The Weight of Proving

I woke up at 3 a.m. with my jaw clenched so tight I could still feel the ache hours later. I had been dreaming—if you could even call it that. More like reliving. A loop of stress, a frantic search for proof, the desperate need to find the rightanswer before someone told me I had done it wrong. I don’t remember the exact details. I just remember the feeling.

The panic.

The scrambling.

The sick urgency of having to prove I was right.

And when I woke up, it didn’t leave me. It sat heavy in my chest, in my throat, in my head. The stress of a dream had settled into my body, and I couldn’t shake it.

And that’s when I realised this isn’t just about work. It’s about something deeper.

It’s about the way I’ve been conditioned to brace.

To anticipate scrutiny before it even comes.

To gather proof, not for my own clarity, but as a shield.

To believe that safety lies in being undeniably correct.

And I don’t know when it started. Maybe it’s personal. Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s the hyper-awareness that some of us don’t get the luxury of mistakes. That when you are a Black woman in leadership, the margin for error feels thinner. That scrutiny feels sharper. That you don’t just get to be—you have to prove.

And so the tension lives in my body.

In my clenched jaw.

In my tight shoulders.

In the exhaustion of a mind that never fully rests.

And I have to ask myself: Is this just the culture of work? Or is this just the culture of this work?

Because I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want my body to keep paying the price for expectations I never agreed to. I don’t want my subconscious to turn my job into a battle I have to fight in my sleep.

And so I am learning—slowly, imperfectly—to set it down.

I do not have to prove my worth.

I already belong.

I do not have to hold my breath.

I do not have to brace.

I do not have to gather evidence,

stack reasons like stones,

carry fear like it is mine to hold.

My body deserves ease.

My shoulders, soft.

The grip of worry, undone.

My breath, steady as the tide.

Mistakes do not undo me.

Questions do not unmake me.

I am not a sum of answers,

not a record to be kept,

not a debt to be repaid.

I release what is not mine.

The weight of proving.

The fear of fault.

The story that says I must be perfect

to be safe.

I trust myself.

Even in the unknown,

even in the quiet,

even when the path unfolds

one step at a time.

I do not owe perfection.

I owe myself peace.

And so I set it down.

The fear, the grip, the proving.

I step into something softer.

Something lighter.

Something true.

My body deserves ease.

And I am ready to receive it.