In my marriage, my partner used to emit these frequent sighs. It was a peculiar habit, often surfacing even when nothing seemed amiss. Every sigh punctuated his words and actions—he’d settle into his chair with a sigh and rise from it with another. Though he seemed oblivious to this quirk, I, on the other hand, couldn’t ignore it. It morphed into a recurring issue in our home. Each sigh felt like a sharp, unsettling noise against my inner being, stirring a deep-seated urge to uncover what lay behind it.
“What’s bothering you?” I would inquire, anxiety creeping in.
“Nothing,” he would reply, insisting that I ignore it. Yet, I found it impossible to let it slide. Those sighs felt like gentle accusations, amplified by my inability to address an unspecified grievance. They hinted at discontent, which society has conditioned me to perceive as my burden to bear. Each sigh echoed a fear that I was somehow letting him down. For many women, even the softest insinuation of disappointment can feel like a threat to our worth.
My partner isn’t the only man in my life I’m anxious about disappointing. During errands, I often take detours to avoid the park, fearful of my son’s wails when he can’t play. When I feel overwhelmed and need space, I allow my child to crawl onto my lap, fearing rejection if I deny him. Even when my baby cries for me over my partner, I acquiesce, despite my desire for shared caregiving. Deep down, I worry that my sons might discard me if I fail to meet their expectations.
These concerns are not unfounded. The stakes are high for those of us who are marginalized, and for Black women, the repercussions of disappointing those in privileged positions can be severe. Black mothers who put their needs first often face blame for their children’s behavior. Those who deviate from traditional paths are criticized for perceived failings within their communities. The unique struggles of LGBTQ+ Black women compound these issues, as they often navigate a world that expects conformity to rigid norms.
Women, in general, are socialized to measure our worth by how well we can cater to others’ needs. Our safety and status often hinge on our ability to please, leading to the false belief that our value is tied to our capacity for service. Popular culture perpetuates the idea that women can wield power through seduction; yet, what happens when we can no longer fulfill those roles? How do we retain power when it is contingent upon being liked or desired?
When faced with male dissatisfaction, many women instinctively accommodate. We become hyper-aware of potential issues, anticipating needs even before they are expressed. We clean up messes before they occur, yet this vigilance can also be seen as neurotic by men who benefit from our efforts without recognizing the labor behind them. Some men become so cushioned by the environments we create that they forget the effort it takes to maintain comfort.
Recently, after a long day managing my children, I gathered the energy to tidy up. On my hands and knees, I picked up colorful pieces of play-dough and scattered toys. Within minutes, my son undid all my hard work. Something shifted in me.
“Did you notice how much effort I put into cleaning?” I asked.
“Uh-huh, Mommy, Mickey Mouse,” he replied, focused on the TV, clearly not engaged.
I turned off the show and asked him to clean up his toys. He reacted with a tantrum, and I decided to let him express his feelings without intervening. I realized that the path to raising sons who won’t discard me for disappointing them isn’t about never disappointing them; it’s about teaching them to handle their own disappointment. I must allow myself to be human and hold them accountable for their emotions. This benefits not only me but also them and women everywhere.
In a society where men often feel entitled to women’s time, bodies, and emotional labor, it’s crucial to redefine expectations. This might mean saying “not now” when my son wants to play at the park or refraining from apologizing to male strangers for simply expressing disinterest. I must stop fixating on my partner’s sighs, my sons’ tantrums, or my ability to perform perfectly.
If I want to find comfort in my own life, I must resist the urge to be deterred by others’ disappointment. Failing to do so leads to chronic self-disappointment. I am learning to prioritize my needs, even if it means letting others down. The only power that cannot be taken away is the power I hold over myself.
So, if refusing to surrender that power means being seen as unlikable, so be it. Black women often face disdain when choosing to prioritize their own needs. If this is the stance I must take to assert my right to exist in this world, then I will embrace it unapologetically. I’ll be proud to leave behind a trail of disappointed faces.
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In summary, the journey of reclaiming personal power and prioritizing self-worth is vital for women, especially those from marginalized backgrounds. Embracing our needs and allowing others to navigate their disappointment can lead to healthier relationships and a stronger sense of self.