People tell me quietly that they do not feel enough in certain spaces. They say they become too visible the moment they enter a room. They explain that in one setting they are seen as too feminine and in another not feminine enough. Immigrants describe feeling too foreign in professional circles, yet not authentic enough within their own communities. Queer individuals share that they are called brave in one place and told they are too much in another.
When I first read Marlene Watson’s Facing the Black Shadow, I found myself pausing often and rereading passages as if someone were finally giving language to experiences that many people have carried quietly for generations. Watson describes the “black shadow” as an internalized belief in Black inferiority, one that settles not only in the mind but in relationships, families, and the body. Her stories about colorism, self-blame, and the long emotional reach of slavery are tender and honest, and they illuminate how deeply collective trauma can shape a sense of self.
Although the “black shadow” emerges from a specific historical reality, versions of this shadow appear in many communities that have been marked as “other.” The details differ. The histories differ. Yet the emotional imprint often feels familiar.
Identity is rarely one fixed thing. It shifts and reshapes itself depending on who is present, which histories are activated, and what the social context demands. The shadow often forms in these relational spaces, in the gap between who we are and who we believe we must be in order to belong.
There are so many factors involved in the way in which we perceive and receive people. Take our names! Usually, amongst the first words that we exchange with other people are our names. A name can be a bridge or a barrier to feeling included. It can signal belonging or separation. The way a person’s name is pronounced, shortened, questioned, or avoided can shape how safe they feel in a new environment. Names carry family stories, cultural histories, and aspirations. When someone hesitates before saying their own name, or when they adjust it to make others more comfortable, the shadow becomes a little heavier. This is why I believe names can serve as gateways to intimacy and meaningful connections. When someone honors our name, they honor the world it comes from (you can watch my TEDx talk on the topic if you have 16 minutes)
Even when societies become more inclusive, internal narratives do not always keep pace. Institutions may embrace diversity, yet many people still carry inherited caution. Families pass down protective messages meant to keep their children safe. These messages were born from love and were supposed to serve as survival methods, but they can unintentionally limit a person’s sense of possibility later in life.
One client once told me, “My body remembers something my life did not live.” That sentence has stayed with me. Generational trauma is often felt before it is understood. It shows itself in hesitation, self-doubt, vigilance, or the quiet pressure to outperform in order to be accepted.
As people enter new roles or spaces, they may feel they are representing more than just themselves. The pride of visibility often sits right next to the fear of disappointing an entire community. This burden of representation is not a sign of weakness. It reflects how deeply we care about the histories that shaped us.
Naming the shadow is not about blaming individuals or communities. It is an invitation to understand the emotional residue of history so that we can move through it with compassion. When people start noticing their own version of the shadow, they often say, “I did not know how much of this shaped me,” or “This finally makes sense.” Awareness does not erase the shadow immediately, but it loosens its grip. It gives us room to choose which stories we want to carry forward.
And that brings us to two meaningful pathways: literacy and fluency. These do not require perfection. They simply require the willingness to see yourself with kinder eyes.
Literacy: Understanding the Shadow Within
Literacy begins with gentle observation. It is the process of tracing the stories that shaped you and noticing how they show up in your daily life.
You might start by exploring the histories that shaped your communities. This can be as simple as noting stories surrounding your gender, sexuality, age, geographical location, or major events that influenced your family or cultural group, such as migration, social movements, or political changes. Reflecting on these events often reveals how they shaped your beliefs about visibility, safety, and belonging.
Next, consider how your identities shift depending on the environment. Think about moments when you felt too much of something or not enough. Pay attention to what each space expects of you and how you adjust in response. If you look at your history, where did these adjustments serve you? Where did they hinder you?
You can also reflect on how privilege and disadvantage have woven through your life. Most of us carry both, depending on the context. For example, in one context, being a woman might provide me with an advantage, and in another, it is the reason I am not invited to the table. Recognizing this complexity often uncovers hidden assumptions about where you believe you deserve to stand.
Finally, reflect on the stories you were told growing up. Families often pass down messages intended to protect their children. Some of these messages may still help you. Others may now hold you back. Becoming aware of this is the beginning of shifting the narrative.
Now let’s put these into place and see how this internal work shows up in your life.
Fluency: Rewriting the Story You Live
Start by identifying one belief that surfaced in your reflections. It may be something like, “I need to stay quiet,” “I must work twice as hard,” or “I am only welcome if I adapt.” Ask yourself if this belief still serves you or if it is part of the shadow you inherited.
Rewrite that belief as a more caring and truthful statement. Imagine saying it to someone you love. It might become, “My voice matters,” or “I can take up space,” or “I do not have to be perfect to be worthy.”
Once you have a new statement, choose one small action that aligns with it. This might mean speaking up once in a meeting, applying for an opportunity you hesitated to pursue, or sharing your name proudly and correcting someone gently when needed. Small actions help anchor new narratives in lived experience.
Finally, consider how your healing might create space for others. Small moments of belonging ripple outward. When you honor your own identity and story, you often make it easier for someone else to do the same. We all rise together.