Black Women and Labor in Today’s Economy: The Weight We Carry, the Rest We Deserve
I still remember the first time I realized my labor was being taken for granted. I was 16, working at the New York Public Library in New York City. At that time, I was a Page, which is somebody who puts the books back in alphabetical order (fiction) and numerical order (nonfiction). I did this well, so well that my work was often done early, leaving me with nothing else to do. This would occasionally result in me talking to other workers on the floor (since I could not leave the floor if I was not on one of my 15-minute breaks). My supervisor at the time, Mr. Fernandez, noticed this and called me into his office. He told me to “Stop talking to your peers. They are working and you are a distraction.” I asked Mr. Fernandez what else could I do and he ended up telling me to find more work. I had to “look busy” otherwise my first teenage job was in danger. Eventually, I was promoted to a Senior Page, since I also excelled at “looking busy.” The $2 dollar raise made a difference for me as a senior in high school. My supervisor told me to “look busy” or risk losing my job. So, I did, and I was eventually promoted for it. That was my first lesson: productivity mattered more than purpose.
This initial experience with work has followed me and has evolved over decades. Today, it doesn’t come from a supervisor, it comes from the world. The idea is “do more, Black girl/woman, but not too much and don’t be a distraction either.” And once you are able to follow the rules, maybe we will throw you a bone in the form of a promotion or job security.
I’ve been a teacher, professor, corporate/nonprofit leader, a diversity, equity, and inclusion strategist, and an entrepreneur. I’ve led major DEI initiatives for billion-dollar brands. I’ve sat in boardrooms where I was one of the few women, and often the only Black woman. And whether in a corporate office or behind a library counter, I’ve noticed a disturbing throughline: Black women’s labor is expected to be limitless, elastic, and too often, undervalued.
The Historical Burden
Our place in today’s economy can’t be separated from history. From the exploitation of enslaved Black women’s bodies for domestic and agricultural labor, to the post–Civil War era of low-wage “help” work, to being underpaid and overworked in modern corporate spaces, our labor has been extracted for centuries. We’ve been positioned as both essential and disposable.
The numbers prove the exploitation isn’t just a relic of the past:
Black women earn 63 cents for every dollar earned by white men.
We are more likely to work multiple jobs while still being underpaid compared to peers.
We face the highest rates of workplace burnout of any racial/gender group, according to recent studies.
Black women are more likely than any other group to be both primary breadwinners and unpaid caregivers.
Burnout among Black women professionals has hit historic highs since 2020, but corporate diversity investments are being rolled back
But exploitation isn’t always physical or financial, it’s also emotional.
The Emotional Tax of “Proving Ourselves”
Beyond pay gaps, there’s the constant emotional and intellectual labor of having to justify our presence, ideas, and humanity. When I led various DEI initiatives at several reputable organizations, I heard countless Black women share stories that mirrored my own: being asked to “tone down” passion in meetings, having our ideas rephrased by others to get buy-in, or being handed more projects on top of our actual roles, without additional pay or resources.
We are told to “bring our authentic selves” to work, but when we do, we are often penalized for it.
If we choose to remain silent in meetings to protect ourselves, we are asked to contribute and to speak up. However, when we contribute, if it is not aligned with the suppression of our authenticity, we are asked not to “distract” from the business agenda.
This creates an inevitable emotional tax that is burning us out while keeping us on a perpetual hamster wheel that does not allow us to receive fair promotions and pay raises.
Why This Matters to the Economy
The irony is: Black women keep the economy running. We’re among the fastest-growing groups of entrepreneurs in the United States. We are highly educated and often lead households financially. And yet, the system we help sustain keeps trying to wring every drop of productivity from us while offering minimal protection in return.
If the U.S. economy were a body, Black women are the heart, pumping life into it every day. And like any heart, we can’t run without rest.
Rest as Resistance
The Revolution Begins with Rest
I have had to learn, sometimes painfully, that rest is not laziness. Rest is repair. Rest is refusal. Rest is our inheritance reclaimed.
In an economy that thrives on our exhaustion, rest is a radical act. When we pause, when we say no, when we demand equitable pay and boundaries, we disrupt a cycle that has kept us in survival mode for generations.
The future of labor in America can’t just be about productivity. It must be about sustainability. It must be about creating an economy where Black women aren’t just surviving but thriving.
Until that happens, I’ll keep telling these stories, mine, and ours. Because the weight we carry is real. But so is our power to set it down. We can’t keep the body alive if it keeps ignoring its own pulse.
In the meantime, respect Black women. Protect Black women. And hire us, too.
What does rest mean to you in this season of your life? I’d love to hear your reflections in the comments below.
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