I’m Not Sorry For Sounding Like An Angry Black Woman

These systems aren’t interested in understanding the source of the anger; they’re invested in neutralizing it.

Unsurprisingly, I’ve been told that my Substack posts come off as “harsh” or “too critical.” And (here’s the kicker), that I sound like an “angry Black woman.”

And you know what? That’s okay, because I am angry.

I’m angry about the harm I’ve witnessed (and personally experienced) inside the nonprofit and philanthropic spaces we’re told are supposed to be about centering our full humanity. I’ve experienced the discomfort of wanting to speak up but not feeling safe or supported enough to do so. I’ve watched how transparency is discreetly discouraged and how many of us learn to shrink ourselves, second-guess, or reframe our truths to make them more watered down. It’s not that we’re always silenced directly; it’s that these spaces don’t foster the kind of trust, safety, or vulnerability needed to be honest without consequence.

I’ve worked at organizations that celebrate my ideas, strategies, and brilliance, where boldness is applauded and being courageous is praised…until that boldness turns inward. When that same courage is used to ask hard questions, challenge internal dysfunction, or name what’s not working, the applause fades. Suddenly, that behavior is problematic because being bold is only valued when it doesn’t disrupt the comfort of those in charge.

It’s 2025. Why are Black women still being labeled as “difficult” for voicing our truths? Why are Black women expected to perform the exhausting dance of “reading the room,” carefully calculating when and how to speak just to avoid being seen as too loud, too angry, or too much?

I’ll tell you. It’s because these systems were never built to hold our full humanity. Because too many institutions are still more invested in appearances than accountability. Because real equity requires discomfort, and that threatens the very structures some are trying to preserve while pretending to dismantle them.

My Anger Is Not the Problem

Audre Lorde wrote, “My anger has meant pain to me but it has also meant survival.” That line lives in me. Because survival in these spaces often means holding rage in our throats, choking it down for the sake of professionalism, only to still be treated as disposable.

My honesty should not be mistaken for hostility. I write with love and critique because I believe accountability and imagination can coexist. That’s where real transformation begins. We can’t build liberatory futures if we’re too afraid to name what’s broken on the inside. Change doesn’t come from comfort; it comes from truth-telling and being honest about what’s failing. What I write is not driven by bitterness; it’s driven by love. Love for people. Love for truth. Love for the possibility that we can build something better than the structures we’ve inherited.

My anger is not the problem. The problem is the systems that suppress it and demand it be softened, diluted, and made more acceptable to those in power. The problem is the expectation that I translate my rage into respectability before it’s considered warranted. That I temper my tone and present my pain in a way that feels less threatening. These systems aren’t interested in understanding the source of the anger; they’re invested in neutralizing it so they don’t have to confront what caused it in the first place.

The History Behind the Stereotype

The “angry Black woman” stereotype exists to discredit us before we speak. It’s a preemptive strike against our power. It tells people to brace themselves for disruption, when what we’re often offering is truth that comes from a place of care.

This stereotype has deep historical roots. It can be traced back to the era of slavery, when Black women were characterized in dominant culture as inherently aggressive, emasculating, and irrational, tropes designed to delegitimize our resistance to racial and gendered violence. The image of the “angry Black woman” emerged alongside others like the “mammy” and the “jezebel,” each functioning to box Black women into roles that made our humanity easier to ignore.

bell hooks reminded us that “the effort to silence Black women’s voices is a political act.” And in her work Sisters of the Yam, she names the emotional labor required of us to survive in systems that devalue our emotional truths. The anger many of us carry isn’t irrational; it’s informed. It’s lived. It’s inevitable.

The Information Our Anger Holds

When we name harm, we’re combative. When we show emotion, we’re unstable. When we raise our voices, we’re threatening. But the moment we become quiet, we’re disengaged or not being a team player. There is no right way for us to exist in these systems without being questioned. But what if we stopped playing along? What if we made room for Black women’s full emotional range? Our fire, our tenderness, our joy, our grief, our anger, and honored it as valid, not unprofessional?

Anger is information. It reveals where boundaries have been crossed, where values are being betrayed, and where harm is being normalized. Audre Lorde has also taught us that anger is both loaded with information and born from a place of care. bell hooks also reminded us that “love and abuse cannot coexist.” And I would add: neither can liberation and complicity.

A Call to Listen

I am so passionate about this work, but too often, I haven’t been able to do it effectively and efficiently because there is so much that’s broken on the inside. I no longer refuse to force myself to operate in spaces that aren’t comfortable with being uncomfortable. There needs to be a shift where critique is invited with open arms and where building new systems rooted in accountability is celebrated.

I’m not here to participate in more scripted conversations that showcase how good we are at critiquing systems, so long as those systems are outside of our own. We have enough of that. We need risk-taking. More honesty about what it takes to build something better. That includes letting me, other Black women, and anyone else who’s tired of how things are speak, grieve, rage, and lead in the fullness of who we are.

If you’ve taken the time to read this far, thank you. And if you’re a new reader or one that’s been here from the beginning, I hope you come (and continue to come) to this space with a heart of listening. Not to dilute, but to truly take in.

Because what Black women have to say, in all of our tone, passion, truth, and anger, matters.

And I’m no longer apologizing for mine.

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