I Woke Up From The Sunken Place: When Patience Becomes a Prison for Black Creatives

I woke up from the sunken place of creative burnout to demand the recognition every Black artist deserves—read why patience isn't enough anymore.

I sat in my room, full of emotions. I write in the dark. I tend to wake up from nightmares—dreams that feel real, where my body sinks into that sunken place, Get Out style. I wake panicked. That's normal for me.

I ran to my computer, and the first thing that came to mind was how hard I work. Not just on my craft. On writing. On creating art. On teaching the youth. How extremely hard I work, and the work shows up good. Yet I feel like I give I give I give with no reward.

Patience, they say.

Bitch, I'm tired of patience in this moment.

I'm writing this because I know a ton of you feel this heavy weight too—when is it going to break? When will the universe reward all this talent? When will my work be seen? I honestly don't do it for the money. I do it all for love. I love it. And even without recognition, I still continue because love is present.

But two things can be true, albeit they sound contradictory: A bitch like me loves what he does, but damn, can I get some respect on my name?

This story, this post, is emotional. Might even be cocky. I have no idea if I'll even post it because it feels like ego. But I want to write my truth. My Black, gay truth, as I struggle to come up for air—like I'm falling from the sky I put myself in. I set my mind to the clouds, and I reach them, yet something forces me down. Gravity? My soul gets swept, and I'm caught trying to swim back to the top. Away from anxiety, up to the air, to breathe and stay higher than the clouds.

The top.

The top like I am in bed. A top. I need to stay top. Top of these things that I love, that fill my heart like helium in a balloon, ready to bust. This top is always ready to bust.

Too dirty? Well, that's my art.

I think about all the Black women who tell me stories of how they “run companies” as the secretary, or Black women of power who do all the work yet get no reward. I don't want to compare myself to my sistas, but I see them. I feel them.

I can't blame my queerness and Blackness. I don't know who to blame. Am I as talented as I think I am?

Even my day job as a teaching artist—sometimes I love my bosses, but I feel I go above and beyond. The Black face of the company. Always on their socials. Always the one they show: "Look who's teaching! The man with the credits, the face, the one who does great work!" Yet their whiteness—woke, they say—can come off nice nasty. I love them. They love me. But sometimes I even wonder about that.

I give give I give I GIVE GIVE.

I love to give. Back to being a top—I always end up back there. But I do, in all aspects of life, love to give. And how dare I expect a reward from the world for doing good, for trying to be good. Angel? Nope. Flawed, fucked up, anxious—all things, yes.

BUT GOOD.

Good at all things I do. Writing. Acting. Singing—my weakness, but still good at it. While my mediocre counterparts, white as the clouds, get the recognition so easy. Sometimes the pastor prays about the valley and the mountains, and I'm just tired sometimes—like this morning—wanting to be on top of the mountain.

Emotional.

I write from a place of healing. I also know that things in this business can change so fast. I know that right now, this feeling will subside, and I'll go back to my gratitude journal and write about how blessed I am. This feeling is fleeting. But for me to feel this way tells me the feeling, while fleeting, still rumbles in my belly.

Like I'm hungry to eat.

Waiting.

So I'll keep writing in the dark. I'll keep waking from nightmares. I'll keep reaching for clouds that push me back down. Because maybe the valley isn't punishment—maybe it's preparation. Maybe being hungry means I haven't been fed the bullshit yet. Maybe my work is seen, just not by the people I thought mattered. And maybe—just maybe—the top I'm reaching for isn't a place at all.

Maybe it's me. Already. Here. In the dark. Where I write my best shit.

And when the morning comes, when the work breaks through, when my name gets the respect it's owed—I won't be surprised. Because I've been at the top this whole time. Just waiting for the world to catch up.

Patience, they say? Nah. Confidence.