Finding Ly-Ang #28: The Unspoken Weight of Being “The Only” in the Room

Walking into a room full of parents should feel like entering a community, a shared tribe where everyone is rooting for their children to thrive. And yet, there I was, once again, the only Black woman in the room. Not an unusual position for me—but this time, it hit differently.

You see, I’ve spent years developing the confidence to walk into such spaces unapologetically, owning my presence and refusing to shrink. I don’t carry the burden of feeling “less than” for my identity. But in these recent gatherings—parent-teacher meetings, extracurricular sign-ups—I felt fragile, lost, and, dare I say, intimidated.

Was it the parental pressure to “fit in”? Or was it my decision to parent differently—against the grain, against the norms, and, quite frankly, against the expectations of both the establishment and my peers?

I’ve chosen to parent with an unwavering respect for my children. From the moment they were in my womb, I acknowledged their intelligence, sensitivity, and autonomy. I speak to them as equals—not friends (thanks, Michelle Obama, for the “friendly mother, not friend” wisdom)—and encourage them to question, feel, and voice their thoughts. My parenting style doesn’t adhere to societal scripts, and maybe that’s part of the discomfort I bring into these spaces.

But let me be honest—there’s something more.

The Fear of Saying What Truly Matters

Being the only Black parent in the room is one thing. Knowing you might be met with defensiveness or dismissal the moment you bring up race or cultural sensitivity? That’s a whole other layer of isolation.

The fear isn’t about my confidence; it’s about the reactions.

- The eye-roll-inducing “You’re imagining things.”

- The casual dismissal: “It’s just kids being kids.”

- The defensive “We don’t teach our kids that at home.”

It’s knowing that if I say, “Your child touching my child’s hair without permission is a problem,” I’ll likely be met with denial rather than understanding. It’s the knowledge that bringing up the need for schools to teach about slavery, racism, and the power dynamics behind the N-word might make them uncomfortable—not because the message is wrong but because it’s inconvenient.

The Weight of Privilege and the Fragility of Being the Only

Being the only in the room means navigating an unspoken pressure to avoid making others uncomfortable. Yet, discomfort is often the birthplace of change.

If schools can teach about the Holocaust (and rightly so), why can’t they teach about slavery and racism with the same seriousness? If history is a tool for learning, why is only some history considered worthy of inclusion?

It’s not about blaming the children—it’s about creating awareness in their parents and the institutions shaping them. I want my children to grow up in a world where their peers don’t need a special seminar to understand why they shouldn’t use inappropriate slurs or invade someone’s personal space.

And yet, I often hold back. Because being the only means that every word, every complaint, feels magnified. It’s easier to sit tall, offer a neutral smile, and avoid eye contact than risk the reverse psychology and defensiveness that too often follows honesty.

The Call for Courage—and Change

So here I am, torn between my parenting philosophy of empowering my children to voice their truths and my own hesitation to voice mine in spaces that should feel safe. This isn’t just about me—it’s about the institutions and cultures we create for the next generation.

To the schools and parents out there: Teach the hard stuff. Normalize conversations about race and privilege. Challenge unconscious biases early and often.

And to every “only” out there navigating these spaces: Stand tall. Your voice matters.

Let’s disrupt the discomfort. Let’s plant seeds for better conversations. Because the next generation deserves better than our silence.

Live, Laugh, Love—and Speak Loudly, Even When You’re the Only One in the Room.