I Am More Than What You Think You See

The moment people see me, they've already decided who I am.

Before I open my mouth. Before I introduce myself. Before I prove anything. They've looked at me — a Black woman — and filed me away into a category they're comfortable with. Mom. Or worse, they see the melanin first and assume the worst. Another angry Black woman. Another stereotype to confirm.

And I'm supposed to just… live inside that box.

I don't fit.

Let me tell you who I actually am.

I am educated. Not just book smart — I mean I genuinely understand technology at a level that would surprise most people in the room with me. I know things. I see things. I solve things quietly, behind the scenes, because I learned early that doing more than you're compensated for doesn't always work in your favor. So I measure. I protect my energy. I give what I'm paid to give and I save the rest for myself. That's not laziness. That's self-preservation.

I am not wealthy. I struggle. Real struggle — not the inspirational kind people post about after it's over. The kind that's happening right now, in real time, while I'm still showing up to work, still raising my kids, still pressing transfers onto shirts at midnight. People see the crafts and think it's a cute hobby. It's also my therapy. It's also my escape. It's also the thing I chose for myself when everything else felt like it was chosen for me.

I struggle with my mental health. I said it. And I'm not ashamed of it anymore. I am a person who would rather listen than talk. Who sits in a room full of people and observes everything while saying very little. Who has a head so full of ideas, dreams, and plans that sometimes the noise is overwhelming. This blog — these crafts — they're how I learned to speak up. Slowly. On my own terms.

I get judged constantly for being a Black woman.

I have to work 100 times harder to be seen as half as capable. I have to be twice as polished, twice as prepared, twice as patient. I have to smile when I don't feel like it. I have to explain myself when I shouldn't have to. I have to prove myself in rooms where my presence alone already made some people uncomfortable.

I hate that this is my reality.

And I wouldn't trade being a Black woman for anything in this world. Not one single thing.

I am not just a mom.

I am brilliant. I know that sounds bold and I almost deleted it — but I'm leaving it because somebody told me once that owning your gifts isn't arrogance, it's honesty. I am resilient in a way that doesn't always look graceful. Sometimes resilience looks like crying in the car and then walking back in the house like everything's fine. Sometimes it looks like starting over. Again.

I am compassionate — sometimes to a fault. I give and give and give and forget to fill myself back up. I am learning — slowly, imperfectly — to be a little more selfish. To say no. To put myself on the list instead of at the bottom of it.

I have drive. A relentless, quiet, stubborn kind of drive that doesn't need applause to keep going. I will build something out of nothing and make it look easy because I've been doing that my whole life.

So the next time you look at me and think you already know — look again.

I am a Black woman. A mom. A wife. A payments expert. A crafter. A laser engraver operator at midnight. A blogger who's still finding her voice. An ERG leader pouring into other women. A person who is finally — finally — learning to take up space without apologizing for it.

I am more than a label.

I always have been. 🖤

— Brea | craftinassblkgrl.com