What does it really mean to be a strong Black woman?

It is a phrase we hear so often that it almost feels inseparable from Black womanhood itself. As Black women, we carry strength within us as if it’s all we’ve known. We look back at the Black women throughout history who endured circumstances designed to break them and somehow kept going. Women who fought, sacrificed, nurtured, and survived it all. That strength is what our freedom was built on, and it deserves to be forever honored.

But lately, I have found myself thinking about the point at which that same strength stops being something we are applauded for and becomes something expected of us. Because for Black women in America, the armor we carry has not always been a choice. In many ways, it has been a product of the society we exist in.

There is complexity in being constantly told how strong you are when so much of that strength was developed out of necessity. Black women have historically had to navigate racism and sexism simultaneously, often while being expected to seamlessly navigate a world targeted against them. We learned how to keep moving because, for generations, stopping was not always an option.

And yet, the very society that requires Black women to be strong has also found ways to punish us for that strength.

When I think about Black women throughout history, I think about women who persisted despite circumstances and expectations designed to limit them. I think about women who made something out of nothing and who built communities while being denied basic rights. Their resilience, tenacity, and drive are everything that strength exudes. But sometimes I wonder if we romanticize that resilience without fully acknowledging what required it. We are admired for our strength, but are not always given the recognition of why we had to become that way in the first place.

The image of the endlessly resilient Black woman did not appear out of nowhere. Throughout American history, stereotypes portrayed Black women as physically stronger, less delicate, less feminine, and capable of enduring more hardship and pain than other women. During slavery, those ideas helped justify the exploitation of Black women’s bodies and labor. Black women could be forced to work, abused, separated from their children, and denied their own humanity while being treated as though they were somehow naturally equipped to withstand it.

Strength was survival.

It became armor because there was often no other choice. And while the circumstances have changed, pieces of those ideas have followed Black women into the present.

Today, it’s almost as if we are expected to be resilient, work hard, and be independent, but when we actually embody those qualities, we are scrutinized for them. Suddenly, strong becomes “aggressive,” passion is equated to having an “attitude,” assertiveness is viewed as “anger,” and any form of expression is “too much.” We are left navigating a world that requires us to develop strength and then criticizes us for the very characteristics that helped us survive it.

Be confident, but not intimidating. Speak up, but watch your tone. Be independent, but not so independent that people feel threatened. Advocate for yourself, but make sure no one can mistake your frustration for anger.

Sometimes it feels as though Black women are expected not only to carry the armor, but to make sure everyone around us is comfortable with the way we wear it.

These mindsets and assumptions follow us everywhere. They exist in how we show up, how we are perceived, and ultimately, how we are treated. It becomes deeper than a stereotype when the assumption of Black women’s strength moves beyond social perception and into institutions that hold our lives in their hands. Healthcare is one of the clearest examples of this.

Historical myths about Black people experiencing or tolerating pain differently have had lasting consequences in medicine. Black patients’ pain has been undermined and undertreated, and Black women have repeatedly described experiences of feeling unheard or dismissed when seeking medical care.

The consequences are particularly devastating in maternal healthcare. Black women in the United States continue to face maternal mortality rates significantly higher than white women. These statistics force us to confront what happens when the assumption that Black women can “handle it” becomes more than a stereotype. Our history of surviving so much can become distorted into an assumption that we somehow require less protection, less care, or less belief.

Our ability to endure pain has never meant that we experience it any less.

There is so much beauty in the strength Black women possess. It is woven throughout our history, our families, our communities, and the women who came before us. That strength deserves to be celebrated, but we cannot celebrate Black women’s resilience without also acknowledging the circumstances that have demanded so much of it.

Resilience is not an excuse to give Black women less care, just as our ability to survive difficult things does not mean those things hurt us any less. Surviving what was meant to break us should never become evidence that we can simply withstand more.

That is where the idea of the Strong Black Woman becomes complicated. The strength itself was never the problem. The problem begins when admiration for that strength becomes an assumption that Black women will always be able to carry more, and require less help because of that.  What is celebrated as resilience can quickly become an expectation of how we are supposed to exist.

Black women have proven our strength over and over again, but our humanity should not be measured by how much we are capable of carrying.

Strength itself isn’t the burden. Never being allowed to put it down is.