Hiding My Power

How I Learned to Own My Gifts after Years of Hiding

It’s my birthday month! To celebrate, I’ll be sharing some of my favorite writings about my personal evolution over the years. I hope you enjoy them.

I was six years old when I learned to hide my power. I was in a kindergarten class that I didn’t belong in. I had started the year in first grade in a private school, my mom’s attempt to skirt around the fact that my birthday was three months past the county cutoff for first grade. The private school offered the kind of challenge necessary for a girl who could read by the age of three. Even there, I tended to finish my work faster than the other kids. I constantly begged my teacher to let me spend extra time in the reading area. And I sulked when she said that I had to let other students have their turn in the area, which could only accommodate a few of us at a time. “But they can’t even read!” I protested with all the self-righteous indignation of a five-year-old.

Midway through the year, we moved and I transferred to public school. By then I was six, but the school looked at my birth certificate and promptly put me in a kindergarten classroom. Back then, kindergarten in Dekalb County was a half-day that involved little academic work. The classroom was divided into three activity areas: a household area for pretend play, an arts and crafts area, and a reading area. Each day we were divided into groups that spent time rotating throughout the different spaces before we all headed outside for recess and snack time. I’d arrive each day hoping that I was going into the reading area first. With its bean bags and well-stocked bookshelves, it was my slice of heaven.

I was the only student in the class who could read. I didn’t make a big deal of it. But at some point, one of my classmates noticed that I didn’t flip through the books as quickly as they did. My eyes lingered over the pages. And I didn’t skip pages. I went through each one by one. “You can read?” they asked. Saying yes turned out to be a mistake.

From that point on, as soon as my group got to the reading area, my classmates would start handing me books to read to them. The books I wanted to read were never among their picks. In fact, over time, their choice dwindled to one book. Every day, I read the same book over and over. I don’t remember what that book was, but I know I hated it. I tried to suggest other options, but I was always overruled. Before long, the reading area that I loved because a source of constant stress and frustration.

One day, I’d finally had enough. As another student reached toward me with the book - THE book - I looked at them and glumly stated, “I forgot how to read.” They were incredulous. “You can forget how to read?!” I shrugged, “I guess so.” The next day I kept up the charade, informing them that my reading skills had not come back overnight. It worked, at least in one respect. They stopped asking me to read.

But the sham didn’t free me. My classmates were still watching me, so I had to keep up the act. I had to hide my reading power. I restricted myself to picture books, flipping through the pages quickly, and being careful not to look too interested in the words. I went from only reading one book to reading no books. It was not the resolution I was hoping for.

It was not the last time that I hid my power. As I grew older, I learned to downplay my skills and abilities. I especially learned to do that at home.

By the time I was in high school, I realized that my family wanted me to be smart but not too smart. My family was proud of my academic accomplishments, but they also didn’t know what to do with a child who preferred books over sports. My idea of a good weekend was sitting on my floor and reading an entire novel from start to finish.

It didn’t help that books exposed me to new worlds and new ways of thinking. And my advanced classes emphasized critical thinking. By eighth grade I was writing research papers where I had to identify and support a thesis. I was used to debating ideas with my classmates and teachers. But I came from a conservative Southern family where adults wielded absolute authority. We weren’t a “children are to be seen and not heard” family. Our family included children - especially girls - in conversations, but also communicated the idea that nothing we said had any value because we were too young to know anything.

It is a common dilemma for smart Black girls from patriarchal families. Our families boast about our achievements, but they also want us to remain within the traditional female role of submission. The slightest hint of independent thinking can elicit criticism and contempt. “You’re too smart for your own good.” “You might have book smarts but you don’t know anything.” “How can someone so smart be so dumb?”

So I hid my power. I learned not to have an opinion about anything, instead becoming the quintessential “I want to do whatever you want to do” girl. I never disagreed with anyone and tried not to appear too smart, at times even pretending not to see the solution to board games or puzzles. I became an expert people-pleaser, repressing my desires and thoughts so thoroughly that I forgot that I had them. Over time, I stopped speaking up in class, too. I sat quietly and usually didn’t speak unless called upon. My grades were always slightly lower in classes where participation was considered.

But just like in that kindergarten class, hiding my power did not bring happiness. It exerted a heavy toll: an inability to name my needs, a belief that I was invisible and easily forgettable, taking on too much because I didn’t know that saying no was an option, suffering in silence and not advocating for my health and well-being, being trapped in positions that did not make good use of my skills, stifling my development as a leader, and ultimately, losing my sense of self. The physical and emotional toll was high: obesity, hypertension, chronic pain and fatigue, gastrointestinal issues, and anxiety.

My path to healing began when I decided to stop pretending and to start speaking my truth. I began to state my desires before asking others about theirs, to speak up when people infringed upon my rights, and to express differences of opinion rather than passively allowing others to think that I agreed with them. I learned to say no, slowly at first. It was not always easy. One of the consequences of learning to use your voice after years of silence is that you don’t always know how to do it well. At times, I came off too abrasive, too unyielding, too judgmental. But I embraced the mistakes as part of the process of learning to own my power.

From five to fifty an incredible metamorphosis took place. Nowadays, I own my power, my gifts, my beauty, and my swag. I wish it hadn’t taken as long as it did, but my journey is mine. These days, Beyoncé, Lizzo, Meghan, and Janelle form my internal soundtrack; Maya, Nikki, and Lucille are my sages. I’m that girl, a phenomenal woman. “I mean . . . I . . . can fly like a bird in the sky . . .” And I can read!

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In Case You Missed It

One of my favorite podcasters is my friend Amena Brown. We got together a couple of weeks ago to record an episode of HER with Amena Brown and talked about cake, joy, and self-compassion. It wasn’t all that different from one of our walking or tea conversations, except we kept it under an hour and we’re letting y’all eavesdrop.

As soon as I saw the invitation from Kevin Sweeney to be a guest on his podcast, The Church Needs Therapy, I was sold on the title alone! We had a great conversation about embodiment and agency, how anger works as a signal emotion, and why self-care is so hard for church leaders and “high capacity” people.

Coming to North Carolina

RDU friends - I’ll be in your area November 12 to preach at Crosspointe Church in Cary. I’d love to see you there!