That Time I Blocked Him

And Why I Wish I'd Listened

You know that feeling when you look back on something and just cringe? Like, full-body cringe? Yeah. Got one of those moments that sticks with me.

Years back, I was going through a really rough breakup. And like a lot of folks do when they're hurting, I was putting stuff online – sad quotes, songs, just trying to bleed my feelings out into the void. Felt like it was just my pain, you know? Just me dealing.

Photo by Freddie Addery

Then, someone I knew messaged me. They basically said, "Hey, what if people figure out this is about your ex? You have got to be careful." And honestly? I got mad. Like, instantly defensive. Who were they to tell me what to post when I was the one hurting? I felt attacked, judged. So I shut them down. Hard. Blocked them. End of story. Or so I thought.

Took me years to finally get what they were really trying to tell me. Like, really get it in my gut.

The truth is my sadness wasn't just sadness. My tears weren't innocent. Not in this world.

Because the person I was heartbroken over? They were Black. And I'm a white. And we live in this messed-up system built on white supremacy. That changes everything.

History isn't just dusty books. White women's tears? Our "distress"? It's been used as a weapon against Black people for centuries. Think Emmett Till. Think false accusations that get people fired, arrested, hurt, or worse. My friend wasn't trying to be mean or police my feelings. They saw me waving around my pain publicly, and they saw a potential danger. They saw how easily my white sadness, my vague posts, could be twisted into something that put a Black person at risk. Furthermore, they were trying to stop me from becoming another chapter in that ugly history.

And I blocked them. I wrapped myself up in my own hurt and refused to see past it. The regret about that? It’s heavy. The biggest "what if?" What if, instead of hitting block, I'd just taken a breath and asked, "Wait, help me understand why you're saying this?" How much harm could have been avoided? How much sooner could I have woken up to this?

I carry the knowledge of that defensiveness. I carry the weight of realizing how my unchecked pain could become a loaded gun pointed at someone else, all because of the messed-up power dynamics of this world. In this system, my white tears are never neutral. They can be a shield for my own fragility or a weapon against Black lives. Ignoring that isn't innocence. It's dangerous.


My feelings don't get to trump someone else's safety. Ever. Defensiveness is a trap. It protects my ego but blinds me to the real harm I might be causing without even knowing it. When someone I trust, especially someone who might see the danger clearer than I do, tries to warn me, I have to listen. Even when it stings like hell. Especially then. True vulnerability isn't just crying. It's admitting the truth. My whiteness comes with power I didn't ask for, but ignoring it can hurt people. Staying awake to that responsibility? That's being vulnerable.

It’s not about wallowing in guilt. It’s about carrying this awareness. Every single day. Impact over intent. Safety over my comfort. The system over my self-image.

If you're white and any of this hits home? Sit with that discomfort. Ask yourself, where might my pain, my defensiveness, my need to be seen as the "good one," be putting someone else at risk? Listen when you get that warning. The hardest truths are the ones that might actually keep people safe.

The most vulnerable thing I can say right now…My tears are dangerous and pretending they're not? That's the most dangerous thing of all.

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