Matching energy isn’t about flipping personalities or losing yourself. It’s not about becoming loud just to be heard or hard just to be respected. It’s about that point where you stop shrinking to keep things comfortable for someone else. It’s the moment you realize that staying quiet is no longer keeping peace, it’s allowing disrespect to breathe.
Browsing: Ain’t That A VHIT
That response echoes across generations and it resonates deeply in the lived experience of many in the Black community. There have been times when resources were limited, doors were closed, opportunities were delayed, and yet life still demanded strength, provision, and perseverance. We all know seasons of “nothing… except.”
There have been seasons in my life when I felt like a glass filled right to the brim. Work responsibilities. Family obligations. Community commitments. Church. Leadership. Deadlines. Expectations were both spoken and unspoken. I was grateful for all of it. Truly grateful. But if I’m honest, there were moments when I wasn’t just busy, I was full.
Being teachable simply means staying open to learning, to correction, and to perspectives different from our own. It is not about how much we know, how old we are, or how much experience we have accumulated. It is about posture. It is the willingness to admit that none of us has arrived and that there is always more to learn.
At 46 years old, I’ve lived long enough to know that silence is rarely accidental. It’s often a choice, one shaped by comfort, fear, exhaustion, or the belief that what’s happening doesn’t quite touch our front door yet. I’ve also learned this: silence has a sound. You may not hear it immediately, but over time it echoes, carrying consequences far beyond the moment we chose not to speak.
A window allows me to look outward at people, circumstances, systems, and situations. A mirror invites me to look inward at my tone, my posture, my motives, my habits, and my heart. Both are necessary. But wisdom, I am discovering, begins with knowing which one I am standing in front of.
America is often introduced to us through poetry and song: amber waves of grain, purple mountain majesties, a nation crowned with brotherhood from sea to shining sea. It is a beautiful image. Yet for many whose history has been shaped by struggle and survival, a quiet question remains: beautiful for whom?
There comes a quiet moment in life when you begin to understand something important: not every comment needs a response, not every opinion deserves your attention, and not every voice should carry weight in your spirit. Some shade simply isn’t worth standing under, especially when it comes from a tree that bears no fruit.
When I think about what truly shaped me, I don’t start with accomplishments or milestones. I start with covering. I start with my grandmothers, my aunts, my godmother, my mother, and the many women who loved me as if I were their own. They carried more than responsibility, they carried me. And whether I realized it at the time or not, their strength was rooted in faith and reinforced by the Black church.
That conversation surfaced a truth many people have lived with but struggle to name: growth requires learning how to close the door behind you and walk through the door in front of you. Closing the door does not mean forgetting what happened. It means choosing not to carry it with you. For some, this looks like leaving a workplace where your contributions were consistently overlooked. For others, it may be stepping away from a role you outgrew but stayed in out of loyalty or fear. And sometimes, it means releasing the version of yourself that responded out of frustration instead of clarity. Some of what we carry happened to us. Some happened by us. Both deserve reflection. Neither should define us.