I Was The Only Black Woman In A Mostly White Office — I Now Fear White Liberals More Than Overt Racists

The glass-walled conference room looked out over the parking lot, Lake Shore Drive and, in the distance, Lake Michigan. The sun was high and the heat of the day had already settled. Rachel, my new supervisor, sat opposite me at the glass table. I eased into a conference chair, careful not to let it roll away.

She had put the meeting on my calendar just fifteen minutes before I arrived. The subject line read "Going Forward" — a vague corporate phrase that rarely signals anything good.

Rachel had been with the organization only eight weeks. We hadn’t built a strong working relationship. This wasn’t our first one-on-one, but it was the first that revealed what I would come to live with: the start of a fraught dynamic that wore on me until, a year and a half later, I sat at my desk wondering whether I would have to break entirely for someone to notice the harm I was carrying.

“As a woman,” she said, “I will no longer let my voice go unheard.”

To me, that line was painfully tone-deaf and an immediate signal that she would make everything about herself. I am a Black woman. In these spaces my race and gender are often silenced; her proclamation erased that truth. My contributions are rarely welcomed in rooms like this, so her opening felt less like solidarity and more like a monologue that pushed me aside.

She then complained that I had kept my back to her during a recent meeting with our director. I remember it clearly: she and the director were standing behind me while I read dates from my screen to keep us on schedule. My desk faced the wall; turning would have meant rearranging my whole setup. It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t memorable. But here we were.

When I reached to respond, she lifted her hand to stop me. My throat tightened and my shoulders rose. I wasn’t angry; I was trying not to cry. I shut down and ran lines through my head just to get through the rest of the meeting without breaking. This was never about a calendar. It was about power.

This was not an isolated incident. It was one in a series of tone-policing moments and passive-aggressive critiques designed to reshape me into an acceptable version of Black womanhood for a predominantly white nonprofit sector. Be smart but not too assertive. Be resilient but never tired. Be fashionable, composed and, above all, non-threatening.

Nonprofits can be especially insidious: associated with altruism and social good, many still operate like ruthless workplaces and are harder to hold accountable because their missions claim justice and equity.

Over the years I was told I was too quiet, too loud, too aloof, too emotional. I was corrected for turning a whiteboard the “wrong” way and written up for not sharing enough ideas — despite submitting a folder full. Every adjustment I made invited new criticism. Natural hair was “radical.” Straightened hair was “polished.” I wore painful shoes, restrictive clothes and full makeup to appear “professional.” I smiled when I didn’t want to. I swallowed words when I should have spoken.

The 2018 report Women of Color in the Nonprofit Sector documents this pattern: women of color are concentrated in lower-paid, lower-visibility roles and face heightened scrutiny when they advance. Feedback is often couched in coded language about “fit” or “tone,” and raising concerns about inequity risks being labeled “difficult” or “angry.”

My experience is echoed by scholars and practitioners. Robin DiAngelo, in White Fragility, describes how white people can weaponize emotions to avoid accountability. Tema Okun’s work on white supremacy culture identifies perfectionism, fear of conflict and control as traits that thrive even in progressive organizations. Dr. Koritha Mitchell calls the backlash successful marginalized people receive “know-your-place aggression.” The CROWN Act exists because even hairstyles require legal protection from bias.

I align with left-leaning values: I believe gender is a social construct, wealth inequality is systemic, and that our justice system needs reimagining. Yet I fear white liberalism more than overt racists. With someone who openly hates me, at least I know where I stand. Liberal spaces are unpredictable — shifting from warmth to hostility in seconds. I’ve seen tears weaponized, concerns deflected, and accountability dodged.

Those spaces often expect marginalized people to educate others while allowing the powerful to judge tone. Calm explanations are dismissed, and promised empathy rarely materializes.

I stayed in unsafe workplaces for too long because I believed hard work would shield me. I avoided internal supports because I had been taught not to “make waves.” The cost was real: suppressing my identity eroded my mental health. When my father died, I finally began therapy. Years of being unheard left me quick to anger and emotionally fragile.

After thirty years of adapting, I decided to stop chasing an ideal never designed for me. I am quiet and loud, joyful and angry. I wear my hair in twists and I wear sneakers. I laugh loudly and cry when I need to. I am not here to make anyone comfortable.

One of my most meaningful workplace experiences came with Melissa, a supervisor at another nonprofit. From day one she invited me to share ideas and actually listened. When she asked my perspective about tension between an older Black volunteer and younger white staff, I quoted a line highlighted in Ted Lasso: “Be curious.”

Curiosity begins by asking how we contribute to workplace dynamics. It means doing the hard work to be better tomorrow than we were today. Melissa didn’t just nod; she acted on the feedback without making it about herself.

A year and a half after the “Going Forward” meeting, Rachel again accused me of withholding ideas. I had a panic attack at my desk and sobbed uncontrollably. She looked surprised and told me she felt uncomfortable. Through tears I muttered, “Well, this is a fun time for me.” For a moment she sat in the discomfort that had marked my daily life for years. I reported the incident to our director. Later that afternoon, a dark thought crossed my mind: if I died by suicide at my desk, would anyone finally see the harm I’d endured? The thought passed, but it left a scar. I called the suicide hotline and realized I either had to leave or change myself to accept this toxicity. A week later, almost to the minute of that thought, it was decided for me: I was laid off.

Once the shock and anger faded, relief followed. That was the start of healing. I understood that no amount of code-switching, smiling, submitting or adapting would ever make me the “right” kind of Black woman — because that woman was imagined to keep Black women quiet.

If you or someone you know needs help: In the U.S. call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org. You can also find local mental-health and crisis resources at dontcallthepolice.com. Outside the U.S., visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention.

Originally published on HuffPost.