There Is Something About Us They Don’t Like

I know a lot of Black women who are quietly disappearing from places they helped hold together. Jobs gone. Roles eliminated. Emails framed as “organizational shifts” or “budget decisions,” as if careful wording can soften what it actually feels like to be cut loose.

There’s something about us they don’t like.

It shows up once we start speaking plainly—when we stop changing our words to make other people comfortable, when we stop pretending we don’t see the same things happening over and over again.

I’ve watched Black women I know lose their jobs in very different places for reasons that look surprisingly similar. One worked on a federally funded program serving young people. When that program was removed from the federal budget—cut completely, no longer even listed—the jobs connected to it disappeared too. Another woman was laid off from a role at a center that publicly touts its mission to uplift women and enterprise. These aren’t rare situations. They’re what happens when decisions made far away land on real people.

This isn’t drama. It’s cause and effect.

BREAKING: Between February and June 2025, roughly 318,000 Black women lost jobs, even as the overall economy added positions. Black women’s unemployment rose above the national average.

You could call it ageism. You could call it sexism. You could call it classism.You could call it ableism.And in many cases, it probably is some mix of all of those things.

But when you step back and look at the scale (more than 300,000 Black women losing jobs in a short period of time) it becomes harder to ignore what connects these experiences. The one thing all of these women share is not their age, education, job title, or health status. The common denominator is our Blackness.

That’s the part people are most uncomfortable naming. But it helps explain why this is happening across so many different workplaces and industries at the same time.

This summer, I met a young Black woman whose job was to make sure her organization was actually reaching people from different backgrounds—not just talking about it, but doing it. She told me her position had been eliminated. I asked who would do that work once she left. She paused and said quietly, “I’ll ask—because I was the diversity department.”

That stayed with me.

The way diversity and inclusion work is handled tells its own story. It is often housed in one person—frequently a Black woman—and when she is gone, the work goes with her, despite continued rhetoric about shared values.

Across nonprofits and public institutions, money is being moved in ways that make priorities clear. Programs that serve young people, focus on fairness, or provide care are often the first to be cut. And the people doing that work—often Black women—are expected to take the loss quietly and move on.

SCROLLING: Jobs eliminated. Programs cut. “Reorganizations” announced. The work continues. The workers disappear. 

But this moment isn’t only about jobs.

It’s also about how Black women are treated more broadly. There’s a level of disrespect that shows up in everyday interactions—small acts meant to belittle or embarrass, moments where cruelty is brushed off as a joke. I’m thinking about moments where something as basic as apple cider vinegar is thrown at us—not to help, but to mock—as if we might melt on contact, the way witches do in old stories. These moments may seem small, but they come from the same place as the job cuts and the public targeting.

We’re also seeing Black women pulled into public scrutiny more often. Named. Targeted. Harassed. Drawn into narratives they didn’t create. In recent years, Black women have been singled out by media pundits—not because they did something wrong, but because they are visible, outspoken, and unwilling to shrink.

There’s something about us they don’t like.
It shows up when we stop worrying about appearances and start being honest.
When we stop editing ourselves just to stay acceptable.

I was fortunate to be able to pivot. Not because I failed. Not because I disappeared. I pivoted back to writing—back to language, back to saying what I actually think, without hiding behind an institution. I chose the page over the performance.

What I see now is not collapse, but recalibration. Women comparing notes. Sharing information. Refusing to internalize blame for decisions they did not make. Choosing clarity over courtesy.

This, too, is resistance—not loud or theatrical, but steady: paying attention, telling the truth, and refusing to disappear.

There’s something about us they don’t like.

Maybe it’s that we’re paying attention now.
Maybe it’s that we remember. Maybe it’s that we’re no longer willing to disappear quietly.

‍