Seun Shokunbi - Editor

Former Miss USA pageant winner Cheslie Kryst died by suicide.

I paused writing for my blog to concentrate on myself and other projects, but I had to write something when I heard this news. Not only because of what Cheslie represents as a woman and social entrepreneur but also because of the distinct feeling I remember having when I found out who she was three years ago.

I’m not gonna front — I was jealous of her. Cheslie was #thatgirl, #blackexcellence. She was Miss USA at 28 and before then she was a Division I track athlete, graduated magna cum laude from the University of South Carolina, and as a lawyer worked pro bono helping people convicted of nonviolent drug crimes. She was the embodiment of every hashtag Black girls try to manifest.

Tall, long luxurious hair, beautiful face, amazing body, intelligence, talent…and all of these accolades achieved in less time than I’ve spent being subpar. Cheslie felt like a reminder of all the things I was too shy or unqualified to be. I’d ruminate on this any time I saw women like Cheslie going beyond what I thought I or the average woman — correction, average Black woman — could do.

My stomach sank when I read how she died. Folks vaguely understand suicide and the microsteps a person makes before taking their own life. Even as someone who’s been treated for depression, I struggle comprehending how someone finds the guts to actually act on their suicidal ideations.

I also know too well that going numb permanently can seem like a perfectly reasonable option over feeling pain every second you’re alive. I’ve tried explaining this before to friends or family and they reply as if self-preservation should be everyone’s default, oblivious to the type of world we live in.

Someone who wanted to didn’t wake up this morning, and here you are ungrateful for life. Someone’s in Africa living in a shack eating grains of rice, and they’re one of the happiest people on Earth. Why can’t you be more like them?

More Cheslies will die if we don’t stop raising Black women to compare themselves to each other and the rest of society.

I don’t know Cheslie’s full life story, but from interviews I found she said she grew up in a supportive home. Her motivation for doing something meaningful with her life came directly from her parents (her mom was a former beauty pageant winner, her dad a successful attorney). In 30 years, Cheslie fulfilled if not exceeded the expectations most African/Black parents have of their children, fitting neatly into that become a doctor/lawyer/engineer refrain we hear growing up.

And now she’s gone. Maybe none of this was enough to preserve her any longer.

She spoke up about the costs of “being too Black” and Black women not getting the respect they deserve once they enter spaces she occupied with her newfound fame. In her own words, she “nearly worked [herself] to death, literally” to prove herself valuable for more than (or in addition to) her youth and good looks. As a result, she said “I was rewarded with a lonely craving for the next award. Some would see this hunger and label it ‘competitiveness’; others might call it the unquenchable thirst of insecurity.”

We have a lot to learn about why Cheslie chose death over what on the surface looked like a life worth envying. It’s safe to say that mentally, emotionally, something significant was missing.

I’m not writing this just for the women like Cheslie, accomplishing amazing feats and still coming up empty. I’m not writing this just for the women who’ve seen women like Cheslie and thought, I’m a failure, I have nothing to offer, so why am I still here?

I’m writing this for people who say they love Black women like us, yet miss opportunities to be our safe havens when we don’t feel safe in our own heads.

We can’t wait to affirm Black women until after they’ve achieved something exceptional. Researchers across the diaspora say Black/African women feel less sense of worthiness than their non-Black peers (whether they’re college-educated or not).

If you’re a “traditional” Black or African parent reading this you probably think your daughter isn’t one of those girls who “get depressed” or have low self-esteem. I’m begging you to realize your child is human, and humans need other humans in their lives that accept imperfections. You can’t punish or intimidate your child into success. But you can love them as a work in progress, at peace with themselves no matter how life turns out.

Stop pressuring Black women to “have it all”. This is generational trauma passed down to Black women since the 1800s. We’ve internalized this intense level of responsibility to earn enough money for, start, and take care of our families. Black women haven’t had the chance to simply exist for over a century, because racism and misogyny make us work thrice as hard to survive financially.

That’s why more Black women are going to college but graduating with debt they’ll never pay off, and anxiety they can’t shake off. That’s why we stay in toxic, abusive relationships though we have the highest risk of experiencing domestic violence, or stay in toxic work environments although our labor raises the net worth of everyone but ourselves. Then, if we don’t become the beauty pageant queen, the wife marrying into wealth, or the CEO balancing a baby and a laptop in the boardroom, we’re verbally assaulted by those claiming they want the best for us.

If you want your Black daughters/wives/mothers to live happily past 30, recognize what they’re facing and start directing your frustration that way.

These last paragraphs are for us, Black women. When you’re feeling inadequate, know you have the right to underperform and live, proudly. You don’t have to be anything except what you desire during this one life you get in this universe.

Evaluate all that you do and why you do it. Are you a #girlboss, fighting to save the world and yourself on your own terms? Take a break, GUILT-FREE, if you can’t answer that question clearly. The world can and should wait.

Cheslie’s final Instagram caption was this: “May this day bring you rest and peace ❤️.” If that means walking away from the work, expectations, and emotional load dumped on you, please do it. It was the last will and testament of someone just like you. A weary, but worthy, Black woman.