Black Woman, Unbroken: A Reflection on Strength and Sacrifice

I’ve always loved the raw truth in the lyrics of “Gold Digger,” especially the line, “he leaves yo’ ass for a white girl.” It gives me chills every time because, for many, it’s not just a lyric—it’s life. Art imitates reality, pulling from the headlines of our lives, and sometimes, it hits closer to home than we expect.

Take the story of a family friend I grew up admiring. She and her husband seemed like the perfect couple—a beacon of what love and partnership should be. She worked tirelessly as a nurse, juggling shifts while raising their three kids, all while supporting her husband through college so he could build a better future for their family. She sacrificed, she hustled, she believed in their shared dream.

And then he made it. Degree earned, career launched, stability achieved. And when success knocked, he walked away. Not just from her but to a white woman.

When I found out, I was devastated. My heart broke—not just for her but for what it symbolized. It wasn’t my life, yet it felt personal. It echoed a fear so many Black women carry: that our sacrifices might not be enough. That the love and strength we pour into our partners might be dismissed when their dreams are fulfilled.

For me, this story wasn’t just an isolated betrayal. It stirred up larger questions about our worth as Black women and the burdens we bear. Generations of African American queens—my mother, my aunts, my elders—taught me the meaning of resilience. I’ve seen them carry their families on their backs, enduring struggles their men shared yet somehow felt heavier for them. And in return, too often, they’ve been met with abandonment.

Would it have hurt less if he’d left her for another Black woman? Betrayal cuts regardless of race, but for me, there’s a deeper pain when it feels tied to a rejection of who we are as Black women. A question lingers: Are we not good enough?

I look back on my own mother’s life, a strong, beautiful Black woman who stayed by my father’s side through every storm. She passed when I was just 11, never knowing what it felt like to live without struggle. Sometimes that makes me angry. But it’s also made me strong—because her strength lives in me.

Still, I wrestle with bitterness. Not just for my own journey as a single mother but for the collective struggles of Black women everywhere who give and give, only to watch their sacrifices dismissed. Yet that bitterness fuels me, transforming into pride for the power I carry as a Black woman.

To every Black queen reading this: your strength, courage, and sacrifices are unmatched. When the day comes that I reach the top of the mountain, I’ll shout for the world to hear: I am a Black woman, unbroken. My strength is my legacy.