Why I Walked Away from $200K: A Black Woman’s Journey Through Higher Education
For years, I poured my heart, intellect, and integrity into higher education. Late nights? No problem. Weekends? Of course. I. would take use-or-loose vacation time with the sole purpose of getting caught up on the never-ending list of tasks. I climbed the ranks, earned my degrees, led initiatives, mentored students, and showed up every day determined to make an impact. By every external measure, I had built a successful career. But what those metrics don’t capture is the unseen toll—the quiet, constant erosion of dignity and self-esteem that ultimately led me to walk away.
The Theft of Ideas and the Cost of Silence
I can’t count how many times my ideas were taken and repackaged by others—usually by someone with more institutional power and a different complexion. I’d propose a strategy or concept in a meeting, only to watch it be dismissed—until it came from someone else’s mouth and suddenly became “innovative.”
The erasure was subtle but persistent. And over time, it began to chip away at my sense of value and self-worth. If I'm doing my best and it's not enough, clearly the problem is me.
When the Image Is Enough, But the Person Isn't
There was a time the marketing department asked me for a few photos—nothing major, just some pictures for a campaign. “Sure,” I said, because Black women must always be accommodating, agreeable, and helpful.
What I didn’t expect was to see my face splashed across promotional materials for a program I had no knowledge of and was never enrolled in.
I wasn’t even a student.
But they needed to recruit more Black women, and I looked like what they wanted. That was enough.
No permission. No explanation. No acknowledgment. Just usage.
It was a stunning reminder: my Blackness was valuable—when it could be monetized or used. My image was worth promoting, but my personhood was irrelevant. That moment stayed with me. Not because it was the worst thing that ever happened—but because it was so ordinary.
Character on Trial
One day, during a meeting I was leading, a white male colleague abruptly lashed out in front of others. He questioned my integrity, saying:
“I feel like you lied to me.”
There was no evidence—just emotion, assumption, and entitlement.
When the facts came out and confirmed my transparency, he issued a public apology, affirming my honesty and trustworthiness. But the accusation had already been made. And as we all know—apologies don’t undo impact.
In my reply, I said what needed to be said:
As a Black woman, I do not have the luxury of having my competence or character questioned. I am not extended grace. I don’t get the benefit of the doubt.
Some people took offense. They said I was “making it about race.”
As if race wasn’t already present in every unspoken assumption, every disproportionate expectation, every double standard I had navigated quietly for years. Being falsely accused of dishonesty in a space where your presence is already considered exceptional is traumatic. The stress of needing to constantly defend my character created hypervigilance. I began to over-explain, over-prepare, and internalize a sense of walking on eggshells—all signs of racial battle fatigue.
Black women aren’t extended grace—we are extended scrutiny.
Ironically, the same senior administrator who had allowed these dynamics to fester described the incident as “an abusive situation” and praised me for my “composure.”
And yet, there was no accountability—only admiration for my ability to endure.
Resistance From Below
The disrespect didn’t just come from above.
One day, a woman I had hired, trained, and mentored confided in me.
She said she felt uncomfortable because she “had to report only to women of color.”
“It’s all just women of color,” she added.
Even in that moment, I knew I had to tread carefully. I asked, “Do you feel that’s had any negative impact on your growth or opportunities for promotion?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Then why bring it up?”
“Well,” she said, “if it were the other way around—if you only had white supervisors—it would be a problem. ”The irony was glaring. Throughout my career in higher ed, nearly every supervisor I’d had was white.
The only person of color id ever reported to was a Black woman who left the year before I did—burned out, silenced, and pushed aside.
And what struck me even more was this: the same person who had, on countless occasions, insisted they “don’t see race,” could suddenly see, with great clarity, that I and my colleagues were Black and Hispanic.
Even Praise Is Tinged with Racism
As part of my role, I coordinated visa and immigration support for international scholars. After one visitor completed their stay, they expressed immense gratitude for how seamless I made the process. They brought a small thank-you gift on their last day—a gesture I appreciated.
Until I opened it.
It was a jar of skin lightening cream.
Though I couldn’t read the text, the image was unmistakable: a dark-skinned woman next to a dramatically lighter version of herself. “This is the best skincare,” they said warmly.
I smiled. I thanked them sincerely. And I decided to let it go—because what else could I do? In the grand scheme of things, was it really worth addressing?
But that moment lingered. It was a reminder that even admiration, when filtered through white supremacy and colorism, can come with an edge. Even compliments can carry harm. Even gifts can reinforce the message that lighter is better.
Grief Has No Exemption
But perhaps the moment that most clearly revealed where I stood came not through confrontation—but through the quiet, calculated blame that followed one of the most devastating periods of my life.
I was on approved Family Medical Leave, mourning the loss of a child. I was absent. I was grieving. I was doing everything I could just to survive.
During that time, a mistake occurred on my team—under the direct supervision of someone else. Yet, the blame was placed squarely on me.
Yes, I was held accountable for an error that happened while I wasn’t even there.
Because even in absence—even in grief—as a Black woman, your watch never ends.
I was expected to carry the weight. To absorb the failure. To remain responsible for everything and everyone, even when leadership had been delegated to others. Instead of stepping up, those in charge protected their image at the expense of my humanity.
That moment didn’t break me because I was fragile. It broke me because it confirmed what I had quietly survived for years
I found myself crying in parking lots. Journaling just to survive. Withdrawing from colleagues to preserve what little emotional bandwidth I had left.
And then, the irony.
That same supervisor—who once casually referred to me as “homegirl” before stopping to ask if that was okay, and who, in the same meeting, declared the need for “more professional communication” (which meant policies, manuals, and formal emails)—was soon facing issues of her own. Accusations of retaliation. Patterns of toxic leadership. Whispers of “abuse.” The very behavior I had experienced was no longer hidden in shadows.
I remember sitting on my bed when I heard. I cackled.
Not because someone else was suffering—but because I had long felt like the canary in the coal mine. When I start to cheep, something is wrong. My distress wasn’t dysfunction—it was a warning. The system was toxic. And now, others were finally acknowledging the air had turned foul.
Because the truth is: microaggressions aren’t always sharp or obvious. Sometimes, they show up as familiarity. That "homegirl" comment wasn’t connection—it was diminishment. An attempt to reduce me while masking it as casual warmth. Professionalism was only policed when it was mine. My boundaries were questioned, even as others crossed theirs freely. It was never about tone. It was always about control.
A Turning Point: When Someone Actually Asked
During my tenure a leadership change brought an unexpected moment of clarity—and hope. When the only supervisor of color I’d ever had left—burned out, silenced, and pushed aside—her role was filled by a white male colleague I’d worked with before.
I’ll admit, I had my doubts. But I also knew him to be decent, thoughtful—and the people who reported to him always spoke highly of him. Within weeks of working together, he did something no one in power had done before: he affirmed what I had been feeling but could never prove. He believed me.
Then he asked a question I hadn’t heard in years.
“What can I do to help?”
He asked it without ego, without defensiveness—just genuine concern. And that moment felt like everything.
His time in the role was short. He passed away just a few months later. And he was replaced by the same woman I mentioned earlier—the one who blamed me during my bereavement leave.
But his willingness to listen—and to lead with integrity—stayed with me. It reminded me that change is possible when people choose courage over comfort. He was a rare exception in a place built on silencing.
And I carry that moment with me still.
You don’t have to be an equity warrior—just a safe space for someone whose reality might not mirror your own. You don't have to have the answer, just be willing to have the conversation.
The Moment That Changed Everything
In a private meeting, a senior administrator once looked at me and said:
“I look at him with murderous disgust.”
I was stunned—but conditioned, like so many Black women, to deescalate and protect—even in the face of violence masked as feedback. So I instinctively responded, “I’m so sorry. That wasn’t my intention.” But I couldn’t forget it.
Later, I followed up with a question that had haunted me ever since:
“Do you have a problem with anyone else’s face?”
I named a white male colleague—known for his stern expression and seriousness.
“No,” he said without hesitation.
Then came the words that dropped like a stone in my lap:
“I don’t know. Maybe I have a problem with Black faces.”
And still, I stayed.
I stayed because I thought I could work through it. Because I still believed change was possible.
But the story didn’t end there.
In a later conversation, that same administrator told me I was making other Black women in the department feel “uncomfortable.”
“Your experience is not theirs,” he said.
“Let’s find a way for you to bring your concerns in a more productive manner.”
In that moment, I thought of George Floyd.
I explained—calmly—that the only “productive” way to talk about my experience seemed to be anywhere I couldn’t be heard. What i had experienced wasn’t just miscommunication or, as I’d heard it called, an “administrative failure.”
It was an institutional knee on the neck of someone screaming for help.
He was visibly disturbed by the analogy. But I wasn’t saying it for shock value.
I was saying it because it was true.
Silencing Black women under the guise of not disturbing others sends a clear message:
Our pain must be quiet, and polite, and above all cannot call into question the sincerity or practices of those in leadership. Equity is welcome—until it disrupts the systems that claim to uphold it.
If You Feel the Constant Need to Defend Yourself, You’re Right
If you are constantly on guard, preparing for the next attack, rehearsing how to defend your integrity, your leadership, your tone—you are not paranoid. You are paying attention.
The culture of blame was so pervasive that it became the default setting—especially for Black women.
White women in top-level administration received countless complaints, and yet… nothing changed. Incidents were swept under the rug. The perpetrators’ actions were explained away, rationalized, and softened.
I was set up to fail.
Senior leaders would quietly tell others that I was in the way of their promotion.
White female colleagues would cry. But all i had was rage. And rage has no place in whitewashed academic spaces.
The Silence That Followed
When I finally resigned, I sent an email announcing my departure to that same administrator that “has a problem with black faces” . He never replied. Not even a single word. Just silence. Just like the silence that had met my concerns, just like the silence that met the concerns of so many other black women.
This confirmed what I already knew. I was unimportant. After working together for seven years, being a senior leader on his team, my departure wasn't even worthy of his acknowledgement. That hurt deep.
Choosing Liberation Over Survival
I didn’t leave because I was incapable. I left because I realized I had been enduring things no one should have to tolerate. I left because being strong should not mean being abused. I left because my peace and dignity matter. I matter.
To My Sisters in the Struggle
To every Black woman who has led with integrity, excellence, and heart and been repaid with scrutiny. To those who’ve given everything and received blame:
You are not imagining it. You are not alone. And you are not required to stay somewhere that does not value you. You are not broken. You are navigating a broken system. And you do not have to sacrifice your sanity for someone else’s comfort.
May your healing be louder than their harm.
And may your peace become your priority.
The Upside
Since leaving my position I have leaned into the world of entrepreneurship. In this day and age, it is a challenging road, but so worth it. I answer to myself and my partners. Partners who see more than my skillset but my personhood. I wake up without the constant pressure to perform at an impossible standard. I can take a sick day. The atmosphere is teamwork. I am safe. My nervous system is finally starting to reset. One of our key metrics for success is not only productivity and profit but joy. (No really! We take a joy survey periodically and adjust as needed.)
The courage to leave came from a former supervisor and mentor turned close friend. She focused on finding her joy and encouraged me to find mine. To those still in the system, find what you are passionate about. Lean into your tribe, and step out with confidence in your own abilities.
