I Don’t Know If Anyone Is Even Listening Right Now

I Don’t Know If Anyone Is Even Listening Right Now

I Am NOT Okay!

I don’t know if anyone is even listening right now.

Some days it feels like I’m screaming inside a soundproof room — my mouth wide open, my chest tight, my heart pounding — but not a single sound escapes into the world. Not one person turns their head. Not one person asks, “Are you okay?” Not one person notices that I’m drowning.

And the truth is…I’m tired.

I am tired in a way that sleep can’t fix.

Tired in my bones, tired in my spirit, tired in the spaces between my thoughts.

Tired from carrying the weight of everyone else’s world while my own is cracking at the edges.

I am a mother trying to protect my daughter in a school system that seems determined to exhaust, misunderstand, and mishandle her. I am constantly advocating, emailing, documenting, fighting — because if I don’t, who will?

I am a sister supporting my brother as he battles challenges that the world doesn’t see or understand. I am trying to guide him, love him, set boundaries with him, and still somehow hold him together at the seams.

I am a daughter navigating the complexities of my mother’s issues — emotional, mental, historical — the kind that don’t just disappear with age or time.

I am a Black woman trying to lead an organization that exists to save lives, uplift youth, and build community, while silently wondering who is supposed to save me. Even though I know that no one will. I also don't want them to because then they would hold that over my head for the rest of my life.

People talk about strong Black women like it’s a compliment.

Like strength is our superpower.

Like we are built to endure everything — heartbreak, trauma, pressure, injustice, single motherhood, caregiving, leadership, financial strain — and still stand tall without flinching.

But what happens when the strong Black woman collapses?

What happens when her knees buckle under the weight of everyone she is holding up?

What happens when she whispers, “I need help,” and the world keeps walking?

Because that’s how it feels.

It feels like my cries fall on deaf ears.

It feels like no one sees the cracks forming.

It feels like I’m carrying an entire life — mine and everyone else’s — alone.

And the world has taught me that it’s not safe to fall apart.

Not as a Black woman.

Not as a mother.

Not as a leader.

Not as someone who is supposed to be strong.

But what people forget is that strength is not the absence of pain.

Strength is what it looks like when a person keeps moving even when their spirit is tired.

Strength is showing up.

Strength is choosing to love people who are struggling.

Strength is fighting for your child even when your heart is heavy.

Strength is helping your brother even when you barely have anything left to give.

But strength is also saying, “I am not okay.”

And I am not okay.

Not today.Not with everything going on.

Not with the pressure sitting on my shoulders.

Not with the silence around me.

Not with the loneliness that settles into the corners of my home at night — the kind of loneliness that makes the air feel thick.

I don’t have friends here.

I don’t have a partner.

I don’t have anyone to sit across from me and ask how I’m doing with eyes that actually care about the answer.

All I have is this blog — this space — this tiny corner of the internet where I can finally say the words I swallow everywhere else:

I am exhausted.

I am overwhelmed.

I am hurting.

I am human.

And if you are reading this…

If you have ever felt unseen, unheard, stretched beyond your limits…

If you have ever carried everyone else while feeling like no one carries you…

Please know that you are not alone, even if I feel like I am.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s why I’m writing this.

Because maybe someone out there is listening after all.