Dying to Succeed: Unveiling the (Un)Hidden Toll of Academic Advancement for Black Women

The PhD/MD/JD Won’t Save You

Several years ago, while at an annual education conference, I was fortunate to accompany an award-winning Sista (Black woman) academic scholar to a dinner with eight equally well-known Black women education scholars. I was the only person at the table who was not a seasoned associate or full professor, so I felt extremely lucky. I stayed quiet and soaked up their knowledge.

One of the professors shared an upsetting racial incident that happened to her just prior to the conference. This anecdote initiated a cascade of similar stories from the other attendees around the table. The details discussed encompassed racial stereotyping, substantial racial aggressions (emphasizing their significant impact), and a variety of explicit and implicit racist practices that attendees had observed and endured. I was naively surprised that even endowed full professors from distinguished institutions continued to endure racism in academia. The PhD did not save these Sista scholars, nor did awards or accolades or promotions or prestige. Later, after dinner, these seasoned scholars acknowledged their personal histories of various ailments including heart attacks, strokes, diabetes, fibroids, miscarriages, high blood pressure, anxiety, and exhaustion. As I listened, a chilling question came to me: Are these health challenges associated with the toxic reality of being a Black woman scholar against a pervasive backdrop of racism, discrimination, and marginalization? Recent research has challenged the educational community to uncover the long-term physical, mental, emotional, and psychological effects of living in a White, male-dominated, and privileged society. What threats does society pose to the mental and physical health of Black scholars and learners?

Black woman scholar Dr. Ruth Wilson Gilmore (2007, p. 28) defines racism as “the state-sanctioned or extralegal production and exploitation of group-differentiated vulnerability to premature death.” This insightful definition encapsulates how systemic and institutionalized racism can lead to increased vulnerability and shorter life expectancy for racially marginalized groups. This definition emphasizes that racism is not just about individual acts of discrimination but is also about larger systems and structures that create and maintain racial inequality. She also highlights that racism is not only about prejudice or discrimination but also about how those attitudes and beliefs are institutionalized and enforced through policies and practices that result in premature death or reduced life expectancy for certain racial groups. Gilmore focuses on the ways in which societal structures reinforce and reproduce racial inequality.

Racism has a significant impact on the health and well-being of Black people, including a higher risk of premature death. Racism can lead to higher rates of chronic stress, which can contribute to heart disease, diabetes, mental health issues, and other health problems (Beck et al., 2020; D. R. Williams, 2018). Racism can limit access to health care and other resources, as well as the quality of those resources, which exacerbates health disparities (Churchwell et al., 2020). In addition, structural racism, the ways in which societal institutions and policies perpetuate racial inequality, has been implicated in the premature death of Black people (Gilmore, 2002; Pulido, 2016).

Conceptual Framework: Black Pink Tax and the Cost of Success for Acclaimed Black Women Scholars

Moving beyond existing research centered on White women, it is essential to consider the unique challenges faced by Black women scholars. Moreover, Black scholars also face discrimination and institutional and structural barriers in academic spaces. Black students often find it hard to envision themselves as faculty due to racially charged, unwelcoming academic environments; lack of access to funding and resources; and antiblack and misogynoir targeting. The concept of the “Black Pink Tax” was created by Black woman scholar, Dr. Sharnell Myles, a Family Nurse Practitioner, clinical researcher, and health disparities scholar. She uses this term to describe the unique financial, racial, and social burdens that Black women often face due to intersectional discrimination. These burdens not only affect their financial wellness but also their overall health and well-being. This burden is beyond the Black Tax, which refers to additional financial, emotional, mental, and health burdens that Black people bear due to the historical and ongoing effects of racism, such as discrimination in housing, education, and employment (Webb, 2021). This term, originating in South Africa during apartheid, is now applied to academic contexts to denote the additional emotional, mental, and physical labor Black scholars and students often undertake to succeed in predominantly White institutions (Griffin & Reddick, 2011; West et al., 2021).

“Misogynoir” is a term conceptualized by Moya Bailey (2021), a queer Black feminist academic, to capture the distinctive discrimination against Black women, stemming from the intersectionality of racism and sexism. The term is primarily used to discuss the distinct biases faced by Black women, especially in media and popular culture. These systemic barriers not only hinder Black women scholars but also limit the diversity of perspectives, innovation, creativity, and ideas represented in the academic community. Today’s Black Pink Tax in academia is exacted through daily stereotyping, bias, antiblackness, misogynoir, and the commonly expected additional labor. This “Pink Tax” amplifies racism and discrimination for Black women by introducing an additional layer of bias. The consistent state of awareness regarding racism and sexism levies an emotional toll, underscoring the contemporary manifestation of the combined Black Pink Tax.

One version of the Pink Tax focuses on gender-based pricing, but a more encompassing description describes related manifestations of gender inequality including “the gender wage gap, gender-based pricing differences in consumer goods or services, disproportionate expenses incurred by a large portion of the population for safe travel or to maintain stereotypically ‘feminine’ appearances,” and “unequal time burdens experienced by those responsible for households or caregiving” (Crawford, 2022, p. 2). The Black Pink Tax is the multiplicative tax associated with being a Black woman. This frame is my guide for me-search.

Legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term “intersectionality” in 1989 to describe the way systems of oppression overlap and create unique experiences for people with multiple identity categories (Crenshaw, 1991). She began her work focusing on Black women whose oppression was not confined to anti-Black racism but also encompassed anti-feminine sexism. It is hard to be a woman; it is even harder to be a Black woman, and even harder to be a struggling or working-class Black woman, and damn near impossible as a Black non-binary disabled person (who may present at times as a woman). These struggles are also compounded in the case of the high-achieving Black woman, who is too frequently isolated within traditional institutions and is expected to use their Black women inner strength or even magical fantasy dust (e.g., Black Girl Magic) to singlehandedly combat race-gendered gatekeeping, stereotypes, and discrimination. At the same time, Black women also fight the battles of historical exclusion, modern racism, and societal expectations and restrictions on Black womanhood.

Thus, a Black woman in the realm of academia grapples not only with the undercurrents of racism, sexism, and classism that predispose institutional participants to question her worthiness to occupy academic positions and her ability to be productive (Hills, 2019; S. Wilson, 2012). She is also forced to confront a unique spectrum of obstacles and pressures. This not only hampers her career advancement and achievement but also suffocates the potential diversity of ideas, perspectives, and innovation that she brings to the academic table. The toll of these pressures is not merely our individual struggles—it also encompasses the attenuation of the intellectual richness and diversity we contribute to the academic discourse.

Black women scholars are lamentably underrepresented in leadership roles and within the higher echelons of academia. Upon ascending to positions of leadership, they frequently encounter intense crises, coupled with the expectation to rectify the complications left behind by their predecessors, often White men (McGee et al., 2024; Patton & Haynes, 2014). This formidable undertaking of salvaging someone else’s fiasco rapidly leads to exhaustion or even failure. This circumstance epitomizes the “glass cliff” phenomenon, an insidious form of discrimination that hinders advancement beyond a certain level in a hierarchical structure. This metaphor offers a more intricate perspective, extending beyond the “glass ceiling” concept (Dunlap, 2021).

Black women encounter distinct and more formidable roadblocks in their pursuit of success, akin more to concrete than glass. This “concrete ceiling” encapsulates the unique adversities and barriers confronted by individuals of diverse racial and ethnic backgrounds, with a particular emphasis on Black women, in their professional ascension (Njoku & Evans, 2022).

The systematically embedded nature of racism and sexism makes it more difficult to secure funding, resources, and recognition for our work. Burdened by tokenism, Black women are over-asked (e.g., voluntold) to serve on committees or participate in events as the “diversity representative” rather than being recognized for their expertise and research accomplishments (Davis & Brown, 2017; Njoku & Evans, 2022).

Despite being one of the most highly educated demographics, Black women scholars miss the full benefits of their effort and work. Black women are underrepresented in academia, particularly in higher-level positions such as tenured professors, department chairs, and university administrators. According to data from the National Center for Education Statistics, Black women make up only 4% of full-time faculty at degree-granting postsecondary institutions in the United States. The pay gap is wider for educated Black women in comparison to their non-formally educated Black women peers. The gap is largest for Black women who have bachelor’s degrees—they earn 36% less than white men with bachelor’s degrees on average. According to a survey conducted by the American Association of University Professors (AAUP) in 2020, full-time female faculty members of all races earned 81.2% of their male counterparts’ salary on average. When race is considered, the wage gap becomes even wider. Specifically, Black women faculty tend to receive lower salaries compared with both white men and white women in similar positions. This disparity is consistent across academic ranks, including assistant, associate, and full professor levels. These disparities exist due to a complex interplay of systemic factors including, but not limited to, racial and gender biases, the undervaluation of fields where Black women are often concentrated, and unequal access to career advancement opportunities. The Black–White wage gap has been increasing since 1979 and young Black women, just starting their careers (i.e., those with less than 10 years of experience), have been the hardest hit by this widening gap since 2000 (V. Wilson & Rodgers, 2016).

At the same time, the archetype commonly associated with high-achieving Black women is the strong Black woman archetype (SBWA). The SBWA decrees that Black women are self-reliant, selfless, and always physically, psychologically, and emotionally strong (Baker et al., 2014). Not only is this archetype harmful, but it is juxtaposed with the reality of the health disparities that affect Black women. Black women in the academy have too often been forced to accede to expectations that they are nurturing, understanding, hardworking, and maternal. They are associated with the historical figure of Mammy—the house enslaved figure romanticized in the White imagination—who provides services without complaint, even sacrificing her own children’s wellbeing for the benefit of her enslaver (Roberts-Crews, 2020). The expectation that Black women academics embody the “mammy” or SBWA role leaves little room for the presentation and processing of their racial and professional stressors. The expectation is that Black women in the academy will undertake any task without delay, as if it were conducive to their mental or physical health. Such ideas contribute to burnout and the stagnant numbers of Black women in faculty positions.

Trauma within Black Women’s Bodies

Along with the stressors associated with engaging with academia, Black women also contend with the daily stress and wonderfulness of walking through the world in a Black woman’s body. The era of social media means that we engage with nationwide and worldwide events almost instantaneously. While social media contribute to the distribution of information and entertainment, incidents of anti-Black violence are available nearly immediately on our devices. Highly publicized anti-Black violence in the media has been associated with poorer mental health in Black Americans. Curtis et al. (2021) demonstrated through correlating Google search data that following highly publicized incidents of racial violence, Black Americans reported a higher number of poor mental health days than their White counterparts.

Even in the 21st century, there are persistent health disparities that are consistent with the research findings and risk factors described above. The health impacts of being a Black woman are not the sum of being Black and being a woman. Instead, they are formed by a synergy between multiple identities, differing from both Black men and White women. Black women have a high prevalence of heart disease, stroke, cancers, diabetes, maternal morbidities, obesity, and stress despite being younger (36.1 years) than U.S. women (39.6 years) (Black Demographics, 2022; Chinn et al., 2021). Black women have been victims of historical and modern societal conditions that allow health disparities to continue. Black women’s health disparities are closely linked with social, economic, and/or environmental disadvantage (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 2020).

A “weathering hypothesis” postulates that patterns of exposure to stressful environments are a major determining factor in widening health disparities as individuals age. Black women’s health disparities widen with age due to compounded socioeconomic disadvantages and racist experiences over a lifetime (Geronimus, 1992; Geronimus et al., 2010). While there has been an overall decline during the last 50 years, compared with White women, Black women still have higher rates of cardiovascular disease (CVD) mortality. Black women carry a higher burden of modifiable risk factors and comorbidities; their CVD also manifests at younger ages than other ethnic and racial groups (Chinn et al., 2021). Black women can be diagnosed with CVD as early as young adulthood and into middle adulthood. Optimizing behavioral factors such as physical activity, sleep, emotional health, and stress management is vital to maintaining cardiovascular health. The more structural burdens Black women have, the less likely they are to have excellent cardiovascular health (Chinn et al., 2021). Exposure across a lifetime to environmental stress, such as the stress that accompanies gendered racism, impacts the health of Black women by increasing their allostatic load, the cumulative burden of chronic stress, and life events (Ohm, 2019). The overexposure of Black women to stress has a measurable impact on their physical health, contributing to disproportionate cases of CVD and hypertension (Geronimus, 1992). Greater emotional suppression, an aspect of the SBWA, is predictive of increased CVD risk (Abrams, 2015).

Through Me, You See: Black Women’s “MeSearch”

“MeSearch” or autoethnography uses personal experiences to explore an author’s sociocultural context. Gaining recognition in various academic fields, it allows personal, theoretically grounded research that deviates from traditional qualitative research. For this study, “MeSearch” provided a liberating research path often lacking for Black women researchers. By using my experiences, narrated in the first-person, I delve into my and other Black women’s experiences in academia. This method enabled me to incorporate colloquialisms and informal phrases that truthfully depict my lived experience.

Boylorn (2016) explores the experiences of Black women in the southern United States through “Black girl autoethnography.” The research praxis aligns with the postpositivist call for novel approaches to learn from marginalized people and to enable participants to contest and resist oppression. The authors engage in collaborative autoethnography to communicate their experiences, advance scholarship, and empower change in higher education. Tevis et al. (2020) reflected on their experiences as Black women administrators, highlighting that powerful titles still didn’t overcome the lack of “title-power.” W. S. Williams and Packer-Williams (2019) explore how Black women academics cope with the intersection of class, race, and gender, challenging their authority in academia.

Three Black Women Scholars Whose Dreams Were Deferred

The health effects of being a high-achieving Black woman can be found in the story of three prominent scholars whom I have long admired and who passed before their time. Dr. Lani Guinier, a legal scholar, educator, and civil rights theorist, was the Bennett Boskey Professor of Law at Harvard University Law School and the first woman of color to receive tenure there. She died at the age of 71 years from complications of Alzheimer’s disease (Marquard, 2022). I first learned of Professor Guinier when I was a doctoral student longing for a more nuanced understandings of race and activism. In The Miner’s Canary: Enlisting Race, Resisting Power, Transforming Democracy, Guinier and her co-author Gerald Torres introduce the concept of “political race.” Political race is a multiracial political framework unifying groups of color to the racialized category, as a political strategy that dramatically transforms the use of race from a signifier of individual culpability and prejudice to a collective sign of larger injustices. I employed political race to remind my students that race can be manipulated to stigmatize and oppress (McGee, 2018), but as Guinier and Torres (2002) inform us, “race can also be liberating” (p. 4). Being a person of color has meaning not just in opposition to those who are not Black but in relation to others who are similarly situated. Guinier’s scholarship will live on, but she should still be here to enjoy the fruits of her labor and her advocacy against injustice.

Dr. bell hooks, born Gloria Jean Watkins, was an American author and social activist who was a Distinguished Professor in residence at Berea College. She died at the age of 69 years from kidney failure (The Guardian, 2021). I have never encountered a more authentic and courageous Black woman scholar than bell hooks. Even before my doctoral studies, as an engineer working in New Jersey, I discovered her in my African dance class. Our teacher Mama Saffiya taught us African dance, with both body and mind, and she always ended class with books, films, and other creative works of art that would feed our souls. In dance class, I encountered this powerful bell hooks (1982) quote, “A devaluation of Black womanhood occurred as a result of the sexual exploitation of Black women during slavery that has not altered in the course of hundreds of years” (p. 74). Bell hooks brought her inventiveness and brilliance as a Black woman because of her dedication to intersectionality and her ability to articulate the struggles and experiences of Black women in an accessible and powerful way. She wrote extensively on feminism, race, and class, and her work has helped bring attention to the ways in which these issues intersect and impact the lives of Black women.

Dr. Karen Denise King was a mathematics educator and a program director at the National Science Foundation (NSF) of Education and Human Resources and died at the tragically young age of 48 years from cancer. She led the Discovery Research PreK–12 program and the Education and Human Resources core research program; and served as co-lead for the agency in the White House’s Computer Science for All initiative. As an assistant professor in 2012, I had an affirming meeting with Dr. King, where I discussed a grant idea. Although I was as green as any new professor could be, she was warm and thoughtful, and her sage advice helped me revise my idea and receive my first-ever NSF grant. She was a mentor to many Black women in STEM education disciplines, through her race-conscious intellect, straightforwardness, enthusiasm, and culturally relevant sense of humor. As a champion and heroine for underrepresented minoritized groups in STEM at HBCUs, at the NSF, and throughout the STEM ecosystem, she positively impacted countless lives.

These three women succumbed to different illnesses at different times, but the question remains: Did their arduous journey to the heights of academic success have irreversible effects on their health? Is it possible that these accomplished women experienced the camouflaged cost of the Black Pink Tax in the most tragic way conceivable? Could it be that being Black, brilliant, and a woman carries a hidden premature death sentence? These pressing questions warrant earnest exploration and are central to understanding the real cost of the Black Pink Tax.

These questions gain further gravity when one considers the stark differences in life expectancy based on education levels. Research indicates a significant correlation between higher education and longevity. Professionals with doctoral degrees have an average life expectancy of 87.3 years, a noticeable leap of approximately 6 years over the average life expectancy for a female in the United States, which stands at 81.2 years (National Center for Health Statistics; Arias et al., 2023). Yet, each of these remarkable Black women scholars, spanning various disciplines, met untimely ends, passing away decades before their projected life expectancy.

Self-Care Versus Community Care for Black Women

Black women have often pushed back against the prevailing notion of the self-care movement. Central to this movement is the premise that individuals bear sole responsibility for their own well-being, which can be addressed by consuming products and services marketed under the banner of “self-care.” However, this perspective has been challenged by Black women who see the need for more substantive and systemic changes to truly heal and thrive, rather than just indulging in $17 lattes and $200 massages (although I do enjoy a good massage). They critique the way the self-care industry, fueled by capitalism, often sidesteps the complex challenges that they face.

In contrast, community care refers to the collective actions taken by communities, structures, and institutions to support their members’ well-being. This involves advocating for access to health care, education, and other resources, creating safe spaces for connection, and building support networks for those in need. It extends to addressing systemic issues such as poverty, racism, and discrimination that contribute to adverse outcomes. In essence, community care interrogates structures, cultivating a supportive environment that enables Black women to thrive.

“Sista Circles” offer a powerful counter-narrative to the prevalent stories of solitary resilience and fortitude. These groups, defined as race and gender-affirming enclaves for Black women and girls, serve as “a qualitative research methodology and a support group dedicated to exploring the lived experiences of Black women” (Johnson, 2015, p. 43). More than just support groups, they act as a form of collective care, creating secure environments where Black women can voice their experiences, draw strength from mutual support, and cultivate a sense of community. These circles transcend physical boundaries, convening in various locales, from schools and community centers to churches, and even transitioning to digital platforms. In this sense, Sista Circles not only dismantle the narrative of individualized resilience but actively encourage communal bonding and shared strength.

Yet, a pressing question persists: Should societal expectations push Black women to harness ever-growing levels of grit and resilience amid systemic prejudice, or should the emphasis be on deconstructing the very frameworks of racism that compel Black women to compromise their wellness (McGee & Stovall, 2016)? A critical consideration should be the limits of beneficial endurance, the duration of resilience expected from Black women, and the toll such resilience extracts from them. Confronted with persistently racially harmful educational settings, Black women are compelled to devise strategic defenses to mitigate the inflicted harm. This is, unequivocally and without a doubt, oppression in its most glaring form!

Beyond Parity: Reimagining Equity to Counteract the Legacy of Racism

Through my research, I’ve come to realize the fundamental need to reconceptualize our concept of equity. Considering Black individuals represent approximately 13% of the population (likely nearer to 15% as this statistic fails to account for Black multiracial or mixed-race individuals; (Bratter, 2018, it is incumbent upon us to broaden our goals related to achieving parity in faculty representation. Rather than merely aligning with these demographic figures, we should boldly aspire to exceed them. With a target of achieving 25% or even 30% Black representation among faculty, we move beyond parity, actively working toward righting the historical injustices and providing a more inclusive and equitable academic landscape.

The essence of this paradigm shift is in harnessing diversity’s potential to ignite innovation and spur creativity. Our present scientific and technological progress is severely stifled by a stark deficiency in the multiplicity of thoughts and ideas. A homogeneous group typically controls the narrative and decision-making processes: predominantly White, male, heterosexual, able-bodied individuals, chiefly from prestigious institutions such as Harvard, Stanford, and MIT. This exclusive concentration inevitably circumscribes our capacity for innovation and creativity, as it fosters a singular, confined viewpoint that overlooks the vast spectrum of human experiences.

Therefore, to truly unleash our potential, we need to widen our inclusivity. We need not only more Black voices in the room but also more Brown voices, more representations from the economically disadvantaged, more obese people, more non-binary individuals, more individuals with disabilities, and folx who embody multiple forms of marginalization. By creating a space that genuinely reflects the diverse mosaic of our society, we can dramatically enhance our capacity for innovation and creativity.

Moreover, such an inclusive space fosters the optimization of Black womanhood. It provides an environment where Black women can fully express their potential and contribute to the collective growth of our academic institutions and society at large. Therefore, it is not merely a matter of achieving statistical parity; it is about actively dismantling the long-standing vestiges of racism and fostering an environment where diversity thrives. This proactive approach to equity is the essential next step in our continuing struggle against racial inequalities.

Conclusion and Advice for Emerging Black Women Scholars

There are three pieces of advice that I would give to Black women scholars who are new to the professoriate. First, reject working twice as hard, which is mentally and physically debilitating, and discourages many Black women from pursuing or staying in faculty positions. I had to give up the notion that I must prove myself in an institution or in an environment that consistently doubts my intellectual abilities. I felt pressure to prove that I was as capable and competent as my White counterparts, which led to added stress and anxiety. It’s a waste of energy that I could have been using to make our Black communities better or to make lives healthier as opposed to using my energy to prove to people who don’t believe in me and never really will believe that I’m worthy. Of course, when those folks happen to be senior faculty and administrators, this is easier said than done.

I am certainly still a work in progress, but embracing Black women’s book clubs, writing groups, and social clubs was pivotal in my early faculty years. It was a spiritual connection that enabled me to share my complete self without fear of Blacklash (yes Blacklash, which are words and actions that might make my white colleagues uncomfortable, nervous, and scared of me, but in Black spaces would be treated as welcomed kinship). I did have a White male mentor who was not trying to save me (saviorism) but giving me access to the tools and hidden curriculum I needed to create a pathway to success. The unfortunate truth about these White mentors is that historically they might not have done right by previous Black scholars and colleagues. I found that my mentor had a troubled past, as he made some racialized errors when it came to his own race-neutral scholarship and treatment of Black faculty. I pondered if he was that same man, should I trust him, and how I would be perceived by my academic community if I did. However, his current philosophy leaned toward a place of willingness, maturity, and a desire to make amends. I toggled between being upset at his past biases and his current struggle to mentor with newfound good intentions. I realized that I needed him to share his power and privilege with me, becuase their are decision-making meetings, where I won’t even be the room, much less securing a seat at the table. Also, early in my academic tenure, after blowing a ton of research startup costs on stuff—green office paint, wall bling, and a remote controlled standing desk—I realized that seeking out and securing grant funding, actually serves as a thin but potent layer of protection for my growing academic identity. Of course, bias and discrimination are often baked into these grant-funding agencies, but I received a few key grants that allowed me to invite prominent scholars (whom I admired) to campus. They were well paid and learned about my research and taught me more about theirs. They created more opportunities in my later assistant professor years and offered great exposure and access to a whole different set of funding pathways. Ironically, this whole scenario looped me back into those unhealthy resilience patterns—the very same toxic resilience that I caution Black women about. At times, we do our utmost not to sip on the Kool-Aid, meaning we try not to fall victim to habits and practices we know ain’t right for us, yet we get swept up in the hype of it all.

Now, as a full professor, I’m promising myself to less concerned with the number of publications, or about scrambling for the next award or honor; and be more focused on the quality of my research and writing and interacting and supporting the work of new scholars. Most assistant and associate professors must make tough choices because publication guidelines are meant to exhaust and debilitate most faculty, and those strictures appear to be most acutely felt by Black women scholars.

Second, Black women like me haven’t done a good job of marketing the benefits of being a faculty member on the other side of tenure. Even as I acknowledge the racism endemic to these same institutions, being a tenure-track professor is still a really solid career path, although capitalism and university greed have slashed the number of these positions. Future Black women academics require a better picture of the positive attributes of being a faculty member, a clearer portrait of the small cohort of Black and Brown faculty who impact the education and academic life of thousands of undergraduate, master’s, doctoral, and postdoctoral students of all races. Unfortunately, the current educational system is pushing Black women students away from that possibility, making it ever more difficult to present the upside of our profession.

As an assistant professor, I adjusted my working and teaching schedule to pick up my son from middle school every day at 2:30 pm. I took him to class with me sometimes, which exposed him to higher education life. I took advantage of the perks associated with being at a wealthy private institution, such as low-interest housing loans, discounted gym membership, and skybox tickets. My institution paid 70% of my son’s college tuition for the full 4 years. When I travel for business, I can fly in economy premium and stay in four-star hotels. As I rose through the ranks, I found that the list above was just scratching the surface in terms of accommodations. I have heard of other more senior Black women scholars getting $100,000 retention bonuses, getting houses built and/or paid off, paying off student loans, wellness packages for the entire family, and other financially robust, life-changing benefits. Black women deserve access and opportunity to enjoy the great parts of being a faculty member.

Finally, my journey through education and my work experience has socialized and trained me to investigate how students grow, adapt, learn, and succeed by traditional definitions of academic achievement. Without interrogating the environment that forces them to be unrelentingly resilient, this is what happens: chronic stressors are activated and change the way one’s brain functions, and tragically, when this happens, your physiology changes, and you can pass those changes onto your unborn offspring (Aristizabal et al., 2020). Thus, I now know the marketing and peddling of resilience, without access to resources outside of one’s internal dialogue, is simply oppression. And the long-term effect of chronic oppression is premature death. I want to see Black women academics and other Black people thrive without acquiescing to our collective oppression. I have repurposed my pain over the premature deaths of three Black women, Drs. Lani Guinier, bell hooks, and Karen Denise King, as a reminder not to give all of myself to places and spaces that want us to work to premature deaths. Those same institutions will do a virtual memorial service and a week and a half later they will be advertising to fill the position of the recently deceased Black woman scholar (true story). We need not prioritize academic success over our well-being; we must not serve these powerful institutions and the people in them at the risk of ourselves.

Further, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of prioritizing your own mental and physical well-being. There will be moments when you’ll need to communicate your boundaries assertively to your departmental chair, perhaps declining an additional obligation or a long-term committee assignment. Achieving a balanced and healthy life can help you to manage these career stressors. It is also a crucial part of your professional identity.

I recognize that saying “no” can be challenging—it’s certainly not as straightforward as Nancy Reagan’s misconceived mantra against drugs, “Just say no!” But remember, you don’t have to do this alone. If you have a trusted senior mentor, lean on them for support and ask them to say no on your behalf. Consider discussing the possibility of a service sabbatical (e.g., no service commitments or committee meetings) as part of your salary negotiation process. However, be aware that salary negotiation can be a precarious exercise. Historically, Black women have been offered and have accepted salaries that are considerably lower than their peers. If they opt to negotiate, there stands a risk, quite a substantial risk, that the entire job offer might be withdrawn (McGee et al., 2023).

We must always be mindful of the archetype of the strong, Black woman and the toxicity it can harbor. We, as Black women, need to disentangle ourselves from unreasonable expectations and instead prioritize our health and well-being. For instance, if you love running, continue to make time for it; don’t allow professional pressures and other people’s deficit thinking to rob you of your health. Here’s a personal example: I am a passionate roller skater. I often scout out local skating rinks and pack my own skates whenever I’m out of town. I schedule “me-time” in the park or gym, avoiding back-to-back meetings to give myself space to decompress. This practice frees up more time for me to say “yes” to fellow Black women and to engage in soul-nourishing pursuits.

Find mentors who can advocate for you, reducing the pressure to work to the point of excessive stress and strain. When your professional identity is harmoniously tied to your health and happiness, you’ll find an increased capacity for productivity. Our goal is to thrive, not merely survive; we’re capable of so much more than just doing enough to get by. Remember, your well-being is a priority. Cherish it even we others do not.