Growing up, what did I love about the holidays? My mama’s cooking.
Lord knows that woman was a godsend to my brother, my father, myself, and our entire community. She could cook anything known to man. To this day, I could slip into a food coma just thinking about her smothered turkey wings. Jesus.
But you know what memory I don’t have?
My mother eating.
She cooked. She served. She made sure everyone had seconds and thirds. She cleaned. She packed plates for folks to take home to their loved ones. She stood in that kitchen for hours (sometimes, days), making magic happen for anyone that she could. But I cannot recall a single moment when she sat down with a full plate of her own, enjoying the meal she had poured herself into.
And I know my mother isn’t the only one.
As a Black man, I grew up surrounded by Black women whose love looked like labor, whose affection looked like sacrifice, and whose presence felt like strength even when they were running on fumes. Throughout my life, I have benefited from that labor more times than I can count, often without realizing the cost it demanded from them.
My mama is still alive. Still cooking. Still serving. Still not eating. That’s not grief; that’s burnout that has become a way of life.
Black Women Have Been Feeding Everyone While Going Hungry Themselves
Not just literally—though that too—but emotionally, spiritually, physically. Giving and giving and giving until there was nothing left. Serving everyone else while forgetting to serve themselves.
I see it in my wife.
I love that woman deeply. And for years, I wondered if she loved herself with the same intensity she gave away to others.
I watched her move through the world like a force of nature—managing her career, caring for her family, showing up for anyone who needed her, holding space for people’s pain and chaos. She was the one people called. The one who made it work. The one who never said no.
She was becoming my mama. Running on service. Never sitting down to eat.
And then her Nana died.
Her Nana was her light, her anchor, her person. Someone she had spent years pouring into, protecting, and loving with everything she had. Her Nana gave her an ideal to strive toward. My wife didn’t just lose someone she loved, she lost a part of herself. She lost the identity she had formed around caring for someone else.
It reminded me of that moment in Hercules when he gives up his godly powers to save Meg—trading his strength for love and service. That is exactly what I saw in my wife. She had given so much of herself that once the person she was serving was gone, she no longer knew who she was.
Because here’s the truth: She had been running on love, duty, and instinct for so long that she forgot what it felt like to simply be. Not a caregiver. Not the strong one. Not the fixer. Just herself.
The Grief and Burnout Black Women Aren’t Allowed to Have
If you are a Black woman reading this, you already know the script. You know the vibes.
You show up. You make it work. You carry your family, your job, your community. You’re the backbone. The glue. The one who holds everything together when it’s falling apart.
And when someone you love dies, when the holidays feel hollow, when your heart is cracked wide open—you are still expected to show up.
But even if no one has died, even if there’s no “good reason” for your exhaustion—you’re still expected to show up. To cook. To host. To care. To carry everyone else’s needs while your own go unmet.
Because life doesn’t stop. Work doesn’t stop. People still expect you to perform.
So you keep moving. You keep serving. You keep performing strength. Not because you want to, but because you’ve been conditioned to believe you have no other choice. You are a Strong Black Woman, after all.
But grief and burnout don’t care about your reputation. They don’t care what people expect from you. And the holidays—these loud, bright, emotionally demanding holidays—have a way of forcing you to feel everything you’ve been avoiding.
The loss. The fatigue. The ache of having nothing left to give.
When You Lose Someone, You Lose Yourself—Even If They’re Still Alive
Here’s what took me years to understand: You can lose yourself to service even when the person you’re serving is still here.
My mama never stopped serving. She never stopped giving. And somewhere along the way, she forgot how to receive. She forgot how to sit down. She forgot that she, too, deserves to be fed.
Grief isn’t just about death. It’s about losing the version of yourself that existed in relation to someone—or to a role you’ve been playing for so long that you don’t know who you are without it.
If you were a caregiver, you lose your purpose when they’re gone. If you were a daughter caring for a mother, you lose your role. If you spent years serving someone you loved, you lose your identity when that season ends.
And for Black women—women who have been taught that their worth is tied to their usefulness—this loss cuts even deeper. Because if you’re not taking care of someone, who are you?
My wife did what she always did. She found someone else to serve. She threw herself into work. She took on more responsibility. She showed up for everyone except herself.
Because sitting still meant feeling. And feeling meant grieving. And grieving meant admitting she wasn’t okay.
She was walking the same path my mama has walked for decades. And without intervention, that path doesn’t lead to rest but to a lifetime of never sitting down to eat your own food.
The Holidays Will Not Let You Pretend
Holiday gatherings remind you of who’s missing. Traditions feel hollow without the people who made them meaningful. Family dynamics shove you back into old roles that no longer fit.
And when you’re already running on empty—whether from grief, burnout, or both—the pressure to cook, host, smile, and keep the peace becomes unbearable.
Meanwhile, nobody’s checking on you. Because you are the one who checks on everyone else. You’re the Strong Black Woman.
Except you’re not okay. And you shouldn’t have to be.
You Can’t Grieve or Heal While You’re Still Performing
Watching my wife—and my mama before her—taught me something I will never forget: You cannot heal while you are still in survival mode.
You cannot process grief while you are carrying everyone else’s needs. You cannot recover from burnout while continuing to burn. You cannot remember who you are while performing a role that requires you to disappear.
Grief requires stillness. Healing requires space. Recovery requires slowness. All of it requires permission.
And that is terrifying—because the moment you stop performing, everything you’ve been holding back comes rushing in.
But hear me clearly: You are not responsible for holding everything together. You are allowed to choose yourself.
It’s time to make that stop.
Let me say it plainly: It’s time to let some things fall apart so you can put yourself back together.
Here’s what that might look like:
Guard Your Yes. Every yes you give someone else is a no to yourself. René Brooks of “Black Girl, Lost Keys” teaches a powerful framework: Guard Your Yes. Protect it. Give it intentionally. And when you can’t give it authentically, don’t give it at all.
Let People Be Disappointed. You have spent your whole life making sure everyone else is okay. It’s time to let some people be disappointed. Let them figure it out. Let them feel uncomfortable. Their discomfort is not your emergency.
Create Space to Actually Grieve. Light a candle. Play a song. Sit with the pain. Cry in the car. Journal. Scream. Do whatever you need to do to honor what you’ve lost—the person, the relationship, the version of yourself that no longer exists. Grief is not something to rush through. It’s something to move through with intention.
Rest as Resistance. Rest is not laziness. Rest is not selfishness. Rest is holy. Rest is survival. Rest is reclamation. If rest is the only thing you do this holiday season, that is enough.
Remember: You Are Not Your Service. Your worth is not determined by how much you do for other people. You are not valuable because you are useful. You are valuable because you exist. And you deserve care, rest, and healing—not because you’ve earned it, but because you’re human.
Who Are You Without the Performance?
My wife is still figuring it out. My mama is learning to eat at Thanksgiving.
But here’s what I hope changes: I hope my wife doesn’t spend the next 30 years on the same path. I hope she learns now what my mama never had permission to learn: that sitting down to feed yourself isn’t selfish. It’s survival. And I hope my mama lets us feed her more (but she can own the turkey wings, respectfully, of course).
So many Black women I love are still learning what it means to exist outside of sacrifice. If you see yourself anywhere in this post—whether you’re grieving a loss or burning out from years of service or both—I want you to know: You are not selfish for choosing yourself. You are not weak for needing rest. You are not failing because you’re tired. You are human. You are worthy. You are easy to love. You deserve to be honored this holiday season and beyond.
This holiday season, let some things fall apart. Let the performance drop. Let people be upset. Let yourself feel. Get somebody else to do it. Because you cannot become who you are meant to be while performing as who the world expects you to be.
Serve yourself. Not for anyone else. For your damn self.
If you are struggling with grief, burnout, or the pressure to perform during the holidays, please reach out to a therapist or trusted support person. To find a therapist, visit the Psychology Today Therapy Directory.