Tamara Y. (Williams) Conaway

What happened was…

I was that lady who wore whatever shoes were easy to put on quickly. Style was not my main focus on a daily basis. Sure, I wanted to look nice, but I had to go, go, go most days—ripping and running from place to place in survival mode. This was my norm. I mean, most of my friends were the same. We wore our hustle culture stride like proud gladiators marching to their early death with pride and a sense of purpose.

Who had time for self-care? Not me.

I had the large purse—you know, the kind that has everything you might need in an emergency. The kind of bag you could bring to a war-torn situation and have everything you need for weeks. Yes, I was superwoman for everyone but me. I wore my self-neglect like an honorable thing. Sure, my lifespan was shrinking, but somehow, unconsciously, I knew it was my duty. But why, though? Like really—why?

No one ever said to me, “Tamara, your job is to sacrifice yourself for everyone around you.” No one ever said, “You must have everything in your bag to help a small village, so get a big purse.” No one ever said, “You must wear flats because you never know when you may have to run, jump, swim, dive—you know, gladiator-type stuff.”

I was somehow implicitly indoctrinated with a mindset that my mother had, my grandmother had, my great-grandmother had… but wait a minute—was it a mentality that perhaps came from… maybe… slavery? No, that couldn’t be it. I had to figure this out.

Not every woman lived this type of lifestyle. Many women had time and energy to decorate their homes, plan a luxurious garden even with a small yard, put up a gallery wall, have plants, wear heels, relax, carry small purses, take yoga or Pilates classes, and eat healthy, well-planned meals. Not me. I only had time to wolf down something that had escaped the freezer-burned grasp of my neglected food items in the freezer. But hey, at least I ate.

I mean, how often was I reminded that there were starving children in Africa who had no food at all? I reminded myself every time I felt neglected, ignored, abandoned, and overlooked: At least I’m not starving in Africa. But wait—why Africa? Aren’t there starving children in Europe, Asia, Central and South America? Why was it always Africa that I was compared to whenever I felt unseen, overlooked, or “ungrateful”?

What a cotton-picking minute, as my dad used to say—I am a product of… but I cannot say it… but I should say it… I am a product of generational conditioning that tells women of color we must suffer so everyone else can take it easy. Our job in this setting is to sacrifice ourselves for everyone but never—never—get a life that is all our own.

There, I said it. But how do I resist this racist view? How do I change my own trajectory? How do I thrive in a culture that refuses to let me take a nap, or relax, or take a yoga class, or wear heels, or take time to condition my hair?

Let’s circle back to naps. I sometimes need one, yet my setting says, You are being a cheeky gal. My comeback is that I am going to take that nap, and anyone who has a problem with it can walk right out of my life.

As a matter of fact, most people don’t even ask themselves, Why do I have a problem with this woman taking a nap? Most people don’t even realize that they, too, expect me to give the most without getting anything in return. The technical word for it is implicit bias. We all have it, but we need to be aware of it.

Most don’t even realize that they are corralling Black women into a place of self-neglect and self-sabotage. It’s just what’s expected. It’s what has always been done. But remember that we, too, are soft girls. We, too, deserve love, rest and the time to invest in being pretty. We, too, need protection and support.

So, ladies, let’s go get our soft life—and remember: soft girls play hard.