These Tears Won't Stop: Crying for Workplace Promises That Aren't Real

It has been over a month since the death of Dr. Antoinette “Bonnie” Candia-Bailey . I can’t stop thinking about her written cries for help and the subsequent silence from organizations where women of color vulnerably shared similar messages of distress and disgust about their work conditions.

Many people may wonder how a workplace environment gets that bad. How can someone who is adored by students and loved by friends and family become so depressed that the only way for her to get peace from a chaotic, harmful job is to end her life?

I’ve spoken with many Black women who share how intolerable workplaces are for them. They have been diagnosed with workplace PTSD, pushed from their jobs, filed fruitless discrimination claims, and secured legal representation. None of these solutions have produced policies that offer safe spaces and consistent responses to sustain their safety and sanity.?

These aren't isolated cases. I’m willing to bet someone you know is suffering in silence, and they don’t know how to make the pain stop.

Since January, countless seminars and articles have been written to keep much-needed conversations going about oppressive work conditions for women of color, particularly Black women. Some people have created helpful resources, such as this Black Women Toxic Jobs Suicide Prevention Resource Guide from Heliana Ramirez, Ph.D., L.I.S.W. I've also developed a guide with tips for how to be more transactional at work and an assessment of when it's time to walk away from a job.

I continue to share posts like this in my Stop Playing Diversity newsletter because people need to see the behind-the-scenes realities of people hired by broken organizations that weren’t always willing to follow through with their diversity, equity, and inclusion promises.

The bold person you see in my posts has come a long way. Until I take my last breath, I am committed to ensuring no one feels as hopeless and alone as I did.

As I move through my professional life in more tolerable ways than four years ago, I have flashbacks of moments I thought I might break too. Here’s a March 1, 2021, Medium post I called “My Black Woman’s Tears .” ?

March 1, 2021

I cried more as a department chair than at any other point prior.

I cried at the loss of one child in a painful pregnancy the summer before I became department chair. I cried as I was in the process of losing my first child on the floor of my office after completing search committee reviews for a junior faculty position in another college.

I cried tears of joy at the birth of my child, the fourth one and the only living one to date. I cried when my father died three months after he entered the hospital and one week before he was scheduled to return home after being in the ICU and rehab.

I cried when the primary advocate who was the selling point for me to accept this job left my college. I cried at the accusations and claims that I still can’t discuss in detail although I no longer hold that position.

I cried when people who I thought should have stood up for me didn’t. I cried as I sat in the parking garage outside my office building knowing I had to face another day of uncertainty and meanness.

I cried when people didn’t listen to my complaints about how I was treated as a chair. I cried when they had no answers to my questions about whether the treatment against me was equitable and was the norm in the college. I cried when they said they didn’t know what to do to help me.

I cried when people didn’t “get” me and damned me for having the same personality they supposedly loved when I told them to check out my blog posts and social media accounts before I was hired.

I cried when that small group of very persistent subordinates gossiped about me and I was told to take the high road; when I was reminded of my positionality while having little to no power to stop the cruelty of people who professed to be people of faith and advocates for diversity.

I cried after faculty and staff meetings where I was dismissed and disrespected by people who wanted to put me in my place. I cried when I tried my best to bring a team together, but it wasn’t enough to remove the ripples that never left the organization.

I cried when years 1, 2, 3, and 4 of my department chair appointment moved on and work never got better. I cried because no matter how hard I tried, my efforts and successes were never enough.

I cried at the party honoring my time as chair because I felt like I had been thrown away as an administrator by my college.

I cried about all the personal and professional sacrifices and how all I had to show for it was pain and accusations and loss that had caused so much pain to my family and me.

I cry as I write this because I still don’t see the courage needed to ensure that what happened to me doesn’t happen to any other Black woman in this organization.

My Black woman’s tears are real. They are not surface tears. They come from a place deep in my soul. When they run down my face, it feels as if my heart has broken, as if they are numbness and pain at the same time.

At some point in my time as chair, they would drip like a faucet at the most inopportune times. A memory would come to me, triggered by a conversation or an exchange. I couldn’t turn those tears off no matter how hard I tried. They were spontaneous and endless, leaving my eyes red and puffy.

I hated those tears because they displayed my weakness. They hurt. I never expected to cry. I was a “strong Black woman,” and those tears seeped through my cracks. My mask, code-switching, and assimilation tactics couldn’t hide them.

Those tears let people know they had gotten to me and that they had power over me. Those tears showed that I cared about being accepted by my haters.

My organization didn’t deserve those tears, but they came anyway.

Despite my external successes and the legitimate power vested in me as a department chair, my spirit felt hollow. The pain of work was an unceasing echo in my mind, and I didn’t know how to silence it.

I tried to convince leaders to push against their short-sighted policies but was met with silence. Those who had received global awards for their scholarship offered no answers. HR had no logical responses to the ongoing issues. Accountability for failing to address inequities and my pain was nonexistent. I questioned the integrity and courage of people whose titles and salaries were much higher than mine. The dissonance of what was presented versus what was done had me wondering if I was sane.

At times, the tables were turned back on me as the organization secured a slew of witnesses to craft narratives of my unwillingness to trust them or comply with their oppressive tactics.

?I considered leaving, but I was so beaten down, that I didn’t think I could function coherently in a new space.

My Request

As you read my words, reflect on signs of people who aren’t being heard around you. I’m not asking you to be a savior but be prepared to push against what you know and how you operate. Lives depend on your sensitivity and courage.

I'm also creating a community where people who aren't being seen, heard, and respected at work can convene. It's about centering humanity so everyone can be safe at work.

Comment below with thoughts about what this safe, nurturing community outside work might look like for you and how we can create this space together.

I appreciate you.

The Stop Playing Diversity newsletter is a biweekly newsletter to start conversations about diversity, equity, inclusion, and work that should be happening but aren’t. This concept aligns with James Baldwin’s quote, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

If you enjoyed this newsletter, please share it with others who might gain value from it. The author of this newsletter is Dr. Monica Cox , a professor, entrepreneur, truthteller, and disruptor of workplace injustices.

If you want to learn how to use your influence and resources to command systemic change at work, enroll in my Accomplice Academy . For coaching, consulting, and speaking requests, fill out this engagement form .