I learned how to code-switch before I even knew what it was.

I went to mostly Black public schools growing up, where I felt free to be myself. But when I started attending a private high school—with only a few Black students—I quickly learned how to adjust. I softened my tone, spoke more “proper,” made myself more agreeable. And when I got home, my mom would say, “Alright now, turn off that school voice. Talk regular.”

That back-and-forth taught me that success often meant performing. That being “excellent” as a Black girl required constant shape-shifting.

That mindset followed me into my early career—especially in professional spaces where I was the only Black woman in the room. I was always calculating how I showed up. Always proving. Always performing. And yes—always exhausted.

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Everything changed when I was 27 and started working at my first Black woman-owned company.

For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to shrink. I didn’t have to explain my tone or my hair or why I was confident in my ideas. I saw Black women leading boldly, speaking honestly, and showing up fully. That environment showed me what was possible—and made me realize how much of myself I’d been editing in every other space.

That experience gave me permission to reimagine what excellence could look like for me. Not just surviving in the room—but being free in the room.

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It made me start asking real questions: What version of Black excellence had I been chasing all this time? Who decided that being “twice as good” had to come with twice the burden? Why was exhaustion the badge of honor?

I had to unlearn a lot.

Black excellence shouldn’t mean being overworked, overlooked, or over-explaining ourselves to feel valid. It shouldn’t mean proving our worth by how well we assimilate or how much we tolerate.

My faith helped me redefine all of that. I had to remember: I wasn’t created to perform. I was created on purpose—with purpose. That truth helped me let go of the pressure to constantly be “on.” It reminded me that rest is holy. That I can be excellent and human. That I don’t have to lose myself to be seen as successful.

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Now, I define excellence on my own terms.

It’s not about hustle for the sake of appearances. It’s about alignment. It’s about honoring my boundaries, knowing my worth, and protecting my peace.

These days, I show up to work with my locs, my Black Girl Magic shirts, and my African-inspired earrings. I don’t mute who I am to fit in. And honestly? I’m better at what I do because of it.

I recently posted on LinkedIn about wearing my locs in professional spaces—and the response was beautiful. One woman reached out to say our paths crossing felt like divine timing. She’d read my blog, then saw the LinkedIn post, and told me it gave her language for something she’s always felt but didn’t know how to express.

That reminded me that showing up as myself isn’t just for me—it’s for the people watching. The ones wondering if it’s safe to be seen. If my authenticity creates even a little more space for someone else to exhale and say, “Me too”—then I’m doing something right.

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This Is What Excellence Looks Like to Me

I love seeing Black women in rooms we were once shut out of. It means something every time. And when I get into those rooms, I look for who I can bring with me. I also seek out the rooms where Black women are already leading, building, and thriving—because I know what happens when we’re in community. That’s where the real magic is.

Because here’s the thing: representation without community? That’s just isolation in a nicer office.

I’m no longer interested in someone else’s version of excellence—the one that demands we shrink, stay silent, or sacrifice our peace. The version I believe in now is rooted in truth, purpose, and rest. It honors who we are, not just what we do. It allows us to take up space without apology.

Black women deserve to be excellent and at ease. Seen and supported. Powerful and at peace.

And if showing up fully as myself helps create that possibility for someone else, then I’m walking exactly in my purpose.