Too Strong to Delegate: Reclaiming Vulnerability in Black Womanhood

The other day, I met Measha—a brilliant, driven Black professional. We struck up a casual conversation, and she began sharing her evening plans. As I listened to the long list of after-work responsibilities—school pickups, dinner prep, laundry, emails—I started to feel exhausted for her.

I gently asked if she could delegate some of those tasks. Her eyes said it all: “Are you even from planet Earth?” We burst into laughter. Then she explained. Delegation wasn’t an option. Her husband was too tired after work, and her eldest child, just 12, wouldn’t do it “right.” Besides, it was her job—as a mother, as a wife.

Then she said something that stuck with me:

“I got this. It’s been my life’s pace for years.”

All I could say in that moment was: “Oh, I see.”

But that statement lingered with me long after. What did she really mean by “I got this”? I couldn’t shake the impression that she was saying, “I’m too strong to ask for help.”

But how did we get here?

Let’s scratch the surface of a stereotype that deeply affects not just individuals—but relationships, especially within marriage.

In Counseling the Culturally Diverse, Darel Wing Sue and David Sue reference W.E. Cross’s analysis of how media perpetuates harmful portrayals of Black people—depicting them as violent, aggressive, or criminal (Sue & Sue, 2008, p. 238). These messages seep into every facet of life, leaving Black individuals wrestling with internalized distress and emotional imbalance (Young, Tadros & Gregorash, 2023).

To survive, we adapt. We push through. We over-function. We carry more than our share. The problem arises when survival mode becomes our only mode.

Enter the “Strong Black Woman” stereotype—the idea that Black women must be invulnerable, hyper-competent, and self-sacrificing. We see this echoed in research by Paul T. Guillory (2021) and Young, Tadros & Gregorash (2023), who discuss how this trope defines Black women as “strong, sexual, and domineering.”

Under its influence, many Black women learn that asking for help equals weakness. They may avoid showing sadness or fear. Instead, anger becomes the more socially “acceptable” emotion—leaving partners, spouses, and children often witnessing only one side of them.

But what’s lost when we stay stuck in this role?

Being trapped in “too strong” mode means silencing the softer parts of ourselves—the parts that long to cry, to rest, to be held. It deprives us of the opportunity to be fully known by our partners. And it denies our partners the chance to support us—not just when we’re strong, but when we’re vulnerable.

In Hold Me Tight, Dr. Sue Johnson explains how emotional connection in couples depends on partners being able to see each other’s softer emotions—especially sadness and fear. If one partner can’t access or express vulnerability, the other can’t respond in a caring, attuned way. The relationship misses out on deeper connection.

Strength and softness are not opposites. They’re partners.

Being balanced means allowing yourself to feel strong when the moment calls for it—and tender when your heart needs care. It means giving yourself permission to be. To be tired. To be supported. To be human.

Here’s how we can begin to reclaim emotional wholeness:

(Adapted from Paul T. Guillory’s work)

1. Have open conversations about Blackness—what it means to you and how it has shaped your experience.

2. Reflect on how it felt to have these conversations.

3. Talk openly about stereotypes—how they’ve affected your identity, relationships, and community.

4. Visit local Black historical sites to connect with our shared legacy.

5. Read stories of Afro-Indigenous people in Canada and the U.S.

6. Seek support from a BIPOC therapist to unpack complex, overwhelming emotions.

Measha’s story is far from unique.

I see it in my community every day—different women, same struggle. And truthfully, I see it in myself.

Sometimes, I too find it hard to let go, to delegate, to say no. When I dig deeper, I realize it’s fear—fear of being seen as incapable or, worse, weak. That fear is deeply rooted in the “strong Black woman” narrative.

But I’m learning. Learning to name the fear, understand its origin, and gently let it go.

In doing so, I’ve found something new: space. Space to rest. To be soft. To be fully me.

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About the Author: 

Myriam Harris, RP (Qualifying)

Meet Myriam Harris, RP (Qualifying), Certified Prepare-Enrich Facilitator

Myriam is a compassionate, culturally attuned therapist who supports individuals and couples navigating life transitions, relationship challenges, and family dynamics. Rooted in both Haitian and Canadian cultures, she brings a bicultural lens and deep respect for diverse lived experiences to her work.

She primarily uses Emotionally Focused Therapy (EFT) and is certified in the Prepare-Enrich program to help couples strengthen connection and build lasting foundations.

When she’s not in session, Myriam enjoys biking, running, and hiking with friends. She has been practicing as an RP (Qualifying) since 2022 and currently works with On the Journey Psychotherapy. Learn more at www.onthejourney.life/myriam.