I spent the night on the phone with my sister because she couldn’t fall asleep. She kept asking me, “What do we do? Is it over?” Tossing and turning, she’d hang up only to call back with new worries an hour later. One thing she kept repeating was, “They are not going to let a Black woman be president.” And in the morning, she was proven right. Through it all, I couldn’t help but sink into a deep state of apathy. Because what else could we have expected?

Audre Lorde once said in Sister Outsider, “Women of Color in america have grown up within a symphony of anger, at being silenced, at being unchosen, at knowing that when we survive, it is in spite of a world that takes for granted our lack of humanness, and which hates our very existence outside of its service.” This election is a testament to the United States’ consistent failure to give Black women the respect, care, and strength that they are due. To be clear, this failure is not simply about Kamala Harris herself — she has many flaws. Rather, it’s about the rights and protections she would have upheld for not only Black women, but all women in our country, standing in particular contrast to what the incoming administration represents.

I watched as my cousins, male friends, and others proudly voted for Trump or took action through inaction, choosing not to cast their votes in this election. Equally frustrating is seeing those same people relying on Black literature, quoting bell hooks or Audre Lorde, and depending on their Black female teachers, mothers, friends, and peers to be caretakers and educators. A few months ago, the phrase “If you’re ever in trouble, find a Black woman” trended on TikTok — a prime example of how people exploit Black women’s kindness while taking them for granted, failing to fight for the few privileges Black women do have. 

This is not to say that Harris would have protected all of our freedoms and liberties or would have truly been engaged in liberation for all. Unfortunately, the Democratic Party and Harris are deeply flawed in their policies. I am not here to argue for the morality of the Democratic Party. That would be against many of my own values. If the election had gone differently, I still would have taken steps to amplify the voices of those who are struggling, of those who, even under a Democratic administration, would not have been heard. This is in dedication to following in the footsteps of radical thinkers such as Angela Davis and bell hooks, those who many of us aspire to be. But now, due to our failure to unite and defeat Trump’s administration, my ability to protest and to educate others and future generations is compromised. My ability to love, to have children and have autonomy over my own body has been compromised. Multiple Black women — those around me, my professors, and even Angela Davis herself — have pointed out that helping Black women starts with preserving our democracy so that we may address both issues abroad and at home. Now those conversations risk being sidelined in order to address the incoming Trump administration and the suffering that will follow. But it seems that Black women’s voices are only valued when in agreement. Even after this failure, I am still expected to show up for everyone’s communities in the same capacity and with the same strength as I have in previous years. And I will, because true liberation isn’t transactional. Still, it is frustrating to see firsthand that my rights are not worth fighting for, even though my support and labor are always needed. To resist this reality is to be labeled selfish or ignorant of others’ struggles — a contradiction that only serves to silence Black women. 

I grieve for women in Palestine who are suffering from our own colonial institution and genocide. I’ve cried at the stories of Sudanese women drowning themselves to escape the violence at the hands of men. I will never stop fighting for the rights of women across the world. I will not trivialize those whose voting decision reflected the pain and unjust suffering of Palestine, Sudan, Haiti, and Congo at the hands of our current administration. But this declaration is tinged with exhaustion. I am exhausted from pretending that the people around me have not failed me, my mother, and my sister. Harris and her administration, with all her flaws, campaigned to protect and fight for the rights we still have, and I know that Trump’s administration will endeavor to take those rights from me and the people who I love. I struggle to feel anything but anger toward those who didn’t vote to oppose it, and I am tired of the world telling me I am selfish for feeling this way, for seeing the value of my strength only through the lens of servitude. 

The world expects Black women to be mothers, friends, teachers, and leaders before we are allowed to be ourselves. I find myself putting everyone else’s issues first, making space for their needs while striving to honor the values my mother taught me. I want to make her proud — despite the racism, homophobia, misogyny, ableism, and other forces that impact every breath we take. Black women nurture, teach, and speak out all while fighting our own battles. I am proud to be a part of a community of brilliant Black women — thinkers, inventors, and leaders. What also gets passed down, though, is the heavy cost: high infant mortality, hypertension, chronic stress, and even death. We sacrifice ourselves repeatedly for a world that rarely does the same for us. I don’t regret it; I’d do it all again. But it’s exhausting to know that few would do the same for me. At the end of the day, I hold my sister tight and tell her it’s going to be okay because ultimately, no one else will. Because it seems, and this election reminded me, that no one else cares. 

Reflect on your decisions that led to the outcome in this election. Our lives and lives across the world will face more barriers and challenges during the Trump administration. This is a fact that has been stated by Black women time and time again but has gone unheard. I think of all the Black women who are pregnant, who are living in Springfield, who are professors, and who love their girlfriends and partners. I think about the fights and battles my ancestors fought for those rights and how we’ve failed to protect them. It’s hard to feel like we haven’t failed them. That we as students, with all the knowledge at our fingertips, have failed them. To all Black women reading this: rest is radical. Taking care of yourself is an act of resistance against a system that wants us to burn out and dim our light. This election has been exhausting, and the next four years will be an uphill battle to protect ourselves and others. So rest. The world needs us, and we need to take care of ourselves to be ready — ready to fight and support others, just like our ancestors before us.