An opinion piece discusses the negative effects of suppressing emotions on Black women, and how society expects them to be strong.

My name is Antania “Nia” Priester and I want to share a personal experience with you. It all started when the doctors told me that my heart was broken. And I know what you're thinking, it sounds like a metaphor, right?

But no, this was a physical condition. I was lying in a hospital bed, still reeling from intense chest pain, when they told me that I had developed Broken Heart Syndrome, also known as Takotsubo cardiomyopathy. This condition is triggered by intense emotional stress and in that moment, everything seemed to slow down.

I was grieving the loss of my brother, carrying layers of unprocessed pain from my marriage, and sitting beside someone who had contributed to that emotional turmoil. But here's the thing, up until that moment, I had still been showing up. I was still smiling and functioning, still being "strong." And this is the reality for so many Black women.

We are conditioned by society and culture to endure pain in ways that are rarely acknowledged. Research has consistently shown disparities in how our pain is perceived and treated, especially in healthcare settings. It begs the question, if our physical pain is often minimized, what happens to our emotional and mental health?

As cultural critic bell hooks points out in her book All About Love, healing is not a solitary act. It requires a sense of community. Yet, as Black women, we are often expected to carry our pain quietly, without the support and understanding that healing truly requires.

On the outside, I appeared strong. I continued to show up for others, fulfill my responsibilities, and present a composed version of myself. But internally, I was struggling with what is often called functional depression, where I continued to perform while silently unraveling.

I experienced panic attacks, deep exhaustion, dread, forgetfulness, and loneliness. Even when I voiced that I wasn't okay, my truth was often dismissed and replaced with reminders of my strength. The "Strong Black Woman" identity, while celebrated, comes at a cost.

It demands emotional suppression, self-sacrifice, and constant resilience. And over time, this leads to chronic stress, physical illness, and emotional burnout. Dr.

Joy DeGruy's work on Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome highlights how generational trauma has shaped coping mechanisms within the Black community, such as over-functioning and emotional suppression. These patterns were rooted in survival, but survival is not the same as healing. My turning point came when I realized that being functional did not mean I was healthy.

I had to choose myself, not the version of me that others relied on, but the version of me that needed care. But how do we, as Black women, begin to break free from these damaging expectations? It starts with acknowledging the conditioning.

Emotional suppression is not just an individual issue, it is cultural and generational. Once we recognize this, we can release self-blame and begin to understand our patterns. It also requires redefining strength.

True strength is not silent suffering, it is setting boundaries, acknowledging when we are not okay, and choosing ourselves without guilt. This includes practicing rest as resistance. For Black women, rest is not indulgent, it is necessary.

It disrupts the cycles of overwork and survival mode that have been normalized for generations. And it calls for rebuilding community. Healing requires safe spaces where vulnerability is honored, not dismissed.

Our community should be a place where we can be seen fully, not where we feel pressure to perform strength. And finally, it involves intentionally stepping out of the emotional prison we have been conditioned to stay in. Healing is not about getting over what we have experienced, it is about moving forward without abandoning ourselves in the process.

This conversation cannot be limited to moments when public figures share their stories. This is an ongoing dialogue that needs to happen in our homes, communities, and systems. For generations, Black women have been praised for how much we can carry, but rarely asked what it is costing us.

I was praised for being strong while my body was shutting down. I had to make a choice, to remain who I was conditioned to be or become who I needed to be to survive. And I chose myself.

Because strength should not feel like suffering. And healing should not feel like isolation. It's time for more of us to make that choice.