Unpacking the Myth of Mutual Support Among Black Women
The Myth of Mutual Support Among Black Women
Photo Credit: Prostock-Studio via iStockPhoto.com
By: Jamila Gomez
There’s a story we like to tell about ourselves: that Black women always show up for each other. That we’re uniquely bonded by shared struggle. That support is automatic, instinctual, guaranteed.
It sounds good. It photographs well. It’s comforting.
And it’s not consistently true.
Many Black women grow up believing that other Black women will be their safest place. That shared identity equals shared care. So when support doesn’t show up—or worse, when harm comes from within—it hits deeper. The disappointment isn’t just personal. It feels like a betrayal of something sacred.
The problem isn’t that Black women don’t support each other at all. We do. Constantly. Loudly. Quietly. Behind the scenes. But the assumption of mutual support is where the myth lives. Because assumptions erase accountability.
Support among Black women is often conditional. It flows easily when everyone stays within familiar lanes—same values, same pace, same life scripts. But step outside of what’s expected, and the tone changes. Curiosity turns into critique. Concern slides into comparison. Silence replaces solidarity.
Competition plays a bigger role than we like to admit. Not always overt, not always intentional—but present. Scarcity has taught us to measure ourselves against each other, even when we don’t want to. Praise can feel threatening. Visibility can feel like loss. Another woman’s growth can trigger the quiet question: What does this mean about me?
Then there’s emotional labor. Many Black women give generously, but not equally. Support becomes lopsided—one woman always listening, advocating, holding space, while her own needs go unanswered. When she finally stops pouring, she’s labeled distant, bitter, or changed.
We rarely interrogate that.
We also avoid talking about how often “support” is performative. Public affirmations without private follow-through. Hashtags without hard conversations. Celebration when things are easy, absence when things get complicated. Being seen together matters more than standing together.
And let’s be honest: proximity politics are real. Who you know. Where you work. Who you’re aligned with. Support gets filtered through access and advantage. Not everyone is protected the same way. Not everyone is extended grace.
Naming this isn’t about tearing Black women down. It’s about refusing to romanticize dynamics that leave too many of us confused, hurt, and blaming ourselves for gaps that were never ours to close.
Mutual support requires skill. Emotional maturity. Self-awareness. Boundaries. The ability to celebrate without comparison and to disagree without punishment. Shared identity alone doesn’t build those things.
For Black women in their 30s and beyond, this myth becomes harder to carry. By this stage, many of us have receipts. We’ve been the reliable one. The encourager. The connector. And we’ve also been the one left out, talked about, or quietly dropped when we no longer fit someone else’s narrative.
That reality forces a reckoning.
Real support is specific. It’s consistent. It doesn’t disappear when your life stops being palatable. It doesn’t require you to stay small, agreeable, or grateful for crumbs. It doesn’t demand silence in exchange for proximity.
The truth is, some Black women will be your sisters. Some will be your mirrors. Some will be your lessons. Expecting all of them to be your support system sets you up for disappointment and resentment.
Letting go of the myth doesn’t mean giving up on community. It means building it intentionally. Choosing relationships based on behavior, not just shared identity. Allowing support to be earned and reciprocated, not assumed.
We deserve better than slogans. We deserve relationships that can hold complexity without collapsing into competition or silence. And we can’t get there if we keep pretending the myth is the reality.
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