On Rest, Reclamation, and the Cost of Making Other People Comfortable with Your Truth
When a Black woman speaks her truth, some will call it confrontation—and that's their work to do, not yours.
By: Nichelle Sankey
Strategic Consultant and Principal, JNSankey Consulting
The Inbox Message Nobody Talks About
There's a moment many women know, unfortunately—the moment when a public win gets met with a private correction.
My article went live, picked up by Influential Women, and I celebrated and shared it across my timeline. A good day. A proud day. A “look at God” day.
And then came the inbox message.
Not hateful. Not overtly hostile. A lengthy message wrapped in that familiar tone women learn to decode early: concern disguised as guidance, guidance disguised as critique, critique disguised as care.
She told me she was happy for me. She said she was happy that I had found my calling.
She told me she read my article.
She said she “almost stopped reading” when she reached one particular sentence.
And in that moment, I felt the old sting—not because her words hurt, but because they were so predictable. Because I’ve lived this dynamic before. Because every time a woman centers her truth, someone else’s unresolved story comes knocking.
This time, though, I didn’t shrink.
I didn’t contort.
I didn’t apologize for the truth that is still shaping me.
I simply responded—and kept moving.
What the Published Article Actually Said
The irony is that the article wasn’t controversial. It wasn’t exclusionary. It wasn’t even pointed. It was a leadership piece about rest for women—the cost of constant endurance, the toll of overfunctioning, and the way women in leadership are conditioned to carry more than is sustainable.
I wrote about an issue that current data supports.
I wrote about lived experience.
I wrote about the cultural patterns that shape how women lead and how they burn out.
And yes—I wrote one sentence naming the specific conditioning of Black women. One sentence. One truth. One lived reality.
That was the sentence she couldn’t get past—the one that narrowed her lens for the rest of the article.
Not the importance of rest as a leadership strategy.
Not the organizational implications when that rest is absent.
Not the universal call for women to reclaim rest as power.
Not the personal anecdotes of reclaiming power at home.
Just the part that made her uncomfortable.
But specificity is not exclusion.
Naming my experience does not erase anyone else’s.
And telling the truth about Black women’s labor is not an attack—it’s an acknowledgment.
The “What About” Reflex
There’s a reflex that activates the moment a Black woman speaks plainly about her experience. A reflex that redirects, reframes, and recenters. A reflex that says:
“What about all women?”
“What about other groups?”
“What about me?”
It’s a pattern as old as every boardroom where I’ve been the only one.
As familiar as every meeting where my clarity was treated as confrontation.
As predictable as every moment when naming my truth was interpreted as an accusation.
The “what about” reflex doesn’t expand the conversation—it shuts it down.
It doesn’t create inclusion—it erases specificity.
It doesn’t build bridges—it reinforces silence.
And the irony?
The women who deploy it often believe they’re being fair, balanced, or protective of unity. But unity built on erasure is not unity. It is quiet harm.
Her opening line—happy I’d found my calling—was its own familiar trope: the compliment that buys permission for what comes next.
The Response — Rest as a Lived Practice
There’s a kind of composure people mistake for softness.
They don’t realize it’s discipline.
They don’t realize it’s restraint.
They don’t realize it’s the result of years spent learning when to speak and when to let silence do the work.
When I responded to her message, I wasn’t performing grace—I was practicing rest.
Not the spa-day kind.
Not the “take a nap and drink water” kind.
The kind that says:
I refuse to contort myself to make you comfortable.
Because the truth is, my response wasn’t for her.
It was for me.
It was for the woman I used to be—the one who would have overexplained, softened her truth, or apologized for being specific.
It was for the woman who used to carry the emotional weight of other people’s discomfort.
This time, I held my ground without raising my voice.
I didn’t match her energy.
I didn’t shrink.
I didn’t let her pull me back into an old version of myself—the version she was certain would have had me capitulate to her, like I did when we worked together.
That is rest as a leadership strategy.
That is rest as reclamation.
That is rest as resistance.
And it’s a practice—one I’m committed to continuing as I navigate leadership spaces where I am seated at the table as a subject matter expert.
The Mirror Moment
Here’s the moment that shifted everything for me: reading her response to my published article.
I am not responsible for what you see when you look in the mirror.
I am responsible for my words.
I am responsible for my integrity.
I am responsible for my truth.
But I am not responsible for the story someone else tells themselves when my lived experience makes them uncomfortable with their own truth.
Projection is a powerful thing.
People will read your clarity as confrontation.
They will read your specificity as exclusion.
They will read your liberation as accusation.
And sometimes, they will read your growth as a personal attack—not because you harmed them, but because your evolution highlights their stagnation.
Her angry emoji in response to my message wasn’t about my article.
It wasn’t even about me.
It was about the reflection she saw when she read my words—a reflection she wasn’t ready to face.
That’s her work.
Not mine.
And I’m done carrying mirrors for other people.
If anything, this moment reminded me to stay anchored in my own truth and let others manage their reflections.
What the Card Taught Me
A few days after her message, I was in my office putting things back in place after a much-needed refurbishment.
Clearing.
Sorting.
Reclaiming my space with intention.
And there it was—a card from her.
The only card that had slipped out of the envelope of cards and other mementos I’m preparing for scrapbooking.
The only one sitting on the desk.
The only one that had fallen over.
I don’t believe everything is a sign.
But I do believe timing has a way of revealing what’s ready to be released.
That card reminded me of the version of myself who survived the environment where she reigned unchallenged and was a purveyor of chaos.
The version who endured her withholding of important process documents.
The version who navigated her power plays where she set the stage.
The version who kept going even when the room wasn’t safe.
Seeing it now—in the middle of a season where I’m reclaiming my voice—felt like a quiet nudge:
Some things fall over because they are no longer meant to stand upright in your life.
You get to decide whether to keep it, archive it, or let it go.
Either way, the lesson is the same:
You don’t have to carry what no longer belongs to you.
This is the kind of moment that deepens your self-awareness without demanding emotional labor.
Bringing It Home — You Don’t Owe Anyone a Smaller Truth
Rest as reclamation is not neutral work.
It is political.
It is cultural.
It is spiritual.
It is deeply personal—especially for Black women who have been conditioned to hold everything together while holding nothing for themselves.
My work does not require a disclaimer.
My truth does not require an apology.
My leadership does not require permission.
The women who need this message will find it.
They already have.
And they will continue to—because specificity is not exclusion.
It is resonance.
So I’ll leave you with this:
It’s been more than 10 years since we worked together—three years on the same team, decades less for me than for her—and she still came to my inbox with old resentment dressed as editorial feedback.
I responded with grace, held my ground, and will continue writing.
That is rest as a leadership strategy.
And if you’re reading this, I’ll ask you the same question I had to ask myself:
What are you still carrying to make someone else comfortable?
