I’ve been putting off writing this blog post for nearly 2 years. Mostly because it’s complicated to talk about.

Representation burnout.

I first came across this term via Shine’s article “Why We Need to Talk About – and Recognize – Representation Burnout” by Martha Tesema.

The article was posted a year before George Floyd was murdered in May 2020. The day after his murder, I facilitated a partnership meeting for a client organization. I joined the Zoom meeting several minutes early with the partnership co-leads, after spending the day looking at news coverage of George’s murder.

I admitted to them that I wasn’t fully present, yet I still wanted to fully show up. I also admitted it at the start of the meeting with the partners.

In Nonprofit Quarterly article “The Hidden Cost of DEI Work –And What to Do About It,” , co-author Tiloma Jayasinghe asks questions that perfectly sums up how I often feel:

What if I, the professional facilitator, break down in tears in front of a full Zoom room of clients because this work, and the stakes if it fails, feels like I am letting BIPOC people down and ruining this small opening for workplace liberation?

How am I supposed to cope with race equity work when another Black trans woman was murdered today, and/or last night another Asian elder was hit and painfully injured on the Lower East Side of New York City, and/or how many hundreds of Black people have been murdered since brother George Floyd took his last breath? Where is the outrage for them?

When and how do I just pause and stop so that I can rest, recharge, so that I can be on this journey for the long haul?

“The Hidden Cost of DEI Work–And What to Do About It” by Andrea J. Rogers and Tiloma Jayasinghe (Nonprofit Quarterly, 2021)

When people see me, they see a Black woman, because we’re visual. Getting to know me, you’ll discover that I’m a Black cisgender heterosexual woman. Going deeper, you’ll discover that I’m a Black cisgender heterosexual woman, from the south, an identical twin, has a bachelors degree from a HBCU and a masters degree from an Ivy League, became motherless at age 17, grew up in Christianity, full time self employed for 6 years, a New York City transplant for 11 years, now resides in Washington, DC, and so on.

Like you, I have multiple identities and lived experiences. Also like you, the identity that gets the most prominence largely depends on the space I walk into.

And sometimes, these identities are the only reasons we’re allowed into spaces in the first place.

How do we deal with this?

In Martha Tesema’s article for Shine, Martha writes that representation burnout may look like “entering a room and immediately recognizing that you have to do triple the amount of work to be seen as an equal, despite your experience. It may show up in your life when you feel like you need to leave certain parts of yourself out of the room to be taken seriously. Other times, it’s the pressure—either placed on yourself or projected on you—to speak on behalf of a community because you’re the only one in the room. Or sometimes, because of ableism, it’s the frustration of not being able to even get in the room at all.”

I’m getting increasingly better at discerning the people who come to me because they value what I do and my perspectives, and the people who want to check off boxes on their diversity list.

I’m managing representation burnout in a few ways:

  • I preface conversations with saying that my perspective is my own. If they want to hear from other people who share my personal identities, they need to be intentional about seeking out and hearing the various perspectives of people who share my personal identities
  • I purposely disengage with current events that may be triggering by reducing the amount of time I spend watching the news. This doesn’t mean that I don’t know what’s going on. I listen to and watch credible sources and limited amounts.
  • I limit my time on social media. Using a social media post scheduler greatly helps with this, and I don’t endlessly scroll down my timeline anymore.
  • I reduce the amount of meetings I accept or schedule. Meetings with client and partner organizations are now 30 minutes as opposed to 60-90 minutes.
  • I say NO to sharing my perspective when I don’t feel like it
  • I rely on my allies to do the work for me
  • I’m also mindful of making these laboring requests from others whose identities are different than mine.

Key takeaway

Representation burnout is like walking a tightrope, wanting to represent the people who share your lived experiences, but also desire to be seen as an individual.

It also makes you heightens your awareness of why someone makes requests on your time.

Create your own process for managing representation burnout, and hopefully it’ll become easier for you.

Raise Your Voice: How do you manage representation burnout? Share below in the comments section.

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