The High Cost of Forgiveness: Why It’s Always Expected from Black Women
My colleague warned her family that if harm ever befell her, no one should offer public forgiveness without remorse or justice—or she’d come back to haunt them.
Only half-joking, her comment remained with me.
We’ve seen it before—mothers like Mamie Till-Mobley publicly carrying grief while maintaining grace, or families forgiving their loved one’s killer in court.
Mamie’s decision to show the world her son’s mutilated body was not forgiveness—it was resistance. Her refusal to let the oppressor control the narrative sparked outrage and catalyzed a wave of activism, helping to ignite the civil rights movement.
Media coverage of her decision amplified its impact, making it a critical turning point that forced the nation to confront the brutality it often ignored. It was a refusal to let the oppressor define the narrative, and a reminder that our grief can be a weapon for change, not a call to offer grace prematurely. But beneath the public forgiveness, there’s a question that lingers: What does forgiveness cost, and why is it always expected from us?
The very expectation of forgiveness from Black people in particular and marginalized communities is problematic.
There are books, blogs, and podcasts preaching that forgiveness is the path to healing. Refusing to forgive, they claim, is like drinking poison and hoping the other person suffers.
But how convenient is it that forgiveness, when framed this way, often benefits not the victim but the oppressor? It allows those who do harm to avoid accountability while the burden of moving on falls squarely on the victim’s shoulders. Forgiveness isn’t given freely—it’s extracted and framed by societal and religious pressures as a moral obligation.
These displays often project a false narrative of reconciliation, minimizing the unresolved harm and silencing the victim’s right to anger. This public pressure often plays out in highly visible settings, like courtrooms, where grieving families are expected to extend forgiveness to perpetrators—even when no true remorse is shown.
Forced Forgiveness Is Unpaid Emotional Labor
This expectation mirrors the systems of forced labor that marginalized communities have historically endured. We may no longer be bound by physical chains, but emotional labor has become a modern form of exploitation. Forgiveness isn’t healing—it’s unpaid labor imposed to maintain the status quo.
Black women, in particular, are still expected to be society’s emotional caretakers, even when exhausted. The 92 percent, who’ve chosen to rest publicly and heal privately, are constantly questioned for not showing up in ways others expect.
We see it in movements where Black women are expected to lead, like the founders of Black Lives Matter, who have carried the emotional burden of activism while facing personal and collective trauma.
Despite threats, public criticism, and mental health struggles, the expectation remains that they will continue to show up, soothe tensions, and push forward.
Forced forgiveness perpetuates harm and delays the real catalyst for healing: accountability.
Forgiveness Without Accountability Perpetuates Harm
Healing begins with acknowledging your pain and choosing, on your terms, what will bring peace. Forgiveness is a tool—not a requirement.
I once believed that forgiveness was essential for healing and wholeness—so much so that I wrote about it on my blog, saying, “Loving me means forgiving you.” I thought forgiveness was an act of self-love and freedom, but what I didn’t see then was how much of that thinking had been shaped by teachings that framed forgiveness as a requirement, not a choice.
As Black women, many of us have been taught that forgiveness is non-negotiable—that it’s necessary to be right with God, to avoid bitterness, and to show spiritual maturity. But what I’ve learned is this: empathy is for me, but forgiveness is no longer something I give freely—it must be earned.
We’ve seen it time and time again—hollow apologies from celebrities, politicians, and public figures who say just enough to avoid backlash but offer no real accountability. One example stands out clearly.
In 2016, former NFL quarterback Colin Kaepernick began kneeling during the national anthem to protest racial injustice and police brutality. His actions sparked widespread debate and led to his departure from the league, with many believing he was blackballed for his stance. In 2020, amid nationwide protests against racial injustice, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell stated, “I wish we had listened earlier, Kaep, to what you were kneeling about and what you were trying to bring attention to.”
Despite this acknowledgment, Kaepernick remains unsigned, highlighting how performative apologies often mask systemic resistance to accountability.
Forgiveness isn’t healing—accountability is.
I can’t help but think how this conveniently benefits those inflicting the harm. Forgiveness becomes performative because it’s something we’re taught we must do to be forgiven. We don’t get to feel our anger because forgiveness must occur for us to be seen as faithful.
But now, this glaring light of wrongdoing needs to stay exactly where it belongs—on the systems and powers that created the harm and continue to sustain it.
Justice Over Forgiveness: Why Our Absence Is the Real Reckoning
Those power structures—government systems, institutions of faith, media networks, and corporations—should feel the cold, hollow void of our absence. Our absence isn’t just emotional—it’s a withdrawal of the labor that has long sustained them. Let them sit in the discomfort of a world where we’ve reclaimed our power and stopped cushioning their injustice.
The responsibility to change is not ours, and we refuse to bear the burden of this transformation. For centuries, marginalized communities, and Black women in particular, have been expected to educate and guide those in power on how to treat them with basic human decency. But this labor has only ever prolonged the harm while shielding consequences and choices. This dismantling is not ours to do. Accountability must precede redemption.
We’ve forgiven enough. We’ve given enough. Now, we are resting, healing, and building peace on our terms. Without systemic accountability, forgiveness is just another performance—and we’re done performing.
Forgiveness isn’t owed. Justice cannot be achieved through symbolic gestures or hollow apologies—it requires systemic accountability and meaningful change. Symbolic apologies only serve to delay the reckoning needed for real progress. Whether vague apologies by political figures or empty corporate gestures, these actions often stall genuine reform by creating the illusion of accountability without real change.
Systemic accountability could look like reparative justice programs, community-driven restorative justice efforts, or meaningful policy reforms that prioritize the needs of the harmed rather than the comfort of the oppressor.
Justice isn’t optional.
Reclaiming peace isn’t passive—it’s power. In this new era of resistance, that power is firmly in our hands.
Lisa N. Alexander is the author and founder of This Woman Knows and What Million-Dollar Brands Know. She is an award-winning filmmaker, director, producer, and writer and is the owner of PrettyWork Creative.
