When Parenting Feels Like War: A Black Mother’s Struggle in America
Today, I had to set limits with my daughter—my baby girl, born out of a circumstance I never asked for. I love her more than anything, but every time she’s reprimanded, her thoughts spiral into suicidal ideation. Do you know how that feels? To set boundaries out of love and watch your child crumble because this world has convinced her that being corrected means she’s worthless?
Parenting in the United States is hard. Parenting a Black child here feels damn near impossible.
This country tells children at age 13 that they’re adults now—that they have rights, independence, and the freedom to do as they please. But what they don’t say is that these so-called “rights” aren’t built to protect them. Not really. Not when the system is designed to fail them, especially if they’re Black.
A child can be taken advantage of by an adult, and somehow, the child ends up punished or silenced while the adult gets to walk away with their “rights” intact. When Roe v. Wade was overturned, my stomach turned with it. As an adult who had to raise a child born out of trauma, I know how long it took me—five full years of therapy and work—to even begin to care for myself. How do we expect a child to carry that same burden?
But this country doesn’t care. Society decides what happens to our children, not us—the parents. We can pour everything we have into our babies, but one year in a public school can tear it all down.
My daughter was once eager to learn, excited to help, full of light. But public school changed that. It wasn't the students. It was the teachers. The staff. The administrators. They taught her that her skin was a problem. That she was “too much.” They touched her without permission, treated her like a dog, and punished her for doing what white students were praised for. They decided she was “bad” and shoved her into special education without even telling me.
Let me be clear: if your school is 75% white and you're not actively teaching about implicit bias, other cultures, and systemic racism from the voices of people who live it, then your school is already racist.
Tokenism thrives in environments like that.
Let’s talk about tokenism. Because this is extremely imperative.
Tokenism is when a Black person is included just to make a place “look diverse,” but they're not truly valued or heard. They're expected to:
Represent every Black person on Earth.
Be the spokesperson for all things Black.
Be “different” from the negative stereotypes.
Educate everyone else about race, even when they're still figuring it out themselves.
And when they don't do all of that perfectly? They're discarded or demeaned.
It’s a harmful setup. It reinforces the lie that we are a monolith, that one Black voice can speak for all, and that our worth is only validated through whiteness.
So no—don’t come to me saying you went to a Black school and still experienced racism. That’s not the same. The entire foundation of the U.S. is built on racism. This country is still running on the fuel of systemic inequality, and it’s designed to keep us broken.
Just look at how they treated Barack and Michelle Obama compared to Donald and Melania Trump. The former were picked apart relentlessly. The latter were glorified. And yes, I’m saying the United States—the institution, the system, the culture—did that. Not just “some people.” The nation.
My own sister praises Trump. But some Black people have been so broken by this system, so gaslit, that they believe we can do what white people do and receive the same results. We can’t. We never have been able to. The standards are not the same. The laws don’t apply to us equally. And the public school systems reflect that too.
When your child is not a natural-born leader and is instead a follower, throwing them into a public school is like tossing them into the trash. They have to figure out who to follow and what identity to adopt, often shaped by survival and not self-worth. If you're lucky and your child is a leader, they might survive the real world, even thrive. But you can’t force leadership. You can only pray and prepare.
In my daughter's case, she wasn’t just exposed to peer pressure. She was crushed by the very people who were supposed to uplift her.
And now here I am, in the Pacific Northwest, where I came with money, confidence, boldness—and found out just how quickly this region will try to strip that away from you if you're Black. There are Black people here who repeat Candace Owens-style ideology, who make other Black children feel like they’re the problem for not being the "exception to the rule." And it’s devastating. It’s isolating.
And it doesn't stop there. As Black parents, we’re constantly scrutinized. The way we discipline, how we love, how we talk, how we look. Michelle Obama wore a sleeveless black dress and got dragged through the mud. Melania wore everything but clothes, and it was fine. That’s the double standard we live in. The bar is not only higher for us—it keeps moving.
You try to set boundaries with your child, and the system works to undo them. You take their phone, a peer gives them another. You discipline them, and white people call the cops. That's how we got the term “Karen”—a term that, despite the memes, represents real danger for Black families. “Karens” aren’t just annoying. They’re often the reason police get involved. They’re the reason we fear doing normal things.
Shows like THEM and Little Fires Everywhere reveal the insidiousness of racism masked as concern. Parenting while Black in America isn’t just hard—it’s survival.
Being poor doesn’t make it easier. But the system wasn’t built to support poor Black families. It was built to discard us.
Still Standing: Finding Light in the Shadows
Even after all of that—after the trauma, the setbacks, the systemic injustice, the tears, the sleepless nights—I’m still here. Still parenting. Still trying. Still loving my daughter with a kind of love this world doesn’t teach you how to hold.
That’s the thing about circumstantial depression. It’s not that I’m broken—it’s that I’ve been placed in impossible circumstances. It’s that I’ve had to carry weights no one should carry alone. It’s that I’ve been given a battle and told to fight it silently.
But I’m not silent anymore.
And if you’re reading this, I want you to know—you don’t have to be silent either.
You are not alone. Your exhaustion is valid. Your fears are real. Your love is powerful. And your efforts? Even when they feel invisible or dismissed—they matter.
There are so many of us fighting this same fight. Black mothers, fathers, caregivers, mentors, guardians—we are raising children in a system designed to misunderstand, mislabel, and mistreat them. But we’re also planting seeds. Seeds of truth. Seeds of protection. Seeds of resistance. Seeds of joy.
I used to think I had to be the “perfect” parent in order for my child to succeed in this world. But now I know that just being present, honest, and willing to unlearn and grow is enough to start. I know now that I am not the only source of my daughter’s healing—but I am her safe place. Her reminder that even in a world that devalues her, she is sacred.
The beauty in this pain is that it has forced me to be more intentional. To seek out community, to build bridges where there were none, to find joy in the cracks, to recognize my daughter’s strength even in her darkest moments.
And yes, I am still grieving—for what was taken from her, for what was taken from me, for what this nation continues to take from Black families. But I’m also dreaming. I’m dreaming of what we can still build. Of what healing looks like—not just in therapy rooms, but around dinner tables, on long drives with your child, during the quiet moments when you remind them, “You are not broken. You are powerful. You are loved.”
Let me say that to you, too:You are not broken. You are powerful. You are loved.
If your child is struggling right now, if you're feeling overwhelmed or misunderstood, if you're wondering if anything you’re doing matters—it does. You matter. Your voice matters. Your story matters.
The world may not be fair, but your love can still be fierce.The system may be flawed, but your presence can still be a form of protest.Your truth may be heavy, but sharing it might just set someone else free.
So keep going.
Keep talking.
Keep loving.
Keep fighting.
Keep hoping.
Because every time you show up for your child, even on the days you feel like you have nothing left to give, you’re doing something revolutionary.
And that… is everything.
And to those of you who haven’t found your community yet—who feel like you’re walking through this journey alone—I see you too. Living in the Pacific Northwest can feel heavy. The sky stays grey, the sun feels like a stranger, and the warmth you remember from other places—whether it’s the South or the East Coast or even another country—feels a world away. People here can be cold, reserved, even dismissive. And if you don’t drink or party, the isolation can feel even deeper. I know what that feels like. I live it. And I’m telling you now: even if you haven’t found your people, you are not the only one looking. You are not the only one choosing sobriety. You are not the only one craving real connection. Even in the silence, someone else is searching too. And if therapy feels out of reach, especially for our children, know this: healing doesn’t only happen in offices. It can begin in honest conversations, in journaling, in prayer, in art, in music, in movement, in moments of stillness where you remember your worth. Sometimes, you have to become the community you wish you had—and in doing so, you’ll make space for others to find you. Keep holding on. Keep being the light, even in the haze. You are not forgotten, and you are not alone.
With love and resilience,
Lẹwa Ubunifu
"If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it."— Zora Neale Hurston
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