Black History Month arrives this year in a moment that feels heavy and unsettling. Many people I know are tired—tired of the news cycle, tired of the cruelty in public discourse, tired of the sense that something essential is fraying in our shared moral fabric. For Black Americans, this exhaustion is not new. For many white Americans, myself included, it carries a different weight: grief, confusion, anger, and an uneasy awareness of how protected we are from the daily realities others live with.
I write this not from a place of certainty, but from inside that tenderness.
As a white woman, I am increasingly aware of how much safety my privilege affords me—the option to turn away, to go quiet, to process slowly and privately. And I am also aware of the temptation to center my own distress when confronted with racism and political rhetoric that traffics in dehumanization. I’ve been sitting with a phrase that feels clarifying, if uncomfortable: my discomfort is not the emergency. Racism is.
That doesn’t mean discomfort is meaningless. It means it is not the center.
This moment asks something quieter and harder than outrage. Outrage can feel cathartic, even righteous, but it burns quickly. What feels more challenging—and more necessary—is learning how to stay present without hardening, how to let anger sharpen our moral clarity without turning it into venom, how to remain human when so much around us seems to reward numbness or cruelty.
I don’t have a neat prescription. What I am learning instead is the importance of sustained attention: listening more deeply, resisting the urge to perform certainty, and allowing my own values to be tested and refined rather than simply declared. Staying human, for me, has meant slowing down enough to notice when fear or shame makes me want to withdraw, and gently asking what responsibility still belongs to me even there.
Black History Month is not only about honoring resilience and resistance; it is also an invitation to white Americans to reflect honestly on where we stand—how we benefit, how we remain silent, how we might stay engaged without making ourselves the center of the story. This reflection is uncomfortable, but discomfort is not the same as harm. Avoiding it comes at a cost we are already seeing.
I am trying to learn how to hold two things at once: rage at injustice and love for what is still possible. Rage that tells the truth about harm. Love that refuses to give up on dignity, relationship, and repair. Holding both feels unsteady, unfinished—and necessary.
If there is any offering in this reflection, it is simply this: staying human is not a destination. It is a practice. One that asks us to keep listening, keep choosing alignment over ease, and keep returning to the question of how our lives—not just our opinions—can reflect the values we claim to hold.
This reflection was originally written for a local newspaper during Black History Month and later published in March. I’m sharing it here for those who read and reflect in quieter spaces.
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For those who find themselves wondering how to stay oriented without hardening or withdrawing, these reflections have been helpful to me.
For many white Americans, the question is not whether we care, but how to care in ways that are honest, effective, and sustainable. Allyship is not an identity to claim, but a direction to keep choosing. These are some ways I am learning to orient toward that north star.
Start with listening, and keep listening.
This includes listening to Black voices and histories, but also listening inwardly—especially when discomfort, defensiveness, or fatigue arise. Those moments often point to where growth is being asked.Let discomfort inform responsibility, not withdrawal.
Discomfort is not the same as harm. When it arises, the question becomes: what is still mine to do, even here?Refuse normalization.
This doesn’t require debate or grand gestures. It can be as simple as naming when something crosses a moral line, or choosing not to stay silent when dehumanizing language or assumptions appear in everyday conversation.Act locally and consistently.
Sustained change rarely comes from singular moments of outrage. Supporting Black-led organizations, initiatives, or individuals—especially at the local level—on an ongoing basis matters more than episodic attention.Stay human. Cynicism and numbness are understandable responses, but they are also costly. Tending tenderness—through rest, reflection, community, and connection to what still feels alive—helps prevent us from becoming hardened or performative in our care.
Remember the direction matters more than perfection.
Allyship is not about getting it right once, but about staying oriented toward dignity, repair, and shared humanity over time.