I taught you: How to WASH your LEGS!
I poured my soul into building an organization from the ground up—a place that became my life, my blood, my sleepless nights, and relentless work, despite the roadblocks. We were denied left and right. Emails ignored, funding withheld. Why? Because we were trans-led. I took that organization from $500 to a $7.5 million powerhouse before they decided it was time for me to step aside. And the one holding the keys to my exit was the white woman at my side, someone I thought was an ally, a supporter, maybe even a friend. But she had been keeping notes, building her case against me, sharpening her knife.
The day she took everything from me, she had the audacity to tell me, "They told me from the beginning not to work with you." Excuse me? I made you. My name, my work, my sweat opened doors that were locked to you, let you walk into rooms you couldn’t have entered otherwise. I was used—taken advantage of—and left to bear the weight of every hardship alone. She got to walk away unscathed, while my name was dragged through the mud. I was fired, my reputation ripped apart with the swift efficiency that only a white voice can wield in this world.
This wasn’t just betrayal; it was calculated, a slow-building destruction she orchestrated while pretending to stand beside me. It’s chilling, the lengths some white women will go to when they see Black women in power, thriving, respected. There’s a long history of white women leveraging their position and privilege against Black women who stand in spaces they were never meant to occupy. The envy, the resentment, the seething need to tear down what a Black woman has built—this is a tale as old as time. And as I was left to pick up the shattered pieces, she walked free, unscathed, with her white voice speaking louder than my truth.
I don’t need to write much about those I worked with who stood by and let it happen. Those who nodded and agreed, never pushing back, never saying "no" or standing up when it mattered. They’re not friends; they’re enemies in disguise. To think you have supporters only to find out they were complicit—it stings, but it’s a truth many Black women learn too late.
The Obama Foundation
A moment in time for me when, we all shared a version to be free!
The pain cuts deeper than betrayal; it’s knowing that my worth was taken for granted, my work diminished, and my achievements left tainted by someone else’s hunger for power. There are so many of us Black women who try to push against the narrative that all white women are like this, who hold onto hope that some can be true allies. But then there are those who take every opportunity to weaponize whiteness, who use their privilege to tear us down, and leave us in ruins, forced to start over. And it’s only after rebuilding ourselves that the truth becomes clear: they didn’t care about us—they only cared about what we could do for them.
