I’m probably going to write a book about resilience, but before I do, I need to write this. I know some black woman needs to hear this. Maybe it’s you. If it’s not, I know you know someone who does. It’s March 10th, 2025, a National Day of Rest for Black Women.
An intense urge to write engulfed my spirit when I looked at an elegant picture of myself. Anyone looking at this picture would conclude that I had a good night. I must admit. The photographer did his thing. Nobody would guess that a few hours after taking that picture, I went to the ER.
The Backstory
A week and a half before my ER visit, urgent care confirmed that I had the flu. A few days before my urgent care visit, I was outside in the rain, shoveling both of my blocks, trying to beat the transition of the snow turning to ice. A corner house comes with extra responsibilities. On top of that, my neighbor happened to be away for the weekend. I told myself that I couldn’t let them come home to a sheet of thick ice in front of their house. I shoveled their walkway too.
The job was daunting. I compartmentalized the assignment and took it section by section. It was a lot! It was a two-to-three-man job. One Black woman was tasked to do it. I didn’t and wouldn’t allow myself to rest in between. I kept going. I feared if stopped I wouldn’t complete my assignment. Hours later, my body was sore and cold. My feet and fingers were numb. Yet, I finished. Although tired, I was secretly proud that I was able to do it without help. Ironically, a month before, I led my self-care group in a discussion about letting people help you. Why was I proud of this?
The next day, I felt awful. I knew it was because I was out in the cold shoveling heavy, slushy, almost icy snow. Nevertheless, I ignored how I felt and logged on to my computer that Tuesday for work. I didn’t feel like getting out of bed. I told myself I could work from my bed. I work remotely.
It was hard to breathe and I kept coughing. I wasn’t going to be able to perform a portion my job responsibilities. I couldn’t take calls. I notified management of my symptoms: a consistent cough accompanied by thick brown phlegm. I was willing to work through it and do what I could administratively. Based on my symptoms, they recommended that I go to urgent care to make sure I hadn’t developed pneumonia.
I went. They listened to my lungs with a stethoscope and swabbed my nasal cavity. I left with a diagnosis of the flu and a prescription for cough syrup with codeine that never got filled at the pharmacy due to a back order. Dutifully, I logged back onto my computer and worked the rest of the day. I struggled. I felt weak and couldn’t control my cough. My fingers were still working. That’s what I told myself. I would prioritize all things data entry. I didn’t call out.
The following day, I thanked God that I made it through the night. My chest was on fire, my cough was relentless, and I suffered for air to breathe. I remember thinking, I must have only had colds in my life. I never felt this bad before. This flu was on another level.
I felt fragile and vulnerable. I was offended that the world didn’t stop. It never does.
I still had obligations outside of work. I still had a son to take care of. His needs didn’t pause just because my body decided to. What surprises me is that during this time, I was still able to practice gratitude. I was grateful that the snow showed me mercy for the remainder of my sickness. Knowing myself, I still would have shoveled if duty called. I reminded myself that it could be worse.
That morning, God had one of his messengers FaceTime me. I say God did it because the deliverer and the delivery had to be just right for me to receive the message. I was gently ordered to call out of work that morning. It takes a particular touch to get a very independent, dedicated, some might say bossy individual born under the Taurus zodiac sign to do something they have no intention of doing. God chose the right messenger. I called out. That day I rested my body, but my mind was not without guilt.
I struggled through the night. I had a plastic cup stuffed with a paper towel beside my bed to catch the brown phlegm that suffocated me during rest. Grateful that God woke me up the next morning, I automatically logged into work. I did not take into account how I felt. I gave myself a day. I needed to get it together and get back to work. I didn’t need a bully. I bullied myself.
It wasn’t until three hours into the workday that I decided to call out for the remainder of the day and the week. That morning, I had a conversation with someone concerned with my health. They questioned why I didn’t think I deserved to take care of myself. Those weren’t their exact words, but that’s what it amounted to. I didn’t refute it. I must admit, it was hard to sit with that. That weighed heavier on my chest than the phlegm.
I tried to my best to rest the remainder of the week and relied on over the counter cough syrup to nurse me back to health. A week and a half later I felt better. I still had a slight cough when I laughed. Sleeping wasn’t as scary. The brown phlegm that choked me up at night, turned to green, yellow and then clear. I thought I was better.
Although I didn’t physically feel like it, I pushed myself to attend an event that I committed myself to, before I got sick. My symptoms subsided but my energy level didn’t increase. I did what any high achieving- box checker would do. I pushed through. I fulfilled my obligation and made sure I looked good doing it, despite how I felt. At the end of the night, the introvert, that nobody believes I am, was relieved to get home and rest. My social battery was empty. When I got home, I coughed up phlegm again. This time it wasn’t brown, green or yellow. It was red. I went to the ER.
The night took a dramatic swing. Just hours before I was at a beautiful celebration enjoying myself. The setting changed to a hospital waiting area filled with faces that looked like they’d waited long enough. It was an uncomfortable long night for everyone who needed to be seen. A few were overtly suffering from mental illness. There was a collective sigh of relief when they eventually fell asleep. Nine hours later, the next day, I was evaluated. Two hours after that, I was sent home exhausted with a prescription and an unexpected list of things to follow up on.
What is Strong Black Womanitis?
Strong Black Womanitis is a disease that may cause Black women to:
· Neglect self-care
· Feel guilty saying “no”
· Do “The Most”
· Make a way out of no way
· Suffer in silence
It’s that Strong Black Womanitis
I slowly started to feel better. I spat in my plastic cup less frequently. Sleep became less interrupted. My energy started to pick up, but my mood didn’t. I tried my best to keep my moodiness to myself. You’d have to ask my son to get an accurate account of how well I did with that.
It was during another FaceTime call, with God’s messenger, that I shared how I was feeling. Physically, I was feeling better. That wasn’t the problem. The flu whooped me. It made me very aware of my mortality. My self-awareness was particularly heightened during this phone conversation. “Being a Black woman is lonely” I said to the person on the other line. It was a statement. Some might assess that it teetered between a cry for help and a proclamation. I later shared this with another Black woman, and it punctured her soul causing her to release deferred tears. She felt seen.
I’m sure there are multiple reasons why that statement resonated with her. I imagine if I said it to an audience of Black women, they’d affirm that statement with Amens and “I know that’s right!” I think about all of the hardships I’ve had. I also think about the potential for more. What I think about most is why I didn’t think that I deserved time to heal, time to rest, time to recover. Why did it take so much for me to call out sick? Why did the moon and the stars have to be in alignment for me to chill out?
I am the self-care queen. I am also aware that I’ve been out here moving hypocritically. Why do I push others to take care of themselves but don’t think it’s okay for me to? Why am I the exception? I tell others that rest is productive. I truly believe it is. If you look at how hard I push myself, you’d question me. I knew better but wasn’t doing better.
This all happened during Black History Month. I spent a lot of time watching movies highlighting our enslavement. I saw myself. Here I am in 2025 with a trauma response one might say belonged to my ancestors. I subconsciously feared the lash. It was deep.
The white gaze that Toni Morrison and James Baldwin referred to had nothing on the white master sitting on my shoulder. There was no overseer with a whip telling me that I couldn’t take a break. Nobody has ever told me that I couldn’t rest. Why did I routinely push myself to unhealthy limits? Why did I think that I had to be this strong? Who taught me to treat myself this way?
Life taught me. My specific experiences in life showed me that I had to do it all if I wanted it done. I couldn’t fall down. Who would pick me up? Better yet, who could pick me up? I'm the one who did the heavy lifting. It's hard to be me. It’s hard to do what I do. If I think about it too long, I may not be able to do what I do. So, I don’t think about it. I just do it. That’s what Black women have done. That’s what Black women do. It's not healthy. It’s also irresponsible. It’s unsustainable. It’s called Strong Black Womanitis.
Being a Black woman can be isolating and lonely. Only other Black women get it on a granular level. They feel it on a cellular level. The things that we go through and survive are remarkable. Maya told them we are phenomenal, but we need care too.
I wrote this line in my poem Strong Black Womanitis. “We want Sojourner Truth’s questioned answered ‘Ain’t I a woman?’ Society expecting us to be super, but not human.”
Being a Black woman is hard. It is important to find your people, lean on your people and ugly cry with your people. Stop doing it all by yourself. Stop robbing yourself of life’s sweet spots. Stop behaving like you don’t need anyone because you'll be treated as if you don't need anyone. Stop putting yourself and more importantly your health on the back burner. It is time to center YOU. Focus on YOU.
We need respite. When there is an opportunity for someone to take something off your plate let them. We deserve rest. We deserve balance. We deserve help. We deserve good health. We deserve love. We deserve life.
Black woman I want you to live. Beware of Strong Black Womanitis! It takes on many forms. In my case, it showed up as the flu. I wasn’t taking care of myself before I got the flu, which may have ultimately left me susceptible to contracting what felt like the super flu. There are many levels to self-care. I implore you to be selfish with self-care. Pay attention to your body. Pay attention to your mind. Preserve and maintain your peace. And if your cup is on empty, don’t let them sip!
Black woman you are loved. Black woman you ARE love.
REST.
-Vick Breedy