Black Feminism and the Work of Living With Reality
The Essential Work of Black Feminism in Navigating Power Dynamics and Emotional Labor
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One place where Black feminism often diverges from mainstream white feminism is in its orientation toward reality as it is, not solely as we wish it to be. We operate in a society shaped by power imbalances, historical trauma, and gendered expectations — and those dynamics don’t vanish because we’d prefer them gone.
To pretend otherwise is to leave ourselves unprepared for the challenges that will, inevitably, meet us in the real world.
Black feminist thought has long resisted the temptation to confuse aspiration with infrastructure. From the Combahee River Collective to Audre Lorde to bell hooks, there is a throughline: transformation begins with confronting the structures that actually govern our lives. That means we do not shy away from the unromantic truths about how power moves through families, communities, and institutions.
One of those truths is that, for better or worse, much of men’s mental and emotional health work is done by women. We carry the unspoken responsibility of listening, absorbing, reframing, and soothing. This is not just a personal dynamic but a patterned one, passed down through generations, reinforced by culture and circumstance.
It is important to name both sides of that reality. This role can be exhausting, undervalued, and imposed without consent. But it is not inherently shameful or degrading. In its healthiest form — chosen freely, grounded in mutual respect, and supported by reciprocity — it can be a profound act of love and community care.
Our work, then, is not to deny that this labor exists or to pretend we can fully opt out of it tomorrow. It is to give women genuine freedom to decide whether they want to inhabit that role, and to ensure that when they do, it is under conditions that strengthen rather than deplete them.
That means having the tools, boundaries, and support systems that make such work sustainable. It also means ensuring men are equipped — and expected — to give care in return.
This is where I part ways with the idea that liberation can be pursued through constant antagonism with men.
We cannot thrive if our vision for freedom excludes the same people with whom we build families and sustain communities. The biological and social interdependence is real: until we can reproduce, raise children, and nurture entire societies entirely without men — and we cannot — our liberation must also account for coexistence, collaboration, and mutual care.
The challenge is not simply to “share the work” but to redefine the conditions under which it is done. To create relationships where care is not extracted from women as an unpaid tax, but exchanged as part of a living, breathing partnership. To build communities where emotional labor is not a gendered inheritance but a collective capacity.
Liberation in this context is not about erasing the role of emotional caregiver from women’s lives; it is about making it one of many roles we can step into and out of without penalty. It is about ensuring that when we give deeply, we are replenished — not left empty.
That is the kind of reality Black feminism prepares us to live in: one where we see the world clearly, negotiate its terms with agency, and build something better without losing sight of what is already here.