I Code-Switch To Survive, But It’s Exhausting

As a Black woman of South Asian descent, Kamala Harris is constantly navigating multiple audiences—some who view her as "too Black," others who think she's "not Black enough," and some who demand she balance both identities perfectly. Every time she speaks, her tone, accent, and word choice are dissected, leading to accusations of inauthenticity. For instance, during a speech in Detroit, Harris was accused by Fox News' Peter Doocy of adopting a "Southern accent," which critics viewed as an attempt to pander to Black voters.  People don't see the struggle behind those shifts: the need to survive and adapt to environments that demand different versions.

White politicians adjust their speech and behavior all the time but rarely face the same backlash. Why? The criticism of Harris isn't just about her words; it's about discomfort with powerful Black women who don't fit neatly into a mold. Harris' experience echoes that of many Black women who code-switch, not out of deceit, but to connect, survive, and excel.

I was at my daughter's first competitive gymnastics practice two years ago, trying to blend in among a sea of white faces. I smiled and made small talk, but something felt off—a subtle shift had taken place, my attitude and posture were different, tighter, more restrained. I wasn't my usual "inappropriate jokes self"; instead, I became "polished and agreeable," gently nodding along while my mind raced to keep up with the unspoken social cues. I wore my "We belong here" mask, hoping to stand our ground as the others silently assessed whether my daughter deserved that last coveted spot.

But this isn't just gymnastics—this is life. Showing up in any predominantly white space as Black women requires a constant sales pitch, a performance, convincing others that you deserve your spot. And once you earn it, there's no relief; you're met with a never-ending stream of overt and subtle microaggressions. It started for me right out of college when I landed a job on Wall Street as the only Black analyst on a global team. I was introduced as "Beyoncé" instead of my name, told my Southern accent was "too thick," and met with thinly veiled compliments implying I couldn't possibly be productive with my acrylic nails—the message was clear: presenting myself as Alena was not okay.

The mental weight of code-switching drove me to become a solopreneur in search of freedom from the exhausting, long-term implications of constantly shifting my identity. Initially, I thought code-switching was limited to professional settings. Then I became a Black mother navigating predominantly white environments, and suddenly, it returned—more aggressively than ever. It's a shared experience for many Black women, from corporate boardrooms to school drop-offs.

Woven into our daily lives, whether carefully choosing words with school officials or switching to a more neutral voice in white spaces, it isn't just about how we talk; it's about how we show up and what it costs, emotionally and psychologically. When I speak with teachers, therapists, and administrators about my children's needs, I'm constantly calibrating my tone, body language and overall demeanor to come across as engaged but not aggressive and supportive but not overbearing. 

On July 21, 2024, when President Joe Biden endorsed Vice President Kamala Harris, I looked up, waiting for lightning to strike. My initial reaction was instant defeat. I called my mom and said, "There is no way this America would ever let a Black woman be President." But that night, when I joined 40,000 others on the "Win with Black Women" Zoom call, I realized how much I had dimmed my own light to fit into white America.

After that call, I decided it was time to take up space unapologetically. Shortly after, I saw a warning for Black women online, cautioning that the next few months would be filled with attacks and disrespect beyond belief and that we must be ready. Weeks later, someone remarked, "I didn't even know she was Black," in reference to Harris. It became clear once again that most Americans have no clue what it's like to be Black in America—especially a Black woman. So, let's talk about it.

Many Black women, including myself, are forced to play a role, constantly adapting to the expectations of a society that wasn't built for us. Code-switching isn't a choice we make lightly. Whether in the workplace, at school, or among friends, it's a strategy to navigate societal norms that place us on a constant tightrope of acceptability. Let's be clear: it's a performative act, a carefully crafted facade designed for survival, and a delicate blend between authenticity and assimilation refined over time. 

It's knowing when to downplay parts of ourselves, determining which version of our personality will make others comfortable, and ultimately, learning to live with the weight of double consciousness—a concept first described by W.E.B. Du Bois over a century ago.

In "The Souls of Black Folk," Du Bois writes about the experience of seeing oneself through the eyes of a society that doesn't fully understand or accept Blackness. We find ourselves constantly caught between two worlds—trying to maintain our authentic selves while wearing a mask deemed "acceptable." This goes beyond individual moments of change; it's deeply ingrained in our culture, a skill passed down through generations.

It's adjusting our appearance to meet expectations, lowering our voices to avoid being viewed as "aggressive," and softening our approach to sidestep the "angry" stereotype. Black women, in particular, have been conditioned to code-switch as a matter of survival—to access opportunities, to be heard, and to be seen as "worthy" in environments where white perspectives hold privilege and we are often overlooked.

Motherhood brings a unique layer to code-switching. As Black mothers, we often face the difficult choice of placing our children in environments that support their cultural identity or those offering top-tier academic resources. My own experience came after my oldest son was diagnosed with dyslexia. Private schools supporting dyslexic students range from $25-45K annually, primarily in white areas. As Black mothers, we navigate these mostly white spaces to advocate for our children, and the pressure extends far beyond our own lives.

In the gymnastics world, I watch my daughter's talent shine in a space that is overwhelmingly white and privileged. There, too, I switch—to ensure she is accepted as part of the group, not an outsider. How I show up affects how others perceive her, so I smile more than I want and downplay parts of myself to fit in. The emotional labor I carry isn't just about my survival but my children's. Black mothers do it so their children are viewed as being deserving of care, opportunities, protection, and upliftment in circumstances where they may be the only Black faces.

The pressure to code-switch within our communities is rarely discussed. As we climb educational and financial ladders, I've noticed visceral reactions within our culture. This dynamic is reflected in Isabel Wilkerson's "Caste", where she describes internal hierarchies within Black America based on education, class, and social markers. Many of my clients have faced past traumas related to "not being Black enough" due to their speech, clothing, or hairstyle. Meanwhile, others are pressured to perfect a polished, acceptable "version" of Blackness.

There's also the economic factor. Navigating affluent Black circles meant code-switching in language, status, and behavior. Pierre Bourdieu's concept of "cultural capital" speaks to how we perform and adjust ourselves to meet the standards of different classes and groups. It's not just about fitting in racially but also economically and socially—finding the right middle ground between polished and relatable, affluent yet "down to earth."

The pressures of belonging run deep across many cultures, but Black women, in particular, face layer upon layer of expectation.

So, how do we break free from this cycle of adapting, performing, and shrinking to fit into molds set by others? How do we craft an identity that honors who we are without constantly needing to code-switch or change?

After countless hours of therapy, coaching, and self-reflection, I asked myself, "Who asked you to code-switch? And what would happen if you just decided not to?"

In "Selfless," Brian Lowery reminds us that while we are shaped by culture, we also have the agency to shape ourselves. The goal isn't to strip away the skill of code-switching but to use it on our terms—to decide when it serves us and when it's time to step fully into our own power. The answer lies in recognizing that identity isn't fixed; it's fluid. We get to choose how we show up—unapologetically, multi-faceted, and real. But this requires intention and self-work.

Kamala Harris' 2024 run reminds us of the power of reclaiming our narrative. She navigates cultural expectations as a politician but does so on her terms—embracing her Blackness, South Asian heritage, ambition, and commitment to community. She's redefining what it means to be a Black woman in power, showing that we, too, can reclaim our stories. 

Although code-switching may be necessary in certain situations, it doesn't define who you are. Due to circumstances outside of our control, we’re going to have to keep code-switching to survive and thrive. Yes, it is a dance, but it doesn't dictate your rhythm. As the conductor of your own story, you are more than the roles you play, the masks you wear, and the scripts you follow. Let this be a powerful reminder: you are enough, complete, and unstoppable in every space you enter, an embodiment of your ancestors' strength, resilience, and dreams. Each challenge you face is a testament to their struggles and triumphs, and their legacy flows through you, empowering your journey. Remember, your presence holds weight, and your voice carries the echoes of their stories.