As Black women, we’re taught from a young age to be strong. Society expects us to be pillars of support—to take care of everyone, absorb every emotion, and always stand tall. But it wasn’t until I broke down in front of my therapist for the first time and heard her say, “Your strength shouldn’t come at the expense of yourself” that I truly began to learn the art of establishing boundaries.
I remember that late night, working overtime, preparing for a promotion, when my boyfriend called three times in a row just to discuss which restaurant to go to that weekend. When I finally said, “We can’t talk right now,” he was stunned: “You never acted like that before.”
Yes, I used to answer the phone immediately, dropping everything I was doing—even if it was my career at stake. We’re so used to putting others’ needs first, as if saying “no” is a betrayal and setting boundaries is selfish.
But dear, boundaries aren’t walls, they’re gates. They determine who can enter our lives, how they can enter, and for how long. Just like that family gathering, when my aunt started to “concern” me about my birth plans again. I smiled and held her hand. “Thank you for your concern, but this is my life.” There was no anger, no guilt, only clear self-awareness.
Establishing boundaries isn’t about rejecting love; it’s about redefining how to be loved.
Maintaining independence in a relationship means:
Reserving at least half a day of “me time” each week—for me, this might include taking good care of my glueless lace wigs and enjoying uninterrupted self-care time.
Having the courage to express, “I need some quiet time right now,” rather than forcing a smile.
Maintaining your own circle of hobbies—my Saturday morning yoga class is always on.
Financial independence, even if it’s just a small “spoiled fund”—last month I invested in high-quality Burmese curly bundles, simply because the curls reminded me of photos of my grandmother when she was young, and they brought me a sense of cultural heritage.
I remember the period before my ex and I broke up, when I nearly lost all my friends. He kept saying, “The two of us are enough,” and I slowly lost touch with my support network. It wasn’t until I ran into a college bestie in a café that she looked me in the eye and said, “You look so lonely.” That moment made me realize that a healthy relationship should make our worlds bigger, not smaller.
Our Black heritage emphasizes a sense of community, which is beautiful, but community shouldn’t be an excuse to devour the individual.
My current partner knows Wednesdays are my “Sisters’ Night.” He’ll smile, pick out earrings for me, and walk me out. Because he loves the whole me—the woman who belongs not only to him but also to her own world.
The process of establishing boundaries can be unsettling. At first, my mother struggled with the time limits I set for phone calls, but when our weekly video calls became truly focused and high-quality, she understood: This wasn’t a rejection, but a cherishing of the relationship.
Your independence is your most beautiful accessory; it doesn’t make you unlovable; it allows you to love with your whole self.
Sisters, we inherit the resilience of our ancestors, but that strength shouldn’t be used solely for endurance. It’s time to turn inward and ask: What do I truly need today? What fulfills me? Then, gently yet firmly guard that space. You’re not tearing a relationship apart; you’re building a stage wide enough for two whole people to dance together. On this stage, no one needs to shrink, and no one needs to overextend.
Your boundaries are your sanctuary, and your independence is your wings. Armed with them, you’ll not only be able to love others better, but you’ll also ultimately learn how to be loved by those who deserve it.
That “me time” I reserve each week isn’t just a box to check on my calendar—it’s a sacred ritual, one that I spent years denying myself. I’ll clear off my vanity, the same one my mom gave me when I moved out, and lay out my tools: a wide-tooth comb, a bottle of argan oil infused with jasmine (my favorite scent), and a soft microfiber towel. As I gently detangle the waves of my glueless lace wig, I think about how this simple act ties me to the women in my family. My grandmother used to sit on her porch every Saturday afternoon, braiding her own hair while telling me stories about growing up in Louisiana—how she’d save up for weeks to buy a jar of coconut oil to keep her curls soft, how hair was a way to hold onto her culture even when the world tried to make her shrink. For so long, I’d rush through this process, doing it while scrolling through work messages or folding laundry, treating it like a chore instead of care. But now? I’ll put on a playlist of old soul songs—Aretha, Nina, Whitney—and let the music fill the room as I work. That 45 minutes isn’t just about keeping my wig looking good; it’s about slowing down long enough to say to myself, “You matter, too.” It’s the opposite of the hustle I was raised to embrace—the kind that told me rest was lazy, that self-care was selfish. This is my rebellion: choosing to be present with myself.
Boundaries don’t just apply to our time—they apply to our energy, too. I learned this the hard way last year, when a close friend started venting to me every night after work about her toxic boss. At first, I listened, offering advice and validation, because that’s what we do—we show up for our people. But after a month, I noticed I was going to bed feeling drained, dreading her calls even though I cared about her. One evening, when she called again, voice shaking, I said, “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, and I want to help. But I’m feeling really overwhelmed tonight—can we talk tomorrow morning over coffee instead? I’ll be fully present then.” She paused, and for a second, I worried I’d hurt her feelings. But then she said, “Thank you for being honest. I didn’t realize how much I was dumping on you.” We met the next day, and over lattes, we had a real conversation—not just her venting, but us laughing about old times, too. That’s the magic of boundaries: they force honesty, and honesty deepens connection. I used to think being a good friend meant absorbing everyone’s pain, no matter the cost to myself. Now I know: a good friend shows up fully, and you can’t show up fully if you’re empty.
The same goes for the workplace, a space where Black women are often expected to be “team players” to a fault—taking on extra projects, covering for coworkers, staying late without complaint, all to prove we belong. A few months ago, my manager asked me to lead a last-minute client workshop, even though it meant canceling the yoga retreat I’d booked three months prior. The old me would’ve said yes, guilted by the thought that saying no would make me seem “difficult” or “ungrateful.” But this time, I looked at her and said, “I’m flattered you trust me with this, but I have a personal commitment that weekend I can’t reschedule. I can help prep the materials this week, or recommend Sarah—she’s led similar workshops and done a fantastic job.” My manager was surprised—she later told me she’d never had someone push back so kindly—but she agreed, and Sarah killed the workshop. Afterward, my manager pulled me aside and said, “You taught me something—setting limits doesn’t make you less valuable. It makes you more reliable, because you’re clear about what you can deliver.” That moment was a reminder: boundaries at work aren’t about being uncooperative. They’re about respecting your time so you can do your best work—for yourself and for your team.
