every time I’ve been rejected, something better eventually showed up, but only when I made space to receive it. That means less scrambling, less forcing, more stillness. Sometimes rejection is a pause, not a punishment.

5. Move on like it’s beneath you (because maybe it was).

This one is for your ego: keep it pushing. You didn’t get it? Cool. That just freed you up for something that wants you back.

The Blessing in the “No”

I know it’s trendy to talk about redirection & divine timing, but let’s be real, it still hurts in the moment. Especially when you were sure. Especially when you had receipts. Especially when you thought this was it.

But here’s what I know after a few decades of loving, losing, winning, failing, and getting back up: rejection builds muscle. It sharpens discernment. It teaches you not to chase things that aren’t chasing you back. It clears the noise so you can hear yourself again.

Six months into the year, nothing on my vision board has fully materialized. But you know what? I’m still glad I made it. Because that board is a mirror. It reflects not just what I want, but who I’m becoming in the process of waiting, evolving, letting go, and trying again.

So the next time rejection knocks, I won’t spiral. I’ll square up, take it to the chin, and remind myself:

It wasn’t a fit. And that’s okay.

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There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that lives in the bones of people who’ve always had to figure it out. The ones who were told “you’re so mature for your age” while babysitting siblings, translating bills, or co-leading classrooms before you even knew who you were. We didn’t just learn independence, we inherited it.

Me? I’m one of the oldest. The reliable one. The “she got it” one. The natural leader who crushes deadlines, reads the room, and keeps her circle tight. I’m the high-functioning woman in the group chat who seems like she doesn’t need help, because that’s how I was built. And even when I’m tired… I still get shit done.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself: what if “getting shit done” is killing me slowly?

The Myth of the Strong One

The myth of the strong one doesn’t start in adulthood…it begins in childhood, long before we even know how to name it. It starts when you’re 7 years old, helping your younger siblings with homework or warming up a can of SpaghettiOs while your parents worked the 3rd shift. It starts when you’re praised for being “so mature” just because you didn’t cry or remained calm when hurting. It starts when the adults around you lean on your emotional labor because they don’t have the tools to manage their own.

It starts when your needs were secondary, not out of malice, but out of survival.

And over time, you begin to associate love with labor. You learn that to be valuable is to be needed. That rest is earned. That asking for help is a burden. That the people who show up for others don’t get to fall apart. So, you become the “strong one.” The go-to. The glue. And it works…until it doesn’t. And you’re burnt the hell out.

Because nobody teaches you how to stop. Nobody says, “Hey, you don’t have to keep carrying all this.” Nobody affirms your softness the way they affirmed your strength.

By the time you’re in your 20s or 30s, this hyper-independence is so normalized that you don’t even recognize it as a wound. It’s just who you are. You pride yourself on figuring things out alone. You grind. You excel. You hold space for everyone, and leave none for yourself.

But here’s the truth: being the strong one isn’t your personality. It’s your coping mechanism.

And while it may have kept you safe in childhood, it can quietly drain you in adulthood. When you’re always the one who “has it,” no one checks to see if you’re okay. When you never ask for help, people assume you don’t need it. And when your worth is tied to what you can do for others, you forget you’re worthy even when you do nothing at all.

So, What Does Asking for Help Actually Take?

For people like us, asking for help isn’t a task, it’s a practice. And not a comfortable one. It requires emotional rewiring. But here are some things I’m learning:

1. Start Small, But Start

You don’t have to lead with your deepest vulnerability. Start by asking for small favors: a second set of eyes on something, a 15-minute brainstorm, a recommendation. Get used to the feeling of support without shame.

2. Let Go of the Performance

There is no Oscar for pretending you’re fine. The goal isn’t to keep the image of perfection intact; it’s to live a life that doesn’t depend on performing 24/7. Help doesn’t make you less capable. It makes you human.

3. Know What You Need

Sometimes we don’t ask for help because we haven’t even checked in with ourselves long enough to define the need. Is it rest? Is it feedback? Is it a partnership? Get specific, so when you finally open up, it’s f-ing clear…and purposeful.

4. Receive Without Apology

If someone helps you, don’t over-explain or promise to "return the favor." Just say thank you. Period. Your worth isn’t transactional.

My Final Thoughts…Freedom with Pretending

For Black women and femmes in particular, the pressure to be “strong” is baked into everything. And let’s be honest - we are strong. But we deserve lives that don’t require constant strength. Lives where softness isn’t punished, and vulnerability isn’t weaponized. Freedom for us doesn’t always look like quitting jobs or moving to Barbados to be a bartender. Sometimes it starts with a sentence: “I can’t do this alone.” And trusting that help doesn’t strip you of your power…it strengthens it.

So this week, here’s your invitation:

Let someone carry a bag. Miss a deadline. Take a nap. Say, “Actually, I need help.” Not because you’re weak. But because you’re ready to be whole.

Between life lifing, a global pandemic, and job layoffs, something clicked in me recently. I got to put me first. I shouldn’t take pride in never asking for help, overextending myself, always being the one to show up for others, or being a little blind & deaf when I peep foul play from people that I love. But here I am, basking in these very poor habits which bring me routine misery. I don’t want to be a healer, I don’t want to be the person you call when you need a hand, I don’t want to be the one that changes the world…because I’m tired.

My cup ain’t just empty, it’s moldy from years of leaks & stagnation.

Let’s be honest: the term “self-care” has been hijacked. It’s been flattened into bubble baths, beauty hauls, solo travel, and hashtags. But radical self-care? That’s a different beast altogether. It’s not cute. It’s not aesthetic. It’s not easy to market. It’s choosing yourself even when it disappoints the ones that matter most. It’s boundaries that disrupt codependent cycles. It’s protest. Silence. And sometimes, it’s straight-up disappearing so you can remember who you were before everyone else had access to you.

What Is Radical Self-Care?

Coined and modeled by Black feminist, free thinkers like Audre Lorde, radical self-care is not about indulgence… it’s about survival. Lorde famously said, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” For those of us living at the intersection of gender, race, capitalism, and generational trauma with a side of caregiving, radical self-care becomes a sacred rebellion.

It is the practice of tuning in when the world demands you tune out your needs. It is canceling plans without guilt. It is grieving your own neglect. It is unlearning the belief that your worth is tied to how much you give.

Radical self-care looks like disengaging from conversations that drain you. It means muting people you love because you don’t have the capacity. It’s logging off without an announcement. It’s letting the group chat go unanswered. It’s telling your job “no” without a 3-paragraph justification. It is a resistance to burnout culture, to the expectation that you must always be accessible, helpful, agreeable, or strong.

Some of us got cast in the role of “the strong one” so early, we forgot it was a script. Somewhere between childhood survival and adulthood performance, we began to internalize that rest is weakness, softness is luxury, and asking for help is shameful. And the real gag? Half the people who benefit from your strength wouldn’t last a DAY in your shoes.

I’m here to say: you can be strong and still need rest. You can be wise and still need guidance. You can be loving and still choose solitude.

You’re allowed to close the curtains, turn off the phone, and not explain yourself.

Radical self-care gives you permission to protest. Not with signs and chants (though that too), but with your disengagement. With your silence. With your refusal to participate in your own exploitation.

You don’t owe anyone endless access to your time, energy, or empathy. You can love people and still opt out of their chaos. You can be a good friend and still say “not today.” You can be ambitious and still cry an ugly cry at the end of a workday. You are entitled to being a full human being, not just a tool for other people’s healing.

Radical self-care teaches you to identify who depletes your spirit and who replenishes it. It urges you to audit not just your calendar, but your commitments. Who are you showing up for, and at what cost?

Here are 3 ways I’m attempting to practice radical self-care:

1. Audit Your Access Points
   Make a list of who and what has constant access to you, texts, Slack, DMs, late-night calls, emotional dumps. Then ask: who actually deserves that kind of access? Begin to tighten your boundaries and remove passive availability. Your peace should not be on an open floor plan.

2. “No” Should Be the Final Answer
   Not “maybe.” Not “I wish I could.” Just: no. Without guilt. Without over-explaining. No is a full sentence, and using it regularly is one of the most radical acts of self-preservation you can commit to.

3. Create Rituals for Reconnection
   Whether it’s listening to music full-blast, walking in silence, cooking your favorite meal without sharing, or staring at the ceiling, carve out time weekly to reconnect with you. Not the productive you. Not the helpful you. Just you. The version that exists outside of doing.

Radical self-care is not selfish- it’s sacred. And sometimes, saving yourself first is the most revolutionary thing you can do.

I grew up in a big family and couldn’t wait to break free & conquer the world on my own. As someone with a rebellious spirit, I was tired of family unit decisions and shared sacrifices. Looking back, that may be where my premature side-eye toward only children began. But I learned quickly, figuring it out alone is a fast track to burnout. Somewhere along the way, we bought into a myth - that success is a solo sport. That the grind is noble, the climb is more meaningful if you do it alone. That if you want it badly enough, you’ll just figure it out. And that the win is sweeter when there’s no one to share the credit with. But here’s the truth: that’s not how life works.

This world was built for teams.

Behind every “self-made” success story is a circle - mentors, friends, peers, critics, therapists, and cheerleaders. People who kept the vision alive when the dreamer was running on fumes. People who held space, shared strategy, pulled strings, gave feedback, and offered grace. People who reminded you who you were before the rejection, the burnout, the imposter syndrome, or the 90th round of interviews with no callback.

No one makes meaningful change alone.

At a very young age, I’ve learned this the hard way…the beautiful way. The most successful people I know have a Personal Board of Directors:

• A free-thinker to help them think big.

• A realist to bring it back down to Earth.

• A motivator who hypes them up when self-doubt creeps in.

• A healer to help them process the heavy stuff.

• And at least one friend who will send a funny meme or tiktok to keep you spirited.

Whether you’re navigating a career pivot, building something new, healing from something old, or just trying to stay afloat, it matters who you have around you and why.

Because your tribe does more than support you. They shape you. They reflect your blind spots. They challenge your mediocrity. They witness your growth. And they hold you accountable to the future you keep saying you want. So if you’re feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or like you’re carrying the weight of your world, take a look at your “circle” and ask yourself:

• Who’s in my corner right now?

• Who speaks life into me when I’m out of words?

• Who tells me the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable?

• Who wants to see me win, not just watch me?

And if you come up short, that’s okay. The beautiful thing about life - and tribes - is that they can be built, curated, and evolved. One conversation, one connection, one honest moment at time. You build your tribe by showing up as your full self, even when it’s messy. You build it by asking for help, saying yes to community, and reaching out even when your voice shakes.

You build it by being the kind of person you want in your corner: generous, honest, affirming, and consistent.

You curate your tribe by being intentional about energy & alignment. Every connection isn’t meant to be permanent, and that’s not a loss, it’s clarity. Some people are anchors; others are lessons. Learn the difference and move accordingly.

As you stretch, your needs will shift. The support you need at 25 won’t be the same at 40. The friends who met you in survival mode may not know how to meet you in your soft life era. And that’s okay. Let people evolve. Let yourself evolve too.

Because building a tribe isn’t a one-time task, it’s a lifelong, soul-nurturing pursuit. And it just might be the key to everything you’ve been praying, planning, or pushing for.

This world was built for teams.

So go build yours.