When Black Women Speak Up

When Truth Has Consequences

In the world of online business, we like to believe we’ve created something more conscious. More inclusive. More human.

But what happens when the very spaces built on those promises betray the people they claim to serve?

This isn’t a callout. This is a truth-telling moment.

For over a year, I’ve carried a story that’s been hard to put into words. Every time I’ve started to succeed, really succeed, I’ve felt the weight of it return. Like a ghost from the past, it rises up and whispers,

“Remember what happened last time you tried to take up space?”

And in those moments, I’ve found myself shrinking, spiraling into self-doubt, wondering if I even belonged.

But this year, my word is healing. And part of healing is facing what hurts.

So here’s what happened

I admired these women.

There are very few people I follow online. As a Haitian-born, immigrant Black woman, it takes me time to find voices I trust. When I do, I invest, not just with my money, but with my energy, loyalty, and support.

I discovered one of these women in a group coaching thread about messaging. She was named one of the best, and I spent years learning from her free content, including her podcast, book, and newsletter.

Though her private services were once out of reach, I kept her on my list. “One day,” I told myself.

Later, I discovered another woman whose blog on choosing ethical coaches resonated with me deeply. I subscribed, listened to her podcast, and even joined one of her programs to help me outline my services and determine their pricing.

Eventually, the two teamed up to create a podcast together. As a fan of both, I was all in. I subscribed to their Patreon, publicly supported them, and recommended their work to friends and colleagues. I didn’t expect anything in return; I just believed in what they stood for.

Until the day I realized they didn’t stand for me.

When opportunity knocks

When one of them opened a group program at a price I could afford, I jumped at the chance. I was thrilled. This was finally the opportunity I’d waited for to work with someone I’d admired for years. During our Zoom call, I even told her how much her work had meant to me.

But two months in, life hit hard. My younger brother, still living in Haiti, survived an attempted kidnapping. Armed robberies, political instability, and brutal violence had escalated in Port-au-Prince. It wasn’t safe anymore, at all.

The trauma wasn’t just across the ocean. It was in me. Every Sunday call, every text, every silence became a wave of worry I carried while running my business.

I emailed the coach. I explained what was happening in Haiti without going into the details. I told her I had one more month left on my quarterly payment and needed to put it on pause.

I wanted to focus on helping my brother and my family prepare for possible relocation. I even asked how to cancel, since there was no visible cancellation button on her platform. I was transparent. Respectful. Grateful.

What I received in return was silence.

Revoked

I tried to log in to the group that evening, hoping to leave a goodbye message and thank the people I’d met (something I’d witnessed another member do). My login no longer worked. My password reset didn’t work. Everything had been revoked.

I was stunned.

The next morning, I received a short message:

“I went ahead and canceled your membership and removed your access to the program.”

No explanation. No compassion. No acknowledgment of what I’d shared.

Worse still? I’d already paid for another month. And yet, everything I’d created inside the program, notes, templates, and content, was gone.

This wasn’t an oversight. This was erasure.

And it hurt even more coming from someone who speaks publicly about ethical business, coaching harm, and trauma-aware leadership. Someone whose podcast had entire episodes about not doing exactly what she just did to me.

It gets worse

I reached out to her podcast co-host, someone I had communicated with often via DMs and had worked with in other paid programs. I thought surely she would understand. I shared what had happened, honestly and gently. I never demanded anything. I simply wanted to be seen.

She replied that she needed time to absorb what I shared and would get back to me.

A few days later, I received a cold, dismissive email. It opened by noting I had removed myself from her Slack group (a decision I made for my mental health) and went on to say:

“…your issues were not with me. I’ll offer you a partial refund. I’m not in the business of taking money from clients who are not actively engaging in my program.“

I had never asked for a refund.

I had never blamed her.

But somehow, my pain had been reframed as my fault. Again.

When I responded to explain that my departure was about protecting my peace and my mental health, not about her or the program, I received one final email.

No acknowledgment of the harm.

No curiosity about what I shared.

Just:

“Your refund has been processed. Your access has been revoked. Take care of yourself.“

And that was that.

Here’s what I want to say about all of this

When Black women speak up in business spaces, we are too often:

• Reframed as the aggressor

• Erased from the narrative

• Punished for our honesty

• Made responsible for the harm done to us

This experience shook me. It still shakes me.

I’ve relived it more times than I care to admit, especially during moments when I was succeeding. When I was finally working on something I had dreamed of for months, the memory of that harm came rushing back.

That’s how trauma works.

I realized I had internalized a dangerous message:

Success opens me up to harm.

But this year, this year is about healing.

So I’m breaking that pattern.

I’m acknowledging the pain.

And I’m letting the truth be enough.

To my fellow Black and immigrant women in business

If you’ve ever been shut down, gaslit, or dismissed when you tried to name harm, especially in spaces that preach inclusion, know this:

You are not alone.

You are not “too sensitive.”

You are not imagining it.

Microaggressions are real. So is the grief they cause. The silence we carry is not weakness; it’s often the only way we can keep going.

But I’m done carrying this alone.

I’m sharing it now, not for revenge, but because I want to break the pattern. I want to reclaim my power. And I want to create space for other women like me to say, “Me too,” and finally breathe.

To white women in leadership

If you’re reading this, please understand: I’m not here to shame you. But I am asking you to listen.

Change doesn’t happen because we say the right things on a podcast.

Change happens when we stop centering ourselves in someone else’s pain.

It happens when we see the people who are giving us their money, their trust, and their hope, and treat them with the dignity they deserve.

We talk about calling out, but what about living out the values we preach?

What about networking across, rather than just climbing up?

All of my repeat clients, all the people who’ve stood by me in this business, they weren’t famous. They weren’t influencers. They were small business owners like me. Women who gave me a chance when no one else would.

Those relationships are sacred. And they’re built on something far more profound than visibility. They’re built on integrity.

A final word on healing

I’ve come to understand that I don’t need to relive this story to prove it mattered.

I don’t need their validation to grow.

And I don’t need to stay small just to stay safe.

Here’s to allowing myself to win without shrinking in someone else’s shadow.

Here’s to letting my emotions move through me without holding me back.

Here’s to turning pain into power, not performance.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Thank you for seeing me.

I hope, in reading this, you’ve seen something of yourself too.

More to Explore

These thoughtfully selected reads, authored by Black women or drawing on Black-woman-led insight, offer deeper context for building inclusive spaces, navigating microaggressions, and practicing genuine allyship within online business and coaching.

• Navigating Workplace Microaggressions: Empowering Black and Brown Women Against Everyday Bias
  Written by Black therapist Myra McNair, this article provides real-world examples of daily microaggressions and offers emotional tools for healing and self-preservation.
  

• How Black Women Can Respond to Microaggressions | Lean In
  A research-informed guide led by Lean In’s initiative to support Black women facing bias in professional environments. It offers strategies for self-care, speaking up, and finding validation.
  

• This Actress and Writer Just Offered 1 Piece of Simple but Powerful Networking Advice (Inc.com)
  This piece shares Issa Rae’s insight directly—“Don’t network up. Network across.” It explains why building with peers who share your hunger and lived intent is more meaningful than chasing visibility.