In my home, my partner had a habit of sighing. It happened often, often without cause. These sighs punctuated his words and filled the silence in our home. While he remained unaware of their impact, I was hyper-aware. Each sigh felt like an unspoken criticism, a nagging reminder of my perceived shortcomings. “What’s bothering you?” I would ask, my heart racing.
“Huh?” he would reply, dismissing the concern as unimportant. Yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that his sighs were a reflection of my failures. Society teaches women that men’s discontent is our burden to bear. Each sigh felt like a whisper suggesting that I was letting him down. For many women, even the softest insinuation of disappointment carries the weight of disposability.
This anxiety doesn’t just stem from my marriage. When I’m out running errands, I often go out of my way to avoid my child’s tears if he can’t play at a park. I let him crawl into my lap, even when I’m overwhelmed and need space, fearing he might think I’m rejecting him. The same goes for my toddler, who screams for my attention instead of his father. I often feel that if I fail to meet their needs, I risk losing their affection.
These concerns are not unfounded. Women, especially Black women, face significant backlash when they don’t conform to societal expectations. Black women who prioritize their own needs are often blamed for their partners’ issues or for perceived failings as mothers. Those who choose to reject traditional paths face harsh judgments, while LGBTQ Black women constantly navigate the expectations placed upon them by cisgender, heterosexual men.
Women are socialized to derive their value from how well they cater to others, with our worth often tied to our ability to please. Society suggests that women wield power through their ability to satisfy men’s desires. Yet, when we can’t meet those expectations, what happens? How does one maintain their sense of power when they become “unlikable” or undesirable?
Men often retain their power regardless of their likeability; women, however, face a different reality. We become hyper-vigilant, anticipating needs and preventing disappointment before it arises. Yet this behavior can lead to further disappointment as men may perceive us as anxious or neurotic, unaware of the emotional labor we undertake to shield them from discomfort.
Recently, after a long day with my children, I started to tidy up the house. My son watched as I painstakingly picked up toys and remnants of play. Then, in mere moments, he undid my hard work. “You saw how much effort Mommy put in, right?” I prompted.
“Yes, Mommy, Mickey Mouse,” he replied, distracted.
In that moment, it clicked. I paused, turned off the TV, and asked him to clean up. His tantrum followed, but I chose to let him work through his feelings. If I want my sons to grow into men who are resilient to disappointment, I must teach them that it’s okay to feel disappointed. It’s my responsibility to show them that handling their emotions is part of growing up.
Walking by the park and saying “not now” is essential. I must stop apologizing to men for asserting my boundaries. The habit of worrying about how my actions affect others must be broken. If I am to find comfort in my own life, I need to prioritize my own needs, even at the risk of disappointing others.
Power over myself is the only power that matters—one that cannot be taken, only given away. If that makes me unlikable, so be it. As a Black woman, I know that prioritizing myself often leads to disapproval. But if being true to myself means leaving a trail of disappointment behind, then I embrace that path.
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In conclusion, reclaiming my autonomy means embracing the fact that disappointment is a natural part of relationships. It’s time to teach the next generation that handling their feelings is just as vital as meeting the expectations of others.