“A man who feeds you can also starve you,” I once read on Twitter.

These words feel especially heavy as we step into 2025. Social media is flooded with videos of women embracing the “soft life” and demanding “princess treatment” from their partners. These movements promise Black women a life where love feels easy, where someone else carries the load for once, and where exhaustion is replaced by champagne brunches and diamond bracelets.
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It’s seductive—who wouldn’t want to shed the weight of generational struggle and step into a life of care and ease? But the reality for Black women is never as simple as an Instagram reel. Behind the hashtags and curated perfection lies a more complicated truth: Can Black women ever really have a “soft life” when systemic oppression is still at play? And at what cost does this version of rest come, especially when it masks unhealthy power dynamics?

For too long, Black women have been told to endure in the name of love. Be patient. Hold him down. Be his peace. These mantras have been handed down for generations, selling us the idea that a good woman is defined by how much she suffers. This is what we call “struggle love,” and let me be clear: Black women are done with it.

Struggle love has demanded too much. It has asked us to pour from empty cups, to accept breadcrumbs, to sacrifice our dreams for the sake of someone else’s potential. The “soft life” movement says no. No to being the sole provider. No to carrying emotional labor. No to believing that loyalty means suffering in silence.

And yet, even as we reject struggle love, we have to confront the economic realities that keep so many of us trapped in survival mode. The median wealth of Black households in 2021 was $24,520--less than 10% of the $250,400 median wealth of White households, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. How do we embrace rest and ease when the financial gaps between Black and White families are this stark?
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For Black men, systemic barriers like unemployment and wage discrimination make it harder to step into the traditional role of provider. And for Black women, who are the most educated demographic in the U.S. but often underpaid and overworked, the promise of a “soft life” feels out of reach.

The idea of “princess treatment” is equally alluring. Who wouldn’t want to be cherished, pampered, and adored? On the surface, it feels like a direct rejection of the strong Black woman trope that has demanded we be everything to everyone. But not all that glitters is gold.

Take Shera Seven, for example. A popular social media figure and author of Sprinkle Sprinkle: How to Date a Provider and Avoid a Dusty, Shera openly advises women to avoid Black men as potential partners, often citing the economic disparities that Black men face. Her perspective ties directly to the systemic barriers that disproportionately impact Black men’s earning potential, from racial wage gaps to higher unemployment rates, leaving them less likely to provide the housewife lifestyle Shera promotes.

Historically, Black relationships have been defined more by partnership than traditional housewife-provider roles. During slavery, survival was a shared burden as Black men and women labored side by side. Even after emancipation, systemic racism limited economic opportunities for Black men, meaning Black women often worked as domestic laborers or caregivers to help support their families. While white women were largely relegated to homemaking, Black women have long carried the dual responsibility of earning income and managing the home.

This is where Shera’s philosophy resonates with many women: the desire for rest, ease, and provision that Black women have historically been denied. But the "soft life" she advocates for is complicated by its dependence on someone else's wealth, particularly when systemic inequities make financial stability elusive for many Black families.

The reality is that even white housewives, who seemingly had the luxury of being cared for, often chafed against the limitations of that role. Divorce rates skyrocketed during the 1960s and 1970s when women gained greater access to education, employment, and financial independence. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the divorce rate in the United States increased from 2.2 per 1,000 people in 1960 to 5.3 per 1,000 people in 1981. For generations, many white housewives yearned for the freedoms that working Black women had, even if those freedoms came masked as responsibility. Shera’s message taps into this historical yearning for rest, but it also highlights how the housewife ideal has often obscured the sacrifices and vulnerabilities that come with economic dependence.

Shera’s dual message—advocating for financial provision in relationships while also encouraging women to start their own businesses—underscores this tension. While she says, “I can’t work for other people,” she also warns women not to rely entirely on a partner, no matter how wealthy. This pragmatic approach reflects the reality that true rest and ease require more than financial support; they require autonomy.

As activist Tarana Burke has said, “We are so used to protecting our image that we forget to protect ourselves.”

The tragic story of Isis Morales further illustrates this tension between appearance and reality. Morales, a social media influencer who built her brand teaching Black women how to become “trophy wives,” later revealed that her husband had raped her multiple times—something she concealed out of shame while continuing to portray their relationship as perfect. However, when she discovered he had sexually assaulted their two- and four-year-old daughters, she immediately took action. Morales’s story shows how dangerous power imbalances in relationships can be, even when everything seems perfect on the surface.

True princess treatment isn’t about how much someone spends on you; it’s about how they protect your peace, your body, and your soul.​

Here’s the truth: Black women deserve rest, not just in our relationships but in every corner of our lives. The soft life is about more than luxury—it’s about rejecting anything that doesn’t serve our peace. But we can’t achieve this by replicating the very systems that have oppressed us.

As my dad used to tell me, “If a man doesn’t walk on the outside of the street, he’s no good. If he doesn’t buy you flowers, he’s no good. If he doesn’t feed you, he’s no good. And if he does all those things? He still might be no good.”

At the time, his words struck me as cynical, but now I see the truth in them. Grand gestures and material gifts can never replace genuine love, safety, and respect. A man can pamper you with all the trappings of the “princess treatment” and still fail to protect your peace or honor your dignity. The soft life isn’t just about what someone does for you—it’s about how they show up for you, consistently and with integrity.

So how do we step into spaces of care, rest, and mutual respect? It begins with setting unapologetic boundaries and prioritizing peace over the need to please. It means building reciprocal relationships where love flows both ways and allowing ourselves to lean on the communities that uplift us. Investing in ourselves—whether it’s starting that business, pursuing a passion, or taking a long-overdue break—is essential, not optional. And we must communicate our needs with clarity, refusing to accept anything less than the love and care we deserve.
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As we move into 2025, let’s leave the struggle behind. Let’s create relationships that lift us up, communities that celebrate us in all our fullness, and lives that honor the beauty and power we’ve always deserved—one intentional choice at a time.

Poverty doesn’t just make life harder—it multiplies harm. The less you have, the more it costs to survive, turning today’s small struggles into tomorrow’s impossible crises. In a system designed to exploit the most vulnerable, poverty charges interest—and we’re all paying the price.

Living under capitalism, particularly as a Black American, often feels like navigating a system intentionally designed to exhaust and exploit you. The weight of systemic oppression, generational trauma, and financial inequity doesn’t just hurt—it compounds. For many, survival feels like an endless uphill battle, and the kind of change needed to break these cycles can seem impossibly far away.
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This isn’t an appeal for empty hope or hollow validation. It’s a call to confront the forces that keep so many of us trapped and to name them for what they are: systems that thrive on inequality. This is about refusing to let those systems win, even if the solutions feel out of reach.

The challenges Black Americans face today didn’t appear overnight. They are the direct result of policies intentionally designed to exploit and exclude. From slavery to sharecropping, Jim Crow laws, redlining, and mass incarceration, systemic racism has shaped the economic landscape of this country.

One of the most devastating examples is the war on drugs, which disproportionately impacted Black families. Between the 1980s and 1990s, mandatory minimum sentencing laws for drug offenses disproportionately targeted Black men, tearing families apart and leaving Black women to spearhead households alone. By 2000, more than 1.5 million Black men were missing from their communities due to incarceration or early death (Equal Justice Initiative, 2015).

This systemic dismantling of Black family structures has become normalized. Today, nearly 70% of Black children are raised in single-parent households, compared to just 25% of White children (Pew Research Center, 2019). This norm—rooted in systemic oppression—forces Black women to shoulder not only the emotional burden of raising children but also the financial responsibility of paying bills, securing housing, and building wealth in a system designed to work against them.

As Dr. Dorothy A. Brown observes in The Whiteness of Wealth, “The consequences of discriminatory policies compound over generations, creating a cycle of disadvantage that Black women are often left to navigate on their own.”

The financial consequences of systemic inequality are staggering. Rising housing costs, stagnant wages, and inflation disproportionately affect low-income families. And here’s the kicker: poverty charges interest.

When you can’t afford to solve a problem today—whether it’s paying a bill, repairing something essential, or addressing your health—the cost doesn’t stay the same. It grows. Over time, small problems turn into big ones, and the resources needed to fix them become even harder to access.

This is how poverty traps people in a cycle. The lack of immediate resources forces decisions that solve today’s emergencies at the expense of tomorrow’s stability. It’s not just about being broke—it’s about how poverty compounds harm, creating situations that feel impossible to escape.

Meanwhile, Black women are disproportionately employed in low-wage industries like retail and service jobs, earning 64 cents for every dollar earned by White men (National Women’s Law Center, 2021). This wage gap means less access to resources and an even greater vulnerability to financial emergencies.
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Angela Glover Blackwell points to the need for systemic reform: “When we invest in the most vulnerable, we create conditions where everyone can thrive. But right now, the system is designed to do the opposite—exacerbating harm for those who need the most support.”

Even the solutions offered to alleviate suffering often fall short. Grants like the Amber Grant for Black women or programs through Black Girl Ventures can be life-changing for a few recipients, but they’re far from guaranteed. Thousands of women apply for these grants every month, making them highly competitive. Mutual aid networks, while faster and less bureaucratic, are often underfunded, with 63% of urban programs reporting a lack of resources (Center for Economic Democracy, 2021).
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At the systemic level, companies launch diversity initiatives or promote wellness campaigns that fail to address the root causes of inequality. Without actionable policies—such as fair wages, universal healthcare, or affordable housing—these efforts amount to little more than window dressing.

The change we need—universal basic income, reparations, guaranteed housing—may not come to pass in our lifetimes. That’s a devastating reality to sit with, especially when our ancestors fought and died for a better future, and many in our generation fail to use the tools they sacrificed for, like voting or activism.

So why fight at all? Because change isn’t just about the future—it’s about reclaiming moments of joy and power in the present. Resistance isn’t always about dismantling entire systems; sometimes, it’s about creating space to breathe, rest, and survive in a world that tries to suffocate you.

Bella’s Apothecary—a business I’ve built to center care, rest, and healing for Black women—is one small piece of that resistance. It’s not about fixing everything; it’s about refusing to let the system take all of me. Every product, every ritual, every act of care is a reminder that we are more than what this system wants us to be.
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As Audre Lorde said: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

The world isn’t fair, but we are not powerless. Every moment of healing, every small act of care, and every refusal to give in is a step toward reclaiming the life we deserve—whether we see the results in this lifetime or not.