Amie B.
Photography by Julia Thompson
If you’re reading this, it means you’re still here, still fighting, still breathing—and that alone is an act of courage.
I used to think of life as an ocean-vast, untouchable, relentless. When I came to Carolina, 1 thought I was ready to swim. Dual majors, two minors, cheerleading, volunteering— piled it all on, thinking if I just kept moving, I wouldn't sink. But I did. Slowly, at first, until I was gasping for air beneath the weight of expectations, I thought I had to carry alone. I arrived with dreams of being a Rhodes Scholar, a top student, someone who could do it all. But from the moment I stepped onto campus, I felt like I was already behind. I thought I could outwork my own limitations. Instead, I burned out. Cheerleading, something I had once loved, became another reminder of my inadequacy. I had the skills the tumbling, the strength-but l didn't fit the mold of what any coach wanted me to be. For a while, I tried to mask it. But with each mat rejection, my love for the sport turned into quiet resentment. Cheer had once been my escape, but now it mirrored everything else in my life: no matter how hard I worked, I felt like I didn't belong.
As a Black woman, I learned to carry an invisible weight long before I ever set foot on Carolina's campus. In 8th grade, I stood frozen as two boys skipped around me, singing the n-word as though it were a nursery rhyme. That moment burned itself into my memory. No one stepped in. No one said a word. It was as if their actions were unremarkable, as if my pain was unworthy of acknowledgment. That's the reality of being a Black woman: you learn early that society sees you last, if at all. You're taught to work twice as hard, not to complain, and to carry the burden of being overlooked with grace. But no one tells you how much that weight will crush you. No one tells you how deeply it will seep into your mental health, how it will make you question your worth every time you're the last to be chosen, the last to be considered, the last to be believed. A few days ago, I learned something that sent a chill down my spine: both my brother and I, at different points in our childhoods, had a gun pointed at us by the parents of our white friends. As I sat, I remembered my own experience: the time I'd dropped a friend back home and walked up with her to meet her parents, only for my friend's father to turn to me with his hand ready on his tucked pistol, as if my existence in his home was reason enough to show me my place. At the time, I brushed it off, convincing myself it wasn't as serious as it felt. But now, I can't shake the truth of what it means: to be seen as a threat before you're even given a chance to be seen as a person.
How do you explain what that does to you? How it changes the way you walk through the world, how it makes you question your safety in spaces you once thought were safe? How, no matter how many times people tell you “Racism doesn't exist" or "oh, I like you" or "they were just joking," a part of you feels less than-feels inferior. Because those words can't erase the gun, or the slurs, or the quiet knowledge that your presence is always conditional, always at risk of being revoked by someone else's fear or prejudice. It builds a wound so deep it becomes a part of you, a silent ache that never fully heals, no matter how much you try to rise above it. And then there's the silence-the kind that fills a room when you walk in and feel unseen, the kind that settles in your chest when you realize you're crying every night but can't bring yourself to tell anyone. By the end of my freshman year, I had attempted suicide for the third time. I woke up two days later, disoriented, and ashamed. I told no one, convinced that even in my most vulnerable moments, I had failed.
If you're reading this, I want you to know something I wish I had understood back then: your worth is not measured by how much you can endure. It's not in your GPA, your accomplishments, or how perfectly you fit into a mold that wasn't designed for you.
I've spent years trying to rewrite the narrative. I became a public speaker, sharing my story to amplify voices like mine. I started a blog and an Etsy store to promote mental wellness, not because I had all the answers, but because I knew how it felt to desperately need support and not know where to find it. I've stood on stages and written words that reached people I'll never meet, hoping that by telling my truth, I could help someone else feel less alone. However, some wounds are harder to heal. In the wake of the recent election, I've stood firm in rejecting racism and xenophobia, yet there's a part of me that aches in ways I can't put into words. It's the kind of pain that comes from realizing people you care about-friends, classmates, even neighbors-would openly support someone whose rhetoric demeans people like me, whose rhetoric affirms a specific idea-the belief that minorities should be othered, that cruelty can be excused, that my pain-my life is negotiable. That kind of betrayal leaves scars. It makes you question how much space you're allowed to take up in a world that consistently tells you you're too much and not enough all at once.
And yet, I choose to fight. Not because it's easy, but because the alternative is giving up, and I've been there before. I know what it feels like to want to disappear. I know the suffocating weight of hopelessness. But I also know that choosing to exist as a Black woman in this world is an act of resistance. If you're reading this, I want you to know that your existence matters. You are seen. You are heard. You are not defined by the narrow lens through which society views you. It's okay to feel fragile-even the sky has cracks. But don't let that fragility fool you; there is strength in every breath you take, in every moment you keep going. If you're reading this and you feel like you're not enough, I want you to know this: you are. You are important. You are beautiful. You are capable of more than the relentless pressure around you. Take breaks when you need them. Fall forward. You are enough, just as you are. You are more than the sum of your accomplishments.
If you're reading this, I am proud of you.
With love, Amie Boakye
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve chosen to turn a page. It means you are still here, still breathing, still pushing against the tide-and that choice, every single day, is revolutionary.
Amie B., University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
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