If you’ve ever met me, you know I am completely and unapologetically Black. I love being a Black woman. I love my brown skin and full lips and puffy hair. I never wish to be anything other than Black and a woman. Ok, maybe a baller/shot caller as well, but that’s besides the point.

Recently I went through a breakup. It was a pretty good relationship despite it being long distance. He was one of my closest friends, a pillar as I fought cancer. Suddenly we were no more. Just…poof.

I’ve been trying to keep busy because I don’t want a replay of my first breakup. That was not a pretty sight. At all. Bald, sick, breastless, hopeless. At least this time I have hair.

My friend Mary came over and sat with me, like many girlfriends do when you’re trying to not throw in the towel. We talked, I cried, she told me to get back on the horse, and we went grocery shopping.

This. This scene was all too familiar. Black women having to carry one another. Now, don’t get me wrong. I LOVE my sisters. These women are poignant, prolific, and radiant. The very definition of boss babes (shout out to Alicia). What I am weary of seeing is all of us, quality women who WANT companionship, constantly having to hold each other up in order to maintain any type of dignity because we’re frequently discarded by others.

You see, Black women aren’t as valuable as other women, according to studies. We don’t make good partners. We are too loud, too much to handle, not feminine enough, too guarded, too aggressive, not educated enough, and just…not. There is always something to complain about concerning us. If I hear one more time that I’d have a man if only I were a few pounds lighter or wasn’t so straight forward. Our own men, the ones we support almost to a fault, have spouted the same venomous stereotypes. And, even if a variety of men will have sex with us, only a select few will marry us.

At this impasse I don’t quite know what to say to my sisters anymore. I believe every word when I tell them how utterly amazing they are because it’s true. But even I have come to a point where I have questions about my own viability as a partner because this story is on repeat.

Last week I did say I discovered some deep-seeded anger and so forth concerning men, and I’m addressing those issues. However, I am a Daddy’s Girl. I may not trust all men, but there has always been a space for a couple of them in my heart thanks to my dad. So even in my struggle I’ve had a desire for companionship. I use companionship because I’m not yet convinced that marriage is for me. I’ve been willing to try, but nobody has stuck around long enough to try it out.

I think about what movies and books and preachers and Buzzfeed articles say men like and I compare these standards to my life and my friends. We seem to be hitting the mark… at least on paper. I do recognize my shortcomings (if you want to call them that)- not financially sound, not a college graduate, multiple health issues (and no, they are not derivatives of my weight), and homeless, to name a few. I am also loyal, dedicated, encouraging, warm, witty. Ride or die. I got your back. Like a lioness, I will protect my family at all costs. Do any of those things matter if you’re a Black woman though?

Let me ask this. Is it just me or are the standards for Black women higher than other women? It seems like we constantly have to prove our worth. Trying to get a mate is like applying for a job or house loan. How much do you make? What’s your credit score? How many kids do you have? Can you provide 30 references to validate your identity and character? And, no matter what our résumé looks like, it still isn’t enough.

I have a friend. I’ll call her Daisy because she is a flower. This lady floats. I’m not exaggerating. If there is anything gentle about me, it is because of her. If Black Disney princesses existed (don’t you mention Tiana), she would be her. Daisy isn’t married, but she wants to be. She has prepared in every way she’s been told she needs to. I’ve seen men approach her, but there is always some excuse as to why he won’t stay. Usually it’s some bullshit about not having himself together. Then, 2 weeks later, you see him with someone else. Lame. What am I supposed to say to her? What can I possibly say to this woman who beats herself up to get it right all the time, yet only other women and men from afar give credit to her life and her love.

I don’t know how much longer I can maintain wiping away the tears of my broken-hearted sisters, us having to tell one another that some day there will be someone who thinks we are great and he can’t imagine life without us. Our hope is that we’ve seen it before so we know it can happen. The flip side though is we know deep down it won’t happen for all of us. Because there are impossible standards. Eventually the ones like me get out of the game. We’ve learned to survive just in case nobody wanted to love and protect and provide for us. We step back for those sisters who’ve dreamed of weddings and marriage as little girls- what her dress would look like, what song she’d dance to, how he would smile as she walked down the aisle, the house and the kids. Those sisters need a chance. It shouldn’t be this way though. We should all have a chance at requited love, a love that simply exists for us just because we exist. You know, unconditional.

I love being being Black and a woman. Maybe one day, just maybe, the world will love us too.