Authenticity vs. Assimilation
How I Learned That “Fitting In” Can Cost You Yourself
My first lesson in assimilation started in primary school. My teacher warned my mother that I needed to “speak properly” or risk being held back a grade level.
Not because I was not smart, but because I sounded too different.
My first experience with assimilation started as early as primary school, before I held leadership titles and entered professional spaces. I had just moved back from Jamaica to the United States. At home, and with friends and family, I spoke Jamaican Patois, a Creole language that combines English with West African languages. When I started school, my teacher told my mother that I needed to learn to “speak properly. ”It means that I needed to lose my accent, abandon my dialect, and sound “American.”
It was my first experience with code-switching defined as the need to alter language, tone, or behavior to align with dominant cultural norms (McCluney et al., 2019). For many African Americans, code-switching serves as both a survival strategy and a means of navigating spaces where authenticity can be misread as unprofessionalism or defiance (McCluney et al., 2019). For me, it began in childhood, but it would follow me into every professional space I entered.
Consequences were shared that if I did not speak in standard American English, I would be held back a grade. It would not be because I lacked knowledge or skill; I was already performing above grade level. I was ahead of my classmates academically, but that did not matter. What mattered was how I sounded.
I learned quickly that fitting in meant giving something up. I began speaking in a way that pleased my teachers, but every word I pronounced “correctly” felt like I was losing a part of myself.Over time, I lost the ability to speak in the dialect that connected me to my family and my roots. That small moment shaped how I learned to perform acceptance. That small moment taught me how to perform acceptance, to adjust who I was so others could decide I belonged. That lesson in assimilation taught me that sometimes survival, or fitting in, comes at the expense of identity.
Years later, I recognized that this quiet conditioning was not unique to me. It is a pattern many Black women are familiar with; the expectation to edit ourselves just to be seen as capable or worthy.
We want you to fit in.
You are not like the others.
You do not have to make everything about race.
You are strong, you will handle it.
You should smile more.
You are intimidating.
You are so articulate.
You are very well spoken.
“Shh. You do not need to speak”
These lines resonate with so many of us because they capture the quiet exhaustion of being told, directly or indirectly, that who you are is too much for the room you are in, or not enough.
The Politics of Fitting In
Biases exist whether people admit them or not. Some biases are loud and clearly visible. Others are hidden underneath polite tones and professional expectations.
I have experienced both.
Years later, in my professional life, the same message returned, only presented differently. There was a time when I was told, and made to feel, that who I was was not what people wanted. It was not about my work, my skill, or my ability, but about me as I existed. I was told that a man was preferred for my role, that my race and gender influenced how people would receive me, and that I needed to fit in. I did not fit the "stereotypical" expectations of what a Black woman should look and sound like.
Working in a rural community brought another layer of complexity. Racial and sexist overtones that once shouted now spoke softly, polished and polite, under the mask of professionalism. That polish came with commentary about how I dressed, how I wore my hair, and how I spoke. Looks and comments suggested I should operate quietly and know my place.
My clothes were “too much.” My confidence was “bougie.” My style was “uppity.” My natural hair was a constant topic of conversation. My tone and speech were labeled “aggressive.” It did not matter how I said things because the problem was never the message; it was always the messenger.
Losing Myself to Assimilation
For a long time I believed that maybe I needed to change. I started shrinking myself in small ways. Maybe if I spoke less, smiled more, played nicely, or became easier to digest, I would finally be accepted. I convinced myself that shrinking was safer than existing authentically.
Eventually, I could no longer recognize the woman looking back at me. The confident, grounded leader I once was had faded. I had learned to perform comfort for others, even when it cost me my peace. It was worse watching others be praised for the same qualities I was told to hide. Their boldness was leadership. Their directness was confidence.
Their mistakes were “growth.” Mine were character flaws.
The more I blended in, the more invisible I became. I made myself small enough to survive, but not whole enough to thrive.
The Research Behind the Reality: To Be and Not To Be
This story is not just personal. It is a collective of experiences shared by the voices of Black women in leadership positions. McCluney et al. (2019) found that code-switching, adjusting behavior, language, and expression to align with dominant cultural norms, leads to exhaustion, increased anxiety, and a loss of authenticity. Described as a “double bind,” Black women face the expectation to be strong but not intimidating, confident but not too confident, visible but not loud (Dickens & Chavez, 2018). While many organizations claim to value inclusion, the cost of assimilation is ignored. A study of Black women in corporate leadership found that they frequently experience racial microaggressions, invisibility, or negative stereotyping, and develop coping strategies such as “shifting” or “armoring. ”The women modified their behavior and emotional display to protect themselves and give themselves short-term relief, but contributed to cumulative stress and a diminished sense of self (Holder, Jackson & Ponterotto, 2015).
Much of what we read and hear about Black women leaders comes from studies on corporate spaces or higher education. There is even less written about those of us leading in K–12 spaces, even though the experiences are very similar. The same weight of code switching, the quiet self-correction, and the pressure to be strong but never too strong all exist in education too. The difference is that it often hides behind smiles, staff meetings, and the language of professionalism. Research that focuses on Black women in school leadership describes the same tensions, where principals navigate constant scrutiny, isolation, and the expectation to perform strength without vulnerability (Johnson, 2020; Peters, 2021). The challenges that show up in corporate boardrooms and universities do not stop at the classroom door; they just find new ways to appear.
For me, code-switching took on a different form. There were silent pauses when I spoke, as if my voice or diction did not belong in the room. After presentations or professional meetings, individuals told me that I was “well spoken” or “articulate,” which I took to mean as a compliment. I learned to code-switch, but in reverse to soften or water down my intellect, to speak in ways that made others more comfortable, and to make myself more palatable.
Finding My Way Back
My turning point came through mentorship and community. I surrounded myself with people who reminded me of who I was before I learned to play small. I stopped seeking validation from those who chose to misunderstand me and started nurturing relationships with those who truly saw and valued me. That shift gave me my confidence back. It reminded me that the goal was never to make others comfortable with my presence. The goal was to show up as my authentic self.
If someone feels intimidated by your presence, that is not your problem. Their discomfort belongs to them. Often, people who try to shrink you are struggling with what they see in you and what they lack in themselves.
You are not made to be consumed.
You are not prey.
You are not the meal on someone else’s plate.
When the world tells you to shrink, remind yourself of your higher calling. Be firm if you are firm. Be confident if you are confident. Be soft if you are soft. You do not have to become someone else’s version of acceptable. If you are quiet, that is not a weakness. You are observant, reflective, and pay attention to the unspoken details that are important. These are your superpowers.
If you are sitting in that tension between authenticity and performance, I understand. It is hard to lead with truth in spaces that reward performance over presence. However, real leadership starts when you stop performing and start existing fully as yourself.
Here are a few ways to reflect and act authentically:
Pause before you edit yourself. Ask, “Am I shrinking, or am I growing?”
Build your circle. Surround yourself with people who value who you are, not who you perform to be.
Document and affirm your wins. Your voice and your work speak for themselves.
Protect your peace. You do not have to attend every conversation that questions your worth.
Stay visible. Presence itself is resistance in spaces not built for you.
If you want to support Black women leaders, here is where to start:
Listen without defensiveness.
Acknowledge contributions in the same way you would anyone else’s.
Challenge coded language in meetings (“aggressive,” “intimidating,” “too confident”).
Create environments where difference is not just tolerated but valued.
Reclaiming Wholeness
Assimilation might buy acceptance, but it costs you your peace. Authenticity may make others uncomfortable, but it makes you whole.
Take every moment, every lesson, and every scar, and wear them as proof that you survived rooms not built for you. Each bruise became wisdom. Each wound became a strength.
To every Black woman who has ever been told you are too little, too much, too loud, or not enough, your uniqueness is not the problem. Some people are simply not used to it, do not want it present, or try to diminish it because they cannot understand it.
Keep showing up as yourself. We need you whole. We need you to be present. Please keep showing up as yourself and not as what others expect.
Continue being confident, grounded, and unapologetic.
References
Dickens, D. D., & Chavez, E. L. (2018). Navigating the Double Bind: Black Women Leaders and Authenticity in Predominantly White Spaces. Journal of Black Psychology, 44(7), 626–649.
Holder, A. M. B., Jackson, M. A., & Ponterotto, J. G. (2015). Racial microaggression experiences and coping strategies of Black women in corporate leadership. Qualitative Psychology, 2(2), 164–180. https://doi.org/10.1037/qup0000024
Johnson, L. (2020). Still fighting the good fight: Black women principals and the politics of race, gender, and leadership.Journal of Educational Administration, 58(6), 651–666. https://doi.org/10.1108/JEA-02-2019-0033
McCluney, C. L., Robotham, K., Lee, S., Smith, R., & Durkee, M. (2019). The Costs of Code-Switching. Harvard Business Review.
Peters, A. L. (2021). Black women principals: Resisting the silence and the double bind in educational leadership.Frontiers in Education, 6, 639607. https://doi.org/10.3389/feduc.2021.639607
Roberts, L. M., Mayo, A. T., & Thomas, D. A. (2020). Race, Work, and Leadership: New Perspectives on the Black Experience. Harvard Business Press.
Wingfield, A. H. (2021). Flatlining: Race, Work, and Health Care in the New Economy. University of California Press.
