Pretty Pain
I’ve learned that among Black women, envy doesn’t always show up loud — sometimes it smiles.
It compliments your hair while wishing your shine would dim.
It reposts your win but never celebrates it.
We were raised to be strong, but strength without healing turns into armor.
And that armor makes it hard to clap for somebody else’s light.
We mistake protection for pride, and survival for sisterhood.
But underneath it, there’s hurt — centuries of being told we’re not enough, and still somehow too much.
So we wear perfection like a mask, afraid that another woman’s glow might expose what we hide.
It’s not hate. It’s pain, dressed up pretty.
And until we face it, the mask will keep slipping —
and we’ll keep calling it confidence when it’s really comparison.
This isn’t to say envy only lives among melanated women — it lives everywhere. But in our community, it hits deeper. The things we’ve survived, been taught, and watched get passed down have shaped how we see each other. What starts as protection sometimes turns into distance. I’m speaking from the inside, because I’ve seen how much brighter we shine when we heal together.