It Wasn’t About the Menu

This is me, minutes before I almost broke in public.

Big smile. AML shirt. Looking every bit the strong, capable, “together” leader and person people expect me to be. You’d never know from this picture that inside, I was already carrying a week’s worth of weight.

I’ll be judged regardless.
I’ll be judged for speaking up.
I’ll be judged for staying quiet.
I’ll be judged for waiting until I got home to release.

​So let me put it all out there…

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By the time I walked into that restaurant for my meeting, my emotional plate was already overflowing:

• My integrity had been attacked at work. Again.
• My department has no AC or ventilation. It’s 82 degrees inside, in Texas, with five fans running and leadership doing nothing.
• Four colleagues had dropped heavy emotional loads on me in the past few days.
• A friend was in a car accident and is shutting down. I want to help, but I’m trying not to overstep.
• My family is under attack.
• My knee is swelling again.
• Finances feel … funny.

And then, the meeting itself had already been a pivot. First location — unavailable. Second — 20-minute wait. This third one? Just “available.” I didn’t research it.

When I came back from the restroom, I opened the menu expecting to see something safe — a simple comfort item I could say “yes” to without thinking. Instead… nothing.

No chicken nuggets. No tenders. No mental “anchor” I could cling to.
And that’s when the crack started.
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Not because of the menu. But because the menu was the last straw holding up the whole, teetering stack of my week.

The Internal War
In my head, I kept saying, “YOU GOT THIS. YOU GOOD. Just a little longer.”

I glanced at my watch, my phone, my iPad — pretending I was reviewing meeting notes when in reality, I was counting minutes and holding on.
Part of me wanted to scream, cry, and walk out. But the other part said, Hold it together for her. Hold it together for the people around you. No one here knows you. You’re not safe. You have no backup. No ally.

The Physical Battle
It felt like a charley horse that never quite knotted. My shoulders locked. I cracked every knuckle in my hands over and over. My right eye twitched. My throat was dry and, oddly, I craved Sprite — something I never drink — because water wasn’t enough. I wanted the bite of carbonation to ground me.

A small pounding started in my head, but thankfully, it never fully hit.
When my meal came, the chicken was too big to cut, the salad untouched, the fries too salty. I brought it home. In the moment, eating wasn’t an option.

The Aftermath
I made it through the meeting. She left for her next appointment, never knowing how close I was to cracking.

When I got home, my husband asked me a simple question, and I barely responded. He asked again, and I snapped: “Give me a moment. I’m overwhelmed.” I went upstairs, sat in silence for 20 minutes, then came back down to explain.

Two hours later, my body finally started to let go. But in my mind, I was still replaying it, playing the should’ve/would’ve game.

The Truth for Every “Strong One”
That day, I realized something: RELAX. RELEASE. RELATE. goes for us too. We are not immune to the very human moments we help others through.

Society isn’t equipped to handle emotional outbursts in a positive way — especially from leaders, and even more so from Black women. So we hold it in. We protect our reputations. We “KEEP IT TOGETHER.”
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But I’m making a commitment to a better me.
If this ever happens again, especially in public, I will speak up. Even something as small as telling the person I’m with, “I need a 5-minute break” can give me the space to breathe and reset.
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That day in the restaurant, I was my own safe space. And I survived it. But I also carried the cost.

So, to every strong one reading this:
You deserve your moments too.
You don’t have to earn them.
You don’t have to apologize for them.
And you don’t have to have them alone.

Submitted by Daphne Anderson, Founder & Executive Director