In this Q&A, we explore the powerful and poignant reflections of a Black female educator who dedicated herself to creating radical possibility in schools. Drawing from her experience as a Voices of Change fellow and director of DEI at a Montessori school, she reveals the personal toll of fighting systemic inequities—burnout, exhaustion, and a deep misalignment between her mission and her well-being. Below, she answers key questions about her journey, the essays she wrote, and the price of pursuing change in an education system that fights back.
What inspired you to focus on radical possibility in schools?
My inspiration came from a quote by musician Olu Dara to his son Nas: “Quit school if you want to save your own life.” That line hit me as both an educator and a student who knows the stakes for Black youth. It wasn't reckless—it was survival. I started asking why my father left school, why my mother was pushed out, and what my grandparents endured. Education has often been a site of harm for Black communities, not liberation. I wondered if quitting school was an act of saving lives for future generations. That question drove me to see the classroom as a radical space of possibility—a place to disrupt systems that have historically crushed Black humanity. I wanted to reimagine education as a tool for freedom, not compliance.
What were the key essays you wrote as a Voices of Change fellow?
I wrote four essays that explored education from different angles. The first essay focused on the freedom-dreaming power of Black literature—how stories and poems can unlock new futures for students. The second essay centered on radical Black joy, arguing that joy is not just a feeling but a political act of resistance and healing in schools. The third essay tackled discriminatory school policies that target natural Black hair textures, showing how such rules harm students’ identity and learning. Finally, the fourth essay shifted to my work as director of DEI at a preK–8 Catholic Montessori school in Cincinnati. I shared our strategic plan to embrace diversity, equity, inclusion, and belonging, and the steps we were taking to make real change. Each essay was a piece of a larger vision for education that honors Black lives.
What is the price of bringing radical possibility to life in schools?
The price is steep—and often paid with mental health. I see it in the Black women educators I coach and in myself. We ignore burnout signs until it's too late. I woke up one day realizing I hadn't taken a full week off in three years. I felt a deep misalignment: I was trying to transform systems that were designed to resist me at every turn. I was celebrated with awards, but inside I was exhausted, unhappy, and unfulfilled. I wished I could stay asleep. The school system is built to deplete those who challenge it—especially Black women, who are expected to be resilient without rest. Radical possibility demands constant labor, and the system rarely gives back. That nearly broke me.
How does burnout uniquely affect Black women educators?
Burnout hits Black women educators in layered ways. We're often the only ones pushing for equity in our schools, which means we carry an extra emotional and intellectual load. Society expects us to be strong, nurturing, and self-sacrificing—the “Superwoman” trope. But that expectation drains us. Many of us have personal histories of family members who were pushed out of education, so we carry intergenerational trauma as we fight for change. We also face microaggressions and systemic barriers that white colleagues don't. I've coached Black women who are brilliant and committed, yet they're hitting walls of silence, resistance, or tokenism. They're told to be patient, but patience is a luxury when your well-being is at stake. I was one of them: tired, mourning my lost joy, and questioning if the fight was worth my life.
Can you share a personal moment that crystallized the cost of this work?
One morning I woke up and everything crashed. I had been running on fumes for years—working through grief after losing every elder in my immediate family, teaching through a pandemic that laid bare the violence Black communities have faced for centuries, and pushing for DEI initiatives while the world burned. I looked at my life and felt a profound emptiness. I had climbed through “tacks and splinters” of multiple presidencies that mocked the humanity of anyone not white, able-bodied, or wealthy. I realized I was mourning a misalignment: my work to create possibility was also destroying me. I was successful by external measures—awards, recognition—but internally I was hollow. That moment forced me to ask: Can I save my own life while trying to save education? The answer wasn't clear, but I knew something had to change.
What needs to change in schools to support educators like you?
Schools need to stop treating equity work as a side project and start embedding it into their core operations. That means funding for mental health support for educators, especially Black women and other marginalized staff. It means distributed leadership—not placing the entire DEI burden on a few people. Policies must be scrutinized: Are we punishing Black students for their hair? Are we allowing joy and literature that reflect their lives? But structural change also requires personal accountability. Principals, superintendents, and boards need to listen to the pain of educators like me without defensiveness. They need to acknowledge that the system is broken and commit to real, uncomfortable transformation. Finally, we need a culture that celebrates rest as resistance—where taking a week off isn't revolutionary, but normal. Because if I had taken that week off sooner, maybe I wouldn't have nearly broken.
Explore more about the author's journey: What inspired her? | Her essays | The price paid | Burnout in Black women | Personal moment | Changes needed