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Historically, we’ve heard stories of women who are strong, powerful—who persevere through every obstacle, shatter glass ceilings, birth babies, and birth America. But the side effects of the unstoppable nature of Black women are the things that haven’t been studied—yet often intersect: fatigue, depression, exhaustion, heart disease, overeating, self-imposed neurodivergence, abandonment, and our inability to shut it off.
We call it Superhero Syndrome. And it’s rarely questioned—often praised.
How many times, as a Black woman, have you looked at another Black woman and deemed her lazy? Scoffed, even.“What’s her deal?” you might ask. “How is she surviving—or okay—with just doing the bare minimum? Why is she dressed like that?”
We've internalized this judgment so deeply that we’ve started measuring our worth by how exhausted we are.
Our publisher, Cheryl Mainor Norman, said something once on a women’s panel that has stayed with me for over two years: “Black Girl Magic is hard work, to the point where it’s not magical.”
It’s survival dressed in sequins. It’s grief covered in glitter. It’s depression showing up in stilettos.
Studies are just now catching up to what many of us already knew in our bones—that a significant number of Black women live with undiagnosed depression.
According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Office of Minority Health, Black adults are 20% more likely to experience serious mental health problems than the general population. However, Black women are less likely to seek treatment due to stigma, misdiagnosis, and lack of culturally competent care.
Why undiagnosed? Because psychologists—and even primary care providers—often don’t recognize how depression shows up in Black women. Our fumes are functional. We’re high-performing even when we’re breaking. The common signs of depression—sluggishness, isolation, disheveled appearance—don’t often manifest in us the same way.
We don’t stop moving. We don’t diminish in appearance. We don’t skip showers. We don’t stop going to work. And our hair is never out of place. We look fine—more than fine, in most cases. So fine, in fact, that no one notices we’re not okay.
Our default never wavers. Our pain is so silent, it couldn’t be heard with a dog whistle.
And perhaps, as Bassey Ikpi wrote in her book I'm Telling the Truth, but I'm Lying: “Some of us have learned to wear depression like a designer dress—not because it’s beautiful, but because changing is too hard and being naked is too much.”
So maybe the next time you see a woman doing “the bare minimum,” consider that she might just be doing all she can. And that, in itself, is magic too.