“When somebody hurts you, they take power over you; if you don’t forgive them, then they keeps the power.” -Cicely Tyson (as Myrtle in Diary of a Mad Black Woman) 

Age 7 

I was walking to class when I heard, “You act so white.” 

I froze. My heart sank. 

At seven years old, I felt like a fraud.

At seven years old, I realized that society had just informed me that I wasn’t good enough. 

At seven years old, I began to believe that I could not be me AND black. 

At seven years old, I wondered what “acting black” was and why I had been given black skin, if I didn’t fit in. 

At just seven years old, I decided that I could not love an identity I had that I did not know. 

So at just seven years old, I began to embrace every bit of “whiteness” that I could. 

Age 14

I was hanging out with my white boyfriend when I heard the devastating words, “Get that n****r out of my house.” 

It took the breath out of my lungs. 

At fourteen years old, I felt unworthy. 

At fourteen years old, I realized that even if my generation was “more aware,” I would be up against the beliefs of past generations.

At fourteen years old, I began to believe that I ought to despise the skin I was in. 

At fourteen years old, I wondered why my skin color preceded my character. 

At just fourteen years old, I decided that to be black was to be ugly and unworthy. 

So at just fourteen years old, I gave my body away. My desperate need for love and approval took me to places I never intended to go.

Age 21 

I was assigned my first professional mentor and when I typed her name in, a black woman appeared. 

I immediately cried. 

At twenty-one years old, I felt seen for the first time.

At twenty-one years old, I realized that representation had the power to expose the deep insecurity I held within. 

At twenty-one years old, I began to believe that black was beautiful, powerful, and resilient. 

At twenty-one years old, I wondered why I had believed that I had a one in a million chance of being successful. 

At just twenty-one years old, I decided that it was time to believe a different narrative. 

So at just twenty-one years old, I chose to not only acknowledge my blackness but embrace it.

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In Matthew 18, Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”

And In Matthew 18:22 Jesus answers, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” 

At seven years old, I felt the sting of whiteness. At fourteen years old, I grieved the love that whiteness has destroyed. At twenty-one years old, I refused to accept the glass ceiling that whiteness created. 

And at twenty-eight years old, I want to be reminded that whiteness only maintains its power if we choose not to release the stronghold its very existence has had. Not just seven times, but seventy-seven times. 

As Maya Angelou once said, “You can’t forgive without loving. And I don’t mean sentimentality. I don’t mean mush. I mean having enough courage to stand up and say, ‘I forgive. I’m finished with it.’

So I say to you, beautiful black woman, be finished with the bondage of whiteness. Not for them, but for you. Not just seven times, but seventy-seven times.