Compounded Isolation: A Pandemic & Racism

I’ve cried more in the last few months than I have in the last few years.

There was something incredibly affirming about hearing Meghan Markle’s experience marrying into the British royal family and how—even as well resourced as they are—she was isolated. I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now, and been asked twice and didn’t give this answer, but the most shocking part for me of the Meghan Markle and Prince Harry interview with Oprah was where (***spoiler alert***) Harry said he didn’t properly advocate for his wife to get the proper mental health support because he was ashamed that she needed it.

Whew.

I think so much about how Black women are expected to endure the unendurable, the compounded impacts of racism and sexism which are layered, and layered, and layered again. We are deeply human. Deeply tired. Deeply troubled. Deeply hopeful. Deeply resilient.

I’m sure Meghan and Harry have worked it out by now, but hearing Harry’s reaction to Meghan’s honesty about her mental health made my heart ache for Meghan. It echoed a facet of loneliness that I experience as a Black woman that I hadn’t thought articulately or acutely about. I’ve felt the loneliness of isolation when even the most well-intentioned, otherwise loving and caring people in your life don’t fully see you. And can’t. I truly believe that Black women can only be fully understood by other Black women. I’ve been caught off guard by non-Black friends, colleagues, and loved ones that are “doing the work” and said something offhand or well-intentioned that felt like a kick in the stomach. When compounded on top of other everyday struggles, the pervasive insidiousness of racism, and then the pandemic? I’ve struggled more in the last several months than I could have predicted.

Recently, I’ve tried to explain, endlessly, about how deeply exhausted I am. The pandemic is a weight that we all carry differently, and in addition to that weight, I face an unrelenting onslaught of racism or othering. From reading about Rochester, New York police pepper spraying a nine-year old Black girl, to hearing about another Black trans woman being murdered, watching the Capitol be overrun by white supremacists, aided in times seemingly by Capitol security and police, and contrasted against the police brutality let loose on peaceful protestors after the murder of George Floyd, sitting at work and hearing people debate about terms such as “equity” as though it’s theoretical when it’s anything but for me, watching the uptick of commodification of Black women’s features by women who turn around and call Black women and those same features “ghetto”, the never-ending sneering at Black who wear wigs or seeing others be called “nappy headed” for wearing their natural hair out. Are you tired? That sentence made me tired typing it. As I’ve struggled to live in the day to day since the pandemic began, with all of that on a never ending ticker reel in the background, I’ve seen myself falter and stumble over difficulties that usually I’d tackle and barely miss a step. The feeling of “why am I struggling to grocery shop/organize my move/set up my apartment/work on my blog/think of content for my Instagram?” has been isolating as it’s seemed like other people have adapted to the alienness of living in a pandemic far better than me.

Then I remember — I’ve woken up out of dreams of being hunted by white supremacists or watching Black men be brutally murdered by the blare of my morning alarm and then had to start my work day. The toll is exhausting and sometimes sleep isn’t restful. So when I am asked “how are you” and I answer “I’m exhausted” or “I’m okay” that is the most kind and honest answer I can muster. Even still, that honesty is too often met with toxic positivity or surprise that feels cloying and sticky like deep summer humidity. It is lonely and it is isolating. I am doing my best and some days that is okay and sometimes that is not. One of the hardest things to bear as of late is that some days my best just doesn’t amount to much. In the last three months, in particular, I have needed help.

Like Meghan, I’ve been practicing asking for help when I need it. I prioritize rest, not as a reward, but as a requirement just as much as eating. Beyond sleep, I need to recharge mentally, spiritually, and creatively. I anchor myself in joy, in indulgent pampering, and in buying plants. I prioritize meeting myself where I am and I have been judicious about spending time with people who cannot do the same with me. I prioritize living, because like Meghan, I’ve also struggled with thoughts of self-harm over the years. They’ve come and gone and in each of those times it was being seen that kept me living. I’d call one of my close friends and tell her everything and she’d affirm me. The first step, I have learned, before anything can be fixed, is being fully seen. That is how you begin the fixing. Which makes me think of Prince Harry again, in a moment not fully seeing his pregnant wife who said to him “I can’t be alone right now.” I pray wholeheartedly that no one in my life is ashamed of me needing help, should I reach out to them, and that they will continue to have the courage and strength to fully see me. And I pray that I’ll have the wisdom and strength to ask for what I need. There is a multitude that can be made bearable just by being fully seen, because isolation breeds loneliness and loneliness breeds helplessness.

During the pandemic I moved back to New York City. I have two people in my bubble—my partner and one of my closest friends. I see my friend every Friday and some weeks it feels like I barely make it to Friday, but when I spend time with her I am affirmed. My partner also does a great deal to hear me and meet me where I am as best he can. I’m endlessly thankful for him. Between the two of them, I am renewed enough to make it week after week. I’ve been able to ask them for the different kinds of help I have needed and have also been shown facets of support that I could not have identified that I needed, but which felt like a refreshing gulp of water when I received it.

Moving during the pandemic was stressful. Way more stressful than I thought it would be, not because of the actual logistics of moving, but because of how exhausted I was to begin with. Doing anything when you are exhausted makes some tasks feel herculean. Doing hard things when you’re exhausted feels impossible. Carrying heavy things up five flights of stairs, trying for nearly a month to get my internet connected (while still working my full-time job), unpacking boxes, grappling with what feels like the loss of a very old friend, sitting in on the latest DEI endeavor my organization is undertaking all felt unbearable in the middle of moving. Then, in the midst of that, I had a COVID scare. Not being able to tackle all of that with my usual organization, planning, and sheer strength of will has been jarring. Through it all, my partner has trekked downtown to rent a dolly for my boxes, carried (many) heavy things up the stairs for me, helped me put together furniture that I swore I didn’t need help assembling (I needed help), cooked dinner, and brainstormed things to build for my apartment. He’s said “you’re not alone, I’m here for you” and he’s meant it. I’m a lucky duck.

Even still, there are things he cannot see (through no fault of his own), fears he will not fear heavy in his stomach, and microaggressions he will not be on the other side of. It does not make me like him any less and it has been a reminder that I have many needs. So, being anchored in seeing my friend every Friday, who is a Black woman, is another layer of being seen and it helps keep me sane. Every time I remind myself that I can go to her, or him, and countless other people in my life, and shoot up a proverbial SOS flare and be met where I am, I can take a deep breath. Yet, every time before I reach out I have that split-second of fear that wonders, “what if I ask for help and do not get it? what then?”, which is why hearing the recounting of Meghan’s mental health struggles was tough for me. It was a reminder that, no matter your status or seeming level of access, Black women are routinely dismissed. Watching her and Harry make the decision to step away from the British royal family was a relief. When you don’t get what you need from the people around you, it’s time to find some new people to surround yourself with. And ultimately, even though Harry expressed shame in the moment, he has seemed to do a multitude since to safely extract his wife and child to safety. Asking for what you need pays off.

So, how are you meeting your needs in this phase of your life?

If you’re a Black woman, I cannot encourage you enough to prioritize your time with other Black women. Being able to talk and recharge and not take time to teach isn’t anything to feel guilty about, because being fully seen is affirming and affirmation is life giving. If you’re friends, dating, or married to a Black woman I hope you know hold how sacred her time, energy, and affection towards you are. I hope this has given you a glimpse into the weight she may be carrying, on top of the pandemic, and typical stress of adulthood. I hope that when you ask, “how are you?” you care about the answer and I hope that if she says “I need help” you can become a safe place for her to find support.

in affirmation,

p.s If you’re looking for some tools on asking for help, I fortuitously stumbled across this article, 5 Ways to Ask for Help Without Saying ‘I Need Help’, in the process of editing this post.

compounded isolation: a pandemic & racism