Living at the Intersections: What the World Doesn’t Always See

I’m a 42-year-old Black woman. I’m a wife. A mother. A daughter. I’m a person with a disability. A cancer survivor. A CEO. An Emergency Manager. That’s a lot, right? And still, it barely scratches the surface of who I am.

Yet, every one of these identities, some I chose and others were given to me, shapes how I experience the world. How I move through rooms. How people see me. Or don’t. I know what it feels like to be dismissed before I even speak. To be underestimated because I don’t fit someone else’s idea of who belongs in the room. I’ve felt the sting of being invisible in places I’ve worked hard to enter. I’ve been told I’m “too much” and “not enough” in the same breath.

And yet I’m still here.

I didn’t choose my race, my gender, my disability, or my age. But I did choose to lead. I chose to build a family. I chose to keep showing up after cancer. I chose to create space for others who, like me, are told they’re “different” in ways that somehow make them less. The truth is, I carry a lot. We all do. I carry the weight of racism, sexism, ableism, and now, more and more, ageism. It’s exhausting. But it’s also made me stronger, sharper, and more deeply aware of what really matters. There’s a quote by Audre Lorde that sits deep in my spirit:

“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.”

That’s what this is. This writing. This truth-telling. This choosing not to stay silent. I’ve been bruised and misunderstood more times than I can count. But I keep speaking. Because silence never protected me. And it won’t protect the next person who looks like me, lives like me, or fights to be seen like me.

It should be a human duty to help individuals, communities, and organizations honor the fullness of who people are. That means making space for the messy parts. The in-between. The stories we’re told to keep quiet. It means sitting with the discomfort, listening instead of labeling, and allowing people to show up without having to shrink themselves to fit.

My story isn’t unique. And that’s exactly why it matters. Every day, people like me walk into workplaces, classrooms, hospitals, and boardrooms carrying invisible stories of survival, resilience, loss, and joy. Stories that deserve to be heard. Not just tolerated. Not just checked off. But honored.

We don’t need perfection. We need truth. We need each other.

So if you see yourself in any part of this, know that you’re not alone. And you never were.