There comes a moment when the weight of disrespect becomes too heavy to bear. When your body tightens, your spirit trembles, and your soul whispers, no more.

For many Black women, that whisper doesn’t come from weakness; it comes from wisdom. It’s the moment when exhaustion and enlightenment meet, when silence feels like betrayal, and when continuing to endure feels like erasing yourself. 

That moment is the rupture, and though it hurts, it is also holy.

Ruptures are sacred shatterings or divine awakenings.

They happen when you have been stretched too far, stretched too wide, and stretched for too long.

They are when another slight, another dismissal, another “you’re overreacting” slices into the soul that’s already tender from years – sometimes decades – of carrying too much, ignoring too much, and speaking too little.

But ruptures do not always arrive in one dramatic moment. For some, it’s an instant crack—a sharp, undeniable break where everything you believed collapses at once. It’s a single moment that shakes our foundations, alters our relationships, and transforms our beliefs.

For others, it’s a slow widening—a hairline fracture that expands gradually until it becomes a gaping hole in the soul. Or, it’s a series of minor fractures that eventually split our spirits and relationships wide open. It’s a break that can’t be mended.

And for most of us, ruptures never happen in isolation. When one area of our life ruptures or awakens, other areas begin to stir too. The personal touches the professional. The emotional collides with the spiritual. The social ripples through the sacred. The political clashes with the philosophical. Awakening in one area of our lives often inevitably stirs awakenings everywhere, as we realize that aspects of our lives are interconnected and influenced by many factors, many of which are beyond our control.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on some of my own ruptures—especially around friendship and belonging. There were relationships where I allowed too much room for injustice. At first, I mistook silence for strategic support and tolerance for allyship. But over time, I could no longer overlook the quiet minimization and erasure of non-White people. I could not ignore or excuse the way some “friends”—who I thought were allies—stayed silent when colleagues were overlooked, maligned for speaking up, or excluded simply for inviting inclusivity.

It was painful to realize that some people were never on the battlefield with me. They were watching from the sidelines—or worse, secretly protecting and enforcing the very systems that harm people who look like me. That was my rupture, and it’s one that still hasn’t finished healing yet.

Maybe your rupture isn’t professional. Maybe it’s personal, relational, spiritual, or emotional. But regardless of where it shows up, I want you to know this: I see you. I understand you. And you are not alone. 

And most of all, I hope that you don’t equate ruptures with failure, because  I know that ruptures are really freedom trying to find its way out of bondage to experience liberation.

Reflection Prompt: What truth are you no longer willing to swallow? What’s bursting in your soul?

What I have learned is that ruptures bring a gift: revelation.  Revelation is not just an aha moment; it’s the clarity that arrives when your spirit stops pretending not to know what it has always known.

It’s when you begin to recognize what you ignored, resisted, or rationalized. When you finally see what systems are and who people really are—and sometimes, who you have become while trying to survive them.

For some, revelation can feel like both grief and grace because it exposes illusions: the one-sided friendships, the leaders who confused your loyalty with servitude, the environments that required your excellence but denied your existence.

The blessing is that revelations don’t come to shame you. They come to show you where to begin again. Where to look again. Where to see opportunity again. Because when you see, you can choose.

When you see, you can no longer hide behind “maybe they didn’t mean it.” You can stop rationalizing abuse, inequity, and disparity. You can fully honor what your body, spirit, and intuition already knew long before your mind caught up.

Reflection Prompt: What have your wounds been trying to reveal to you?

Revelation is essential, but clarity alone isn’t healing. Seeing the truth is only the first step; living in that truth is the sacred next one.

 That’s where redemption begins, which is a holy process of returning to yourself.

And redemption is not about forgiving the offender first; it’s about rescuing yourself from the cycles of self-abandonment, self-disrespect, and self-erasure.

It’s about remembering that you were never meant to prove your worth. You were meant to protect it, preserve it, and honor it.

It is the season when self-trust is rebuilt. When your “yes” and “no” finally find their rightful power and their needed place in your life. When you begin to speak without shrinking, to rest without guilt, to set boundaries without apology, and to disengage without explanation.

My friend, redemption is not perfection; it’s permission. It’s the permission to come home to yourself after living too long in exile. It’s the power to reclaim the parts of yourself that you gave away in exchange for money, access, control, or counterfeit love.

It’s the moment when you whisper, I forgive myself for forgetting who I was. 

And with that whisper, a new kind of peace begins to rise.

Reflection Prompt: What parts of you are waiting to be reclaimed?

When you reclaim yourself, you also reclaim your creative power. That’s when the rebuilding begins. And the rebuilding begins not from what was broken, but from what has been blessed. It starts by acknowledging that losses were lessons and rejection was protection.

Rebuilding doesn’t mean restoring what was, because your newfound wisdom won’t allow you to exist again in those same places.  It means redesigning what will be. Creating what needs to be. Imagining what you hope it will be. 

It means learning to create without crisis, to build without begging, and to dream without doubt.

Rebuilding is slow, deliberate, sacred work. It’s learning how to live from truth instead of trauma. It’s trusting that you can build something holy, healthy, and whole—on your own terms, in your own time, with your own voice.

This is the work of wholeness: making peace with the past, reclaiming your power, and creating a life aligned with your values and not your wounds.

Reflection Prompt: What foundation are you ready to lay beneath your life now?

Where am I now?

Those relationships that I once valued look different now.  Some are strained. Some have ended. Some are clumsy.

And others, I’m keeping strategically close, not out of comfort, but out of purpose. I stay connected to access the information and insight needed to help others who are more vulnerable than I am, as I know that equity and empathy are still evolving or nonexistent in many settings.

But even as I move forward, I still feel the sting of it all, and the wound is healing, but slower than I expected.  The healing is slower, not because I haven’t done my emotional work, but because the world keeps reopening it or stalling the recovery process.. The political climate, the visible injustice, and the sheer amount of human suffering make it difficult to close what was once painfully cracked open.

The truth is, each headline, each story, each silence around suffering reminds me how deeply personal pain is connected to collective pain. And sometimes, that awareness makes healing harder. But even in that tension, there’s truth. A truth that reminds me that our healing is never just about us.  It’s also about the world we live in, the systems we’re part of, the people we’re still called to serve, and a divine purpose we are called to fulfill.

That’s the paradox of growth:
You can forgive, but still protect yourself.
You can outgrow people and still hold compassion for their journey.
You can keep your heart open without keeping yourself unguarded.

I believe ruptures are holy. They are divine thresholds.

When women, especially Black women, reach that sacred threshold…when we finally say enough—it’s not the end of our story. It’s the beginning of our liberation. It’s the acknowledgment and awareness that we are ready to come back home to ourselves.

That’s why I know that ….

Every rupture is a rebirth.
Every revelation is a reckoning.
Every redemption is a return.
Every rebuild is a resurrection.

So if you find yourself standing in your own moment of breaking, remember this: Your rupture is not your ruin. It is your release. It is your resurrection, revival, and renewal.

It’s a sacred stage that offers YOU an opportunity to name what hurts, to reclaim what’s true, to rebuild what you need, and to restore your peace — piece by piece.

My friend, YOUR ENOUGH is holy.

You are holy!

And I know that the best is yet to come.

Blessings!

SharRon

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