Lately, Fatigue has been showing up at my door like an old friend who never calls ahead. Sometimes They arrive quietly, settling into the corners of my body before I even notice. Other times, They barge in, loud and heavy, carried on the backs of breaking news alerts and sideways comments from well intentioned strangers. I’ve spent years trying to push Fatigue out, to pretend I could keep moving without acknowledging Their presence. But Fatigue is stubborn, and in this season, I’ve decided to stop pretending like Fatigue isn’t weighing me down, and start responding to it.

In May, a video went viral of a white woman misusing the phrase Black fatigue to describe her annoyance with Black people. She framed it as if she, and society as a whole, were the victims. I won’t give her words more air than they deserve, but I will say this: what she described isn’t Black fatigue.

Black fatigue is the weight Black people carry every day from navigating systems never built for us. It’s the exhaustion of moving through education, healthcare, housing, and media that reflect, over and over, the truth that we were never the intended beneficiaries. It’s insidious, constant, and it doesn’t just wear on our minds but it lives in our bodies, and tries to devour our spirit.

It’s exhausting, hence the fatigue. Needless to say, I’m tired.

I’ve been tired. But lately, I feel the weight more acutely every time I read another breaking news alert about an administration pushing policies that thinly veil racism, homophobia, sexism, and all the other terrible things under the sun.

I see more people online emboldened to spew hate (like the woman in the video) or to minimize the emotional and physical toll it takes to simply exist as a Black person in 2025.

And while I’ve often seen my intersecting identities as a gift (because they are), I forget that the gift of my queerness, of my body, of my ability to break the binary, and the richness of my ancestral roots are all seen as a threat to the fragile systems all around us.

In the last few months, my knee jerk reaction is to pull away: from community, from things that spark joy, and even from hope. I don’t want to throw in the proverbial towel, and let my fatigue paralyze me from existing, or connecting, or finding pockets of hope to rest in. I can hear my ancestors chirping in my ear to get up, and keep moving. (Although, sometimes they say it in much more colorful ways.)

So instead, at least for a season, I’m making friends with my Fatigue. I’ll greet Them in the morning when the headlines hit, and I can feel the weight settling into my chest, then I’ll move my body, sip my coffee, and write down one small way I’ll show up for my community.

I’ll acknowledge Fatigue when someone says something out of pocket and emotional labor is required. I’ll choose to be bold but kind, rooted in my dignity and committed to connection, practicing the gentle art of calling in.

I’ll rest alongside Fatigue when I’m lounging at a brewery and my body reminds me I’m the only one there who looks like me. And then I’ll drink my beer and savor the quiet victory of taking up space.

These systems we’re living in and wading through, are broken. They weren’t designed for me, but the truth is that they don’t serve any of us. So while I wait for them to crumble (not passively, mind you, but while actively throwing wrenches into the cogs of the machine) I’ll be tired, and I’ll still be here.

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Things I’ve Been Doing With Fatigue

Reading
Fatigue sits next to me on the couch when I read. Sometimes flipping between books with me, sometimes just breathing heavy at my side. I like to read all sorts of things, usually all at the same time, which means I’ll either finish five books in a month or take five months to finish one. There’s hardly an in-between.

Lately, I’ve been mixing what I call “fun reads,” “palate cleanses,” and “academic” titles:

• Sunrise at the Reaping — Suzanne Collins
  I’m really getting back into my YA bag that I thought I was too cool for when the OG Hunger Games originally came out. It was fun and I cried.
  
  
• Looking for a Sign — Susie Dumond
  My palate cleanse choice: a spicy sapphic novel that sadly left much to be desired. I didn’t love it, but I had too much pride to DNF it.
  
  
• Fearing the Black Body: The Racial Origins of Fat Phobia — Sabrina Strings
  My academic pick. Talk about systemic racism! Highly recommend, though I’m reading it slowly to really take it in. Turns out, I have complicated feelings around my body and there’s a whole system around why. Who knew!
  

Watching lots of WNBA games
My Fatigue loves women’s basketball almost as much as me! And since Summer is peak WNBA season, this means most days there’s a game (or five) to watch, and I love it. The WNBA is peak Black history and Black magic: beautiful, joyful, and unapologetically queer. And yes, my gay lil heart is obsessed with the inter-league romances and the rise of the Stud Budz (IYKYK).

(Trying) to Find Community
Fatigue follows me into Portland’s social spaces. In some queer spaces, I’m “too Black.” In some Black spaces, I’m “too queer.” So we wander together, looking for places where I can be my full self without putting ‘baby in a corner’.

It’s slow going. Some days, Fatigue and I go home empty-handed. Other nights, we meet people who laugh with us, resist with us, and remind us that joy is still a form of protest.

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If you’re like me (or nothing like me) but you’re tired, and especially if you’re BIPOC, or queer, or having a hard time existing in 2025, I invite you to make friends with your fatigue. At least for a season. Don’t let it consume you, define you, or eat you alive. Fatigue doesn’t mean we stop; it means we pace ourselves for the long haul.

So here’s your formal and gentle invitation to keep showing up, even if it’s with heavy eyes and slower steps.

Check in on a friend. Speak up in a meeting. Share a resource, start a book club. Support a local organizer or mutual aid. Support a BIPOC owned business. Read. Frolic. Make friends. Bake bread. Watch gay sports. Volunteer. Call your senators, congress people, local officials. Rest without guilt.

Do whatever speaks to your soul, and do it tired.

P.S. If you’re curious about the video I referenced earlier, I urge you to skip that wretched video and instead read Black Fatigue: How Racism Erodes the Mind, Body, and Spirit by Mary Frances Winters. You’ll be much better off, I promise.