Who Told You That?

It's an inferiority complex, but where did it come from - what is driving it? How did it begin?

Who told you that you were less than who you really are? That your blackness was a handicap? Your skin is evidence that you were imagined long before buildings, borders, or cultural norms existed. When the world was untouched, I was already in mind and designed. So, who told you, you were less? Who said you couldn’t learn, didn’t belong, or weren’t worthy? Who looked into your future and decided you weren’t going to be anything?

Years ago, I listened to a minister preaching about who we are as God’s people. He spoke about self‑defeat and the battles that happen within us. It was stirring — emotionally and mentally moving — but not unfamiliar. Sermons had long been my emotional B‑12, a kind of spiritual Robitussin for wounds that needed more than a quick fix.

As he preached, I asked myself: Who told me I wasn’t enough? I sifted through memories, recalling moments of inadequacy, rejection, and invisibility — and still, the answer was no one. No one told me that. I thought that of me… But why?

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On this journey, I’ve learned many ugly truths — many that are not unique to me.

As someone who overthinks and overanalyzes just about everything, I’ve always been able to “translate” behaviors, even when the translation was skewed and only partially correct. But what happens when the translator itself has a distorted perception? To understand the distortion and its cause, I had to go back to where the wounding began.

It was parental rejection, the quiet kind at first — one of the easiest ways to starve a child’s self-esteem. It doesn’t always look like abandonment or harsh words. Sometimes it’s emotional neglect. Emotional absence. The lack of affection. The dismissal of feelings unless the distress is undeniable.

My relationship with my mother during my formative years was raw. My father had left long before, which was probably best for everyone, and I sometimes wondered if I was a reminder that she didn’t want. There were no hugs, no affirmations, no softness - unless a surgery was occurring. Almost as though affection was illegal. But there was conditional approval — pride when it benefitted her image.

In the Black community, speaking this truth is often seen as a betrayal. You don’t expose a parent’s failings. You don’t break the silence. You protect their image, regardless of what they’ve done or allowed. But then how do I heal what I’m not allowed to name? How do I sit with it – in silence? I’ve always done that.

The truth is she stayed when my father didn’t. She provided financially. She raised her children alone. She worked hard to provide for us. She would fuck you up over her kids, failing notwithstanding. My experience was totally different from my other siblings, and I equate that to being the youngest. She wanted to live, and I understand that…but many of her choices I will never. The truth is, she stayed most of the time — but how she stayed shaped me more than the staying itself.

Like all people, my mother is complicated. Strong-willed, determined, committed to living life on her own terms. She is compassionate, empathetic, loyal to a fault, and gifted. More importantly, she carries her own wounds. The stories told by the elders of our family are reminiscent of the traumas they endured. Those stories were the missing context I needed when I finally began my own healing journey. My parents weren’t the sole source of my trauma, and I am sure they had their own reasons for their decisions that were logical to them. But the reality is their emotional absence left me without the security I needed to withstand life’s other blows.

Therapy wasn’t a thing for black families until maybe six or 7 years into the new millennium. So, most of us – I’d say got the unhealed versions of our parents. I was able to change that for my child to some degree, but for me the damage still landed. It created space for a distorted self-image to grow.

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That distortion showed up everywhere.

Dismissiveness and defensiveness translated into “my feelings don’t matter,” and eventually, “I don’t matter.” That belief became the root of everything. The workplace insecurity, social anxiety, and the imposter syndrome that I felt was an understatement. Beneath it all, internalized racism was ever present - reinforcing the lies with necessary conversations that never occurred.

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The truth is there was never anything wrong with me.

My feelings mattered then, and they matter now. Being a child was never a reason to dismiss my emotional reality. I have always been special; I just couldn’t see it. I belonged in every room I entered. I deserved every opportunity that came my way. I earned them, and when I didn’t, I rose to the occasion with grace. Even in my hardest moments, I created positive shifts in the lives of others.

Healing meant challenging every negative thought. Seeing myself clearly. Leaving behind people who reinforced the distortion - even if they were family members. I had to learn how to accept compliments without shrinking. Learn to see the beauty in every flaw and blemish of mine. It meant unraveling decades of self‑attacks and choosing, finally, to show up for me.

I still have hurdles, but the most difficult ones — including the internalized racism — I’ve already faced.

And now, after all of it, I can say:

I was never less. I just hadn’t learned to see myself yet.

Below is a video of personal affirmations to help challenge your own negative thoughts. Nuggets delivered by Janelle Monae.

~With Love, April