The Loneliness of Being Black in the Pacific Northwest
As a Black woman in the Pacific Northwest, I live every day under the crushing weight of a society that was not designed for me. This place, with its cloudy skies and the ever-present whispers of white privilege, intensifies a loneliness that is already deeply embedded in the Black experience in America. It’s a loneliness that comes from seeing your stories erased, your culture dismissed, and your identity treated as "other."
The media compounds this feeling of exclusion, amplifying harmful stereotypes and distorting the reality of Black lives. Major media outlets routinely present a distorted picture of Black families, often portraying them as dependent, dysfunctional, or broken. Meanwhile, white families are depicted as the embodiment of social stability, success, and normalcy. This disparity isn’t just an accident; it’s a deeply rooted issue that reflects systemic bias in storytelling and representation.
In 1977, the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights found that African American television portrayals typically depicted characters as inferior, stupid, comical, immoral, and dishonest. Decades later, while some progress has been made, these stereotypes continue to linger, albeit in subtler forms. This has profound consequences for how society views Black people—and how Black people, especially children, view themselves. When children and young people are constantly exposed to media that either ignores them or misrepresents them, it chips away at their sense of self-worth. They begin to internalize the message that they are invisible, unimportant, or worse, inherently flawed.
Watching movies like Moana 2, I see families and cultures brought to life on screen with vibrant colors and joyous celebrations of heritage. It’s a beautiful thing to witness, and yet, it stirs a deep ache in me. Where are the stories that celebrate African-American culture with the same care and nuance? Our culture is rich—overflowing with resilience, creativity, and history—but it is often ignored or reduced to caricatures when presented in mainstream media. And when we attempt to create spaces and stories that center our experiences, we’re often met with criticism.
Why is it that when we produce all-Black casts or Black-centered narratives, we are questioned or accused of being exclusionary? Meanwhile, all-white casts and narratives are accepted as the default, the norm. This double standard is more than exhausting; it’s alienating. It sends a message that our stories, our perspectives, and our humanity are not worthy of the same respect and recognition.
For Black women, these issues intersect with unique challenges. Malcolm X’s words remain painfully relevant: “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.” These words echo in the professional world, in education, in relationships, and even in the media we consume. Black women are expected to carry the weight of the world, to endure endless microaggressions, to code-switch, to remain composed and perfect in every aspect of our lives—all while receiving so little in return.
The pressure is suffocating. If I falter, even slightly, I know that I will be blamed. If I show emotion or speak out, I will be labeled “angry” or “difficult.” If I dare to express my pain, I risk being dismissed as “dramatic.” These societal expectations are not just burdensome—they are dehumanizing. They deny us the freedom to be fully human, to make mistakes, to grieve, to be vulnerable.
Yet, we continue to fight. We continue to show up, to work harder, to demand our rightful place in a world that often seeks to exclude us. But the toll this takes is immense, not just on individuals but on our entire community. The weight of systemic discrimination, the absence of true representation, and the persistent need to justify our existence wear us down over time. It is a constant battle, and some days, it feels like we are fighting alone.
The Economic Struggle
One of the most tangible and heartbreaking ways inequality manifests is economically. In 2022, the median household income for non-Hispanic Black Americans was $51,286, compared to $80,404 for non-Hispanic white households. The poverty rate among Black families was 17.5%, while for white families, it was just 5.9%. For every $100 in wealth held by white households, Black households held only $15. These numbers are not just cold, hard statistics—they represent the daily struggles, sacrifices, and indignities of real people, real families, and real lives.
For my daughter and me, this disparity hit home one Thanksgiving. We didn’t have much money that year, but I wanted to create something special for her. I pulled together what we had: a couple of slices of turkey lunchmeat, a few boxes of Stove Top stuffing, and some homemade gravy. I laid the turkey on a plate, poured the gravy over it, and placed the stuffing next to it. That was our Thanksgiving meal, and I made it with love. We sat at the table together, and I reminded her how grateful we should be for what we had.
The next day, a kind friend gave us her leftover turkey and stuffing. It was more than we had the day before, and I felt blessed. A couple of days later, though, my daughter expressed her frustration. “Someone gave us a half-eaten turkey and stuffing,” she said. “That’s like giving a homeless man some scraps.” Her words stung, not because they weren’t true, but because they exposed the deeper pain of what it means to live with so little. I told her again, “At least we have food,” and reminded her that everything we have is a blessing from Jesus. I wanted her to understand gratitude, even in the face of scarcity, but I also understood her hurt. It wasn’t just about the food—it was about the indignity of constantly having less and feeling like we were being given only what others didn’t want.
This story is just one example of how systemic economic inequality impacts our lives. Generational wealth, a cornerstone of financial stability, is almost nonexistent in many Black families. Discriminatory housing practices, such as redlining, have historically locked Black families out of homeownership, one of the most reliable ways to build wealth in America. Even today, Black people face higher interest rates and are more likely to be denied loans than their white counterparts, even when their financial profiles are comparable.
When jobs pay less—or when opportunities are denied outright because of the color of our skin—it creates a ripple effect. It becomes harder to save, harder to plan for the future, and harder to escape the relentless cycle of poverty. For Black women, who often face the dual oppressions of racism and sexism, the wage gap is even more severe. Our labor is undervalued, our contributions overlooked, and our economic potential stifled.
This economic disenfranchisement pushes many into what we call the “hustle.” Hustling, in this context, is not the glamorous entrepreneurial spirit celebrated when white people do it. It’s a survival mechanism, born out of necessity in the face of systemic oppression. When white individuals hustle, they’re praised for their ingenuity. When we hustle, we’re labeled as thugs, scammers, or criminals. This double standard is as glaring as it is infuriating.
Yet, even in the midst of these struggles, there is resilience. That Thanksgiving meal, humble as it was, became a moment to teach my daughter about gratitude and faith. It was a reminder that, while the world may not always value us, our worth does not come from external validation. Everything we have, I told her, is because Jesus provided it. Even in our scarcity, we are blessed.
But being grateful doesn’t mean ignoring the systems that perpetuate our struggle. Gratitude and a demand for justice can coexist. We should not have to choose between being thankful for scraps and fighting for a seat at the table. The disparities in wages, wealth, and opportunity are not just numbers—they are the barriers that keep us from living the full, dignified lives we deserve.
For every family scraping together a holiday meal, for every parent working two or three jobs just to stay afloat, and for every child who grows up feeling the weight of these inequities, these disparities are deeply personal. They shape how we see ourselves and how we dream about our futures. And while I teach my daughter to be grateful, I also teach her to recognize the injustices that make this struggle necessary in the first place. She needs to know that her value is not diminished by the circumstances we face. She is worthy, our family is worthy, and our community is worthy of more than what this broken system offers us.
The fight for economic justice isn’t just about numbers—it’s about dignity, respect, and the right to live without the constant burden of proving our worth in a world that too often denies it.
The Mental Health Crisis
The economic and social pressures faced by Black people are not just financial burdens—they are deeply personal, emotional, and spiritual wounds that compound into a crisis of mental health. This crisis is especially devastating for Black youth in the Pacific Northwest, who grow up in environments that often deny them access to culturally competent mental health services. Without these critical supports, they are left to navigate systemic racism, daily microaggressions, and profound isolation, often with little to no guidance.
As a mother, it breaks my heart to see Black youth struggling in ways that no child should ever have to endure. Our children are dying—not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, and even sexually. The trauma they experience is insidious, eroding their sense of self-worth, their hope for the future, and their ability to thrive. These wounds don’t heal on their own. They fester, becoming chronic sources of pain that affect every aspect of their lives.
Black children and teens in the Pacific Northwest are often the only faces of color in their classrooms or neighborhoods. This isolation amplifies their vulnerability. When they look around and see no one who shares their experiences or understands their struggles, it’s easy for them to feel invisible. The media they consume often doesn’t help. Instead of seeing empowering representations of themselves, they are inundated with harmful stereotypes and narratives that question their humanity.
Children are still developing their sense of self. What they see in the world around them shapes how they view themselves and their potential. When the only stories they hear about Black people are ones of struggle, failure, or criminality, it chips away at their dreams. They begin to internalize the messages that society sends them: that they are not good enough, not smart enough, not valuable enough. The result is a generation of children growing up without the confidence and hope they need to succeed.
This lack of representation and support extends to mental health care. Many mental health professionals are not equipped to understand the unique challenges faced by Black youth. The absence of culturally competent care creates a gap that leaves many young people feeling misunderstood, dismissed, or even further traumatized by the very systems meant to help them.
Organizations like the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) Seattle and the Black Emotional and Mental Health Collective (BEAM) provide valuable resources, but the demand far exceeds what is available. For every child who finds support through these programs, countless others slip through the cracks. It is a heartbreaking reality that haunts me as both a mother and a member of the Black community.
As parents, we feel this pain acutely. There is no greater anguish than watching your child suffer and feeling powerless to help. When my daughter struggles with feelings of isolation or frustration, it tears me apart. I want to shield her from the pain of racism, from the weight of societal expectations, and from the deep loneliness that comes from being treated as "other." But no matter how much I want to protect her, I know I can’t always fight these battles for her. And that is a reality no parent should have to face.
The mental health crisis among Black youth is not just about access to therapy or counseling—it’s about creating a world where our children feel seen, valued, and loved. It’s about addressing the root causes of their pain, from systemic racism to economic inequality to cultural erasure. And it’s about building communities that uplift them, rather than tearing them down.
When our children struggle, it is not just their burden to bear—it is ours as a society. Every child lost to this crisis represents a failure of the systems and structures that are supposed to support them. If we do not act, we risk losing an entire generation to despair.
We need more resources, more culturally competent mental health professionals, and more spaces where Black youth can feel safe and understood. We need to hold our schools, our media, and our leaders accountable for the ways they perpetuate harm. And most importantly, we need to remind our children every day that they are loved, that they matter, and that their lives are worth fighting for.
Our youth are not just the future—they are our present. Their struggles are a reflection of the world we have created, and their pain is a call to action. We owe it to them—and to ourselves—to rise to that challenge. The cost of doing nothing is far too great.
The Loneliness of Isolation
As an extroverted, outgoing Virgo, I crave connection. I thrive in spaces where I can be myself, where I can laugh, share stories, and build community. Yet, living in the Pacific Northwest often feels like shouting into a void. The Black community here is small, and while there are pockets of connection, they can feel insular and exclusive. It is difficult to find my people in a place where I am constantly reminded that I am “other.” This isolation is not just physical; it is deeply emotional, a constant reminder that my existence and identity do not fit comfortably into the fabric of the society around me.
The weight of this loneliness becomes heavier in romantic relationships, where Black women often face additional layers of rejection and dehumanization. Studies have shown that Black women are statistically less likely to be chosen as romantic partners. This painful reality is rooted in both racism and colorism, with harmful stereotypes perpetuating the idea that darker skin is less desirable. The effects of this are deeply personal, shaping how we see ourselves and our worth. For many Black women, the constant rejection becomes an emotional wound, a scar that reinforces the idea that we must prove our value in every space, including our most intimate relationships.
This societal bias intersects with the concept of “struggle love,” a narrative that is often placed on the shoulders of Black women. We are expected to endure hardship, to sacrifice, to support others through their growth and healing, all while receiving little in return. This narrative has been glorified in some media portrayals, presenting Black women as inherently strong and selfless to the point of martyrdom. While strength is a virtue, the expectation that we must always bear burdens alone is dehumanizing. It denies us the right to vulnerability, to be cared for, and to demand more for ourselves.
This narrative is not just about adult relationships—it begins in childhood, where Black girls are often subjected to adultification. Society frequently views Black girls as older and more mature than they are, stripping them of the innocence and care afforded to their peers. This perception denies them the right to be children, to dream, to be carefree, and to imagine futures full of love and joy. Many Black girls dream of creating homes and families, yet society's insistence on treating them as “mini-adults” forces them to take on responsibilities and expectations far beyond their years. This robs them of the time and space to nurture their dreams and build the emotional foundations necessary for fulfilling relationships later in life.
The impact of this loneliness is not just emotional—it is physical. Loneliness is a silent killer. Research has shown that chronic loneliness can lead to a range of health issues, including heart disease, high blood pressure, and weakened immune function. For Black women, who already face higher rates of health disparities, the toll of loneliness can be devastating. It’s not just about wanting connection; it’s about survival. The absence of meaningful relationships and community exacerbates the stress and challenges we face in a society that already marginalizes us.
This loneliness extends to broader aspects of life, affecting how Black women navigate their careers, social circles, and personal aspirations. We are often the only Black faces in professional or social settings, which adds to the sense of isolation. Even when we achieve success, the lack of a supportive community can make those accomplishments feel hollow.
As Black women, we carry a unique burden of being simultaneously hyper-visible and invisible. Our struggles are often ignored, our contributions undervalued, and our desires dismissed. The intersection of racism, sexism, and colorism creates a reality where we are constantly fighting to prove our humanity and our worth, even to those closest to us.
Despite all of this, many of us still long for connection, for love, for family. These desires are not weaknesses—they are strengths. They represent our resilience and our ability to hope even in the face of systemic barriers. Yet, the path to fulfilling these desires often feels impossibly steep. The societal biases against Black women create barriers that make finding meaningful relationships and building community incredibly difficult.
The loneliness Black women face is not just an individual issue; it is a societal one. It reflects the ways in which our culture fails to value and support Black women, forcing us to navigate a world that often denies us the love, care, and connection we deserve. Addressing this issue requires more than just individual effort—it requires systemic change. It requires creating spaces where Black women are celebrated, not just tolerated. It requires dismantling the harmful narratives that dehumanize us and replacing them with ones that affirm our humanity, our beauty, and our worth.
Until that change comes, we must continue to hold onto hope. We must seek out the pockets of connection that do exist, build our own communities, and remind ourselves that we are deserving of love, care, and belonging. Our dreams of home and family are not naive—they are acts of resistance against a world that often seeks to deny us those very things. And in holding onto those dreams, we create a space for healing, for growth, and for the possibility of a brighter future.
Seeking Hope and Connection
Despite the pervasive challenges that come with being Black in America, I refuse to surrender to despair. I believe there is a path forward—not just for myself, but for all of us. There are spaces that provide connection and belonging, even in the face of systemic racism. Organizations like Please Don’t Die Black Men (pddbm.org), NAACP Vancouver WA (naacpvancouverwa.org), and Fourth Plain Forward Community Commons (fpcommunitycommons.org) are lifelines for Black people in the Pacific Northwest. These spaces allow us to gather, find support, and remind each other that we are not alone, even when it feels like the world is against us.
In addition to these community resources, I find solace and strength in the arts, particularly in music that resonates with our experiences of pain and resilience. Music has always been a powerful tool for expressing the pain, anger, and resilience of the Black experience. Some songs uplift and inspire, while others shine a spotlight on the struggles we face daily, forcing listeners to confront the harsh realities of systemic injustice.
Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power” is a rallying cry against oppression. Released in 1989, this song challenges societal norms and calls out systemic racism in America. Its politically charged lyrics urge listeners to take action, with lines like, "What we need is awareness, we can’t get careless," emphasizing the importance of staying vigilant and resisting complacency.
Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” is a haunting reminder of the racial violence that has scarred America’s history. Written in 1939, the song describes lynching with gut-wrenching imagery: "Southern trees bear strange fruit, blood on the leaves and blood at the root." The pain in Holiday’s voice brings to life the horrors that too many Black families have endured. Even today, the song remains a stark indictment of racial violence and the need for justice.
Tupac Shakur’s “Keep Ya Head Up” is a poignant anthem for Black women, addressing the hardships they face with empathy and encouragement. It’s both a call to resilience and an acknowledgment of the systemic oppression that Black women endure. In the same vein, Tupac’s “Brenda’s Got a Baby” explores the tragic realities of poverty, systemic neglect, and the exploitation of young Black girls. The song tells the story of a 12-year-old girl forced to navigate adult responsibilities after becoming a mother, shedding light on how society fails its most vulnerable.
Childish Gambino’s “This Is America” captures the chaos and contradictions of life as a Black person in the United States. With stark imagery and biting lyrics, the song critiques the ways in which Black culture is consumed while Black lives are disregarded. The refrain "This is America" serves as a chilling reminder of the country’s deep-seated racial inequities.
Lauryn Hill’s “Black Rage” is a deeply emotional reflection on the historical and ongoing trauma of being Black in America. Set to the melody of "My Favorite Things," Hill’s lyrics explore the pain, anger, and resilience that come from living in a world that devalues Black lives.
Ice Cube’s “Fk Tha Police”** from N.W.A’s album Straight Outta Compton is an unapologetic response to police brutality and systemic injustice. Written in 1988, the song reflects the anger and frustration of Black communities disproportionately targeted by law enforcement. It’s a bold declaration that refuses to accept the status quo of racial profiling and violence.
Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” remains one of the most iconic protest songs of all time. Released in 1971, it addresses police brutality, environmental issues, and systemic injustice. Its plea for understanding and love transcends time, resonating with the struggles we face today.
John Legend and Common's “Glory”, from the film Selma, bridges historical and contemporary struggles for racial equality. The song draws parallels between the civil rights movement and current social justice efforts, emphasizing the ongoing nature of the fight for equality. Its uplifting melody and hopeful lyrics inspire perseverance and action.
Adding to this power, the Detroit Youth Choir’s rendition of “Glory” provides a fresh, emotional perspective. Their youthful voices inject a sense of hope and determination, highlighting the importance of passing the torch of activism to the next generation. Their performance serves as a reminder that even amid adversity, the fight for justice continues, driven by the energy and resilience of our youth.
These songs are more than just music—they are testimonies. They tell stories that need to be heard, painting vivid pictures of the Black experience in America. For some, these songs are mirrors, reflecting their own struggles. For others, they are lessons, helping to understand the depth and breadth of systemic racism.
While these songs bring attention to the pain and injustice we face, they also connect us. They remind us that we are not alone in our struggles. Through shared experiences and collective resilience, we find strength to continue pushing forward.
By engaging with these cultural touchstones and community organizations, we find not only solace but also solidarity and empowerment. Through organizations like Please Don’t Die Black Men, the NAACP, and Fourth Plain Forward, we can access support systems that lift us up. Through music, we can process our pain, draw strength from our resilience, and connect with a larger community of individuals who have faced similar challenges and persevered.
The path to healing and justice is not easy, but it begins with acknowledging the truth. It begins with listening to the stories told through music, community conversations, and personal experiences. We cannot afford to ignore the realities of what it means to be Black in America, nor can we let the weight of these realities crush our hope. Through organizations, music, and each other, we can find the support and connection we need to keep moving forward. Together, we can overcome the challenges we face and work toward a brighter future.
Moving Forward
To anyone who feels the weight of this struggle, I want you to know that you are not alone. I know it feels impossible at times. I know the loneliness can be overwhelming, and the days can feel unbearably long. But there is power in community, even if it is not always easy to find. Connection, when found, becomes a lifeline—a space where our pain is understood, our experiences are validated, and our hope is renewed.
In the Pacific Northwest, where the Black community can often feel fragmented and isolated, it is crucial to create and nurture our own spaces. These spaces, no matter how small, are where we can tell our stories, celebrate our victories, and support each other in our struggles. They become the foundation for building a future where we are not just surviving but thriving.
The path to moving forward is not easy, and it often requires intentionality. It requires reaching out to organizations like Please Don’t Die Black Men (pddbm.org), NAACP Vancouver WA (naacpvancouverwa.org), and Fourth Plain Forward Community Commons (fpcommunitycommons.org). These organizations are not just resources—they are beacons of hope, reminders that even in the face of systemic oppression, we can find support and solidarity. Through these connections, we can discover opportunities to attend events, engage in conversations, and meet people who understand and share our experiences.
Moving forward also requires us to challenge the systems that oppress us. It is not enough to navigate these systems; we must actively work to dismantle them. This can take many forms—advocating for policy changes, supporting Black-owned businesses, volunteering our time, or mentoring the next generation. Every action, no matter how small, contributes to the larger goal of creating a society that values equity, justice, and inclusion.
At the heart of this journey is the need to celebrate our culture and heritage unapologetically. Black culture is rich, vibrant, and resilient. It is a culture that has endured unimaginable hardships yet continues to thrive and inspire. By uplifting our stories, traditions, and creativity, we assert our place in the world and ensure that our voices are heard. This act of celebration is not just for us—it is for future generations, so they know their history, their worth, and their potential.
However, this journey is not without its challenges. There will be days when the road feels too long, when the weight of it all feels too heavy to bear. On those days, it is important to lean into the love and strength of our community. Whether it’s a friend, a family member, a mentor, or even a stranger who offers a kind word, these connections remind us that we are not alone. Together, we can shoulder the burden and find ways to keep moving forward.
For those of us raising children in this environment, moving forward means instilling in them a sense of pride and resilience. It means teaching them about their history, their strength, and their ability to overcome. It also means advocating for their futures—ensuring they have access to the resources, opportunities, and support they need to thrive. By investing in the next generation, we lay the groundwork for a brighter future, not just for our children but for our entire community.
As we move forward, it is also important to acknowledge and honor our emotions. It is okay to feel tired, angry, or discouraged. These feelings are valid and are a natural response to the injustices we face. But even in our darkest moments, there is hope. Hope is what keeps us fighting, dreaming, and believing in the possibility of a better tomorrow.
This journey is not easy, and it requires persistence and courage. But as long as we continue to fight, to hope, and to love, there is always a way forward. We must remind ourselves daily that our existence is resistance. By showing up, by continuing to push for change, and by supporting one another, we are creating the future we deserve.
To anyone who feels the weight of this struggle: you are seen, you are valued, and you are not alone. Together, we can move forward—one step, one connection, one act of love at a time. And in doing so, we will not only survive but thrive.
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