You Are Your Best Thing

Vulnerability, Shame Resilience, and the Black Experience

By Edited by Tarana Burke and Brené Brown

Category: Psychology | Reading Duration: 32 min | Rating: 4.1/5 (110 ratings)

About the Book

You Are Your Best Thing (2021) is an anthology of original essays that explore Black experiences of living, loving, and parenting in America today. It examines concepts like vulnerability and shame, and shows that the key to personal healing lies in confronting white supremacy and the racist systems that make Black people feel unsafe in their communities.

Who Should Read This?

Black people looking for tools to heal from trauma
Psychology-lovers seeking new perspectives on how the personal and political intersect
Those who want to deepen their understanding of the impact of racism in America

What’s in it for me? Develop resilience and practice joy in the face of white supremacy.

Social justice activist and Me Too movement founder Tarana Burke realized that activism around racial justice was missing something: a consideration of Black humanity. Racism and white supremacy affect how Black people are able to move through the world, dream about their futures, and parent their children. Burke wanted to make a space where her community could share these experiences of trauma as well as resilience. Her solution was to approach shame and vulnerability researcher Brené Brown to create a book together.

They invited Black activists, intellectuals, and artists to write personal essays on the specific ways racism and white supremacy affect their lives. The essays unpack personal experiences of vulnerability and shame, and they examine how these writers work to find joy, connection, and resilience in a society designed to oppress them. A quick note before we begin: this summary contain descriptions of violence and trauma. Please take care.

In this summary, you’ll learn - why Laverne Cox is still scared to walk down the street;

how a stroke let Tarana Burke know she had to change her life; and
why tackling intergenerational trauma is so important.

Chapter 1: Black experiences of shame, vulnerability, and trauma are inextricably tied to white supremacy.

In the protests that rocked the United States after George Floyd and Breonna Taylor were murdered in 2020, Black activists took to the streets with the aim of fighting white supremacy.

But Tarana Burke noticed there was something missing from the conversation.

Activists kept trying to make white people less racist.

But there was very little discussion about how the trauma of continued racist violence affects Black people.

So Burke approached Brené Brown, a longtime friend and expert in trauma.

Burke had always found Brown’s work on shame and vulnerability to be inspirational.

But, as a Black woman, it was sometimes hard to see herself in it.

The key message here is: Black experiences of shame, vulnerability, and trauma are inextricably tied to white supremacy.

Brown's work reveals how much we have to gain from letting down our defenses and becoming vulnerable and open with each other.

It shows how harmful internalized shame can be and argues that everyone is worthy of joy and connection.

But it doesn’t explicitly acknowledge that Black people often aren’t allowed to be emotionally vulnerable in society because they experience real threats in daily life.

It also doesn’t examine what it’s like for Black people to find self-worth in a society designed to shame and oppress them.

While Brown’s research had always incorporated many diverse voices, including Latinx and Black respondents, the way she’d presented it was from her own perspective: as a privileged, middle-class white woman.

As a result, the anecdotes tend to exclude a big chunk of her readers who don’t have the freedom that she does.

So, when Burke proposed collaborating on an edited collection of essays about how Black people experience shame, vulnerability, and trauma, Brown jumped at the chance to make her work more relevant and inclusive.

She agreed to join the project on two conditions: Burke would be listed as first author, and Brown’s share of the profits would go toward supporting Black storytellers.

The chapters that follow are a sampling of personal stories.

Black artists, intellectuals, parents, and activists share how they wrestle with the trauma of systemic racism on a daily basis – and how they create lives full of connection, love, and growth in spite of it.

Chapter 2: To be a Black parent in America is to fear for your child’s life.

Austin Channing Brown looked at her toddler’s reflection in the mirror.

They were in the bathroom and her son was standing at the sink, wearing a jacket, hood up.

He was so obsessed with jackets that he insisted on wearing one at all times.

He especially loved wearing the hood up over his head.

When she looked at him in the mirror, Channing Brown saw a miniature version of Trayvon Martin, the teenager who’d been murdered on his way home from a convenience store.

And her heart clenched.

The excuse the murderer had given was that Martin looked “suspicious” in his hooded sweatshirt.

Channing Brown experienced a jolt of fear as she thought about what kinds of racist violence awaited her son.

The key message here is: To be a Black parent in America is to fear for your child’s life.

Brené Brown describes these kinds of fearful moments as an experience of foreboding joy – like when you look at your sleeping children, become filled with love, and then immediately think, What if they get sick and die?

Foreboding joy is a kind of protective mechanism that reminds you to be prepared for the worst.

The problem is, it robs you of that joy in the moment.

Objectively, there’s nothing wrong with your children now; they’re safe in their beds.

So why dwell on what could happen?

Brown argues that we experience this sense of foreboding because, deep down, we don’t feel worthy of joy.

We don’t allow ourselves that pleasure.

This explanation defines foreboding joy as an individual affliction that people can fix with the right therapy and mental gymnastics.

Start feeling worthy, and you’ll experience more joy.

But for Black people living in a deeply racist country, it’s much more complicated than that.

When Channing Brown stares at her son in the mirror and worries he’ll be attacked, or gets scared every time her husband goes for a drive, her sense of foreboding is well-founded.

There’ve been countless incidents where a routine traffic stop became lethal for a Black driver – where young Black men have been killed for random and indiscriminate offenses.

To put it bluntly, having a sense of foreboding is very rational for Channing Brown.

It’s a reflection of the dangers that Black people experience on a daily basis in the United States.

But Channing Brown won’t give up on joy.

She balances happiness and pain, fear and love.

If anything, her response is to love even harder.

Even though she knows racism is real.

Even though she knows everything she holds dear could be taken away.

So, when she looks at her son in the mirror and feels those twinges of love and fear, she takes a deep breath and kisses him on the top of his head – relishing being with him in the moment.

Chapter 3: Finding a sense of self-worth means dismantling the racist systems designed to shame you.

The night that Tanya Denise Fields was almost beaten to death by her partner was the night she decided to finally reject the sense of deep shame that had kept her trapped for so long.

Fields was ashamed of the color of her skin, her big lips, and her weight.

She was ashamed at having had six children with four different men who never stuck around.

And she was ashamed, very ashamed, of being poor.

But the night she nearly died, she realized how expensive all this shame had been.

It had kept her stuck in abusive relationships.

It had prevented her from creating the home she wanted for her children.

And it had caused her to neglect her health and to demean herself.

But where did the shame come from?

She realized that she’d embodied racist ideas about what it meant to be beautiful.

And she’d believed racist stereotypes of what Black women were like.

Shame was the result of years of internalized oppression.

The key message here is: Finding a sense of self-worth means dismantling the racist systems designed to shame you.

Fields had been waiting her whole life to feel deserving of respect, love, and joy.

But she realized that she didn’t have to earn those things; they were her birthright.

She was intrinsically worthy, no matter how she looked or what she did or how much money she had.

She started examining all her old beliefs about herself, and she confronted the legacy of trauma that she was a part of.

Fields decided to share her experiences of domestic abuse on social media – something she’d always been too ashamed to do.

Through sharing, she found a loving community of fellow survivors who were ready to support her.

She moved herself and her children into a shelter for domestic abuse survivors, and then eventually into her own apartment – a place she’s turned into a happy and secure family home.

Two years after discovering her self-worth, Fields’s health has improved and her career is thriving.

She’s hired six employees and tripled the operating budget for the organization she founded, the Black Feminist Project.

She also connects with people around the world through her cooking show and public appearances.

By rejecting shame, she’s created the life she knows she deserves: a life full of joy and purpose.

Chapter 4: The white medical establishment fails Black Americans.

The word “crazy” gets a bad rap.

Instead, we’re supposed to use medical terms like “depression” or “anxiety disorder.

” But “crazy” is exactly how Kiese Laymon describes himself.

He avoids people and has spent much of the last years working and eating in his dark bedroom.

When his family calls, he doesn’t answer.

When he goes outside, he often has panic attacks and feels like he’s going to die.

But want to know the craziest thing about his situation?

His experience of white doctors and hospitals has been so harmful that, for most of his life, he’s felt safer suffering alone than seeking help.

The key message here is: The white medical establishment fails Black Americans.

One of the refrains commonly directed at people struggling with their mental health is that they should “just ask for help.

” But what if the medical establishment tasked with helping you is also hostile and racist?

What if the white doctor treating you doesn’t fully see you as a person – and therefore can’t see that you’re in need of help?

That was Laymon’s experience when he finally went to see a cardiologist.

He kept having heart palpitations that made him feel as if he were dying.

Laymon’s childhood experiences of doctors had caused him to be wary, but he knew he needed help.

The cardiologist did some perfunctory tests and proclaimed Laymon to be “fine.

” But Laymon didn’t feel fine – and the next day he had more palpitations.

Desperate for answers, he consulted Google.

A quick search led him to the link between heart palpitations and panic attacks.

This is a common condition, so why hadn’t the cardiologist taken the time to diagnose him?

A white doctor had only ever acknowledged Laymon’s need for mental-health support once: when he was expelled from college for protesting the racism he experienced there.

On that occasion, the doctor had claimed that Laymon had a “problem with white people,” which he’d need to address before coming back to the school.

The psychiatric diagnosis was used as a weapon against him.

Laymon might be “crazy,” but the world he navigates every day is crazy-making.

It’s a place where Black people aren’t able to be vulnerable – not even with the people tasked with their care – without the very justified fear of being harmed.

Chapter 5: Accepting who you are allows for healing and connection.

Prentis Hemphill, who uses the pronouns they/them, became an expert at assimilating and hiding who they really were when they were sent to a wealthy white school on the other side of town.

In order to fit in, they pretended that they lived in a fancy house, had a perfect home life, and listened to the same bands as their classmates.

In reality, Hemphill’s family was poor, and their home was unpredictable – erupting in violence without warning.

Their parents were battling a legacy of intergenerational trauma and violence.

But as much as Hemphill’s parents fought behind closed doors, in public they acted like nothing was wrong.

Hemphill absorbed the lesson that maintaining a respectable facade was essential.

The key message here is: Accepting who you are allows for healing and connection.

In all their years at school, Hemphill invited a classmate over only once.

They were ashamed of their home – and especially of the fact that there were cockroaches in the house.

The one time they did invite a friend, they spent the whole morning squashing roaches, trying to get rid of them all.

But when their friend arrived, a roach flew across the room as if on cue.

Hemphill was so ashamed that they vowed never to have anyone over again.

But there was one part of Hemphill’s identity that became irrepressible: their Queerness.

Their sexuality and gender refused to conform to the “respectable” categories their family demanded.

Hemphill prayed to wake up one day and not be Queer, but it was no use.

This was a part of them that they couldn’t – and wouldn’t – hide anymore.

When Hemphill came out, they were rejected by their family, who saw them as betraying the values they’d grown up with.

Hemphill moved across the country and began a long journey of healing from trauma and shame.

They recognized that, in order to heal, they needed to understand the trauma that their parents carried and passed down to them.

They started doing body-centered therapy and noticing the ways trauma manifested in their body.

For example, they had a tight, clenched knot in their chest.

The idea of relaxing was terrifying; staying so tight and armored had protected them through difficult times.

But it had also kept them isolated and alone.

Through somatic therapy, Hemphill learned how to relax the knot and start letting people in.

They began to join protests for racial justice, and they experienced the healing power of being part of a bigger community that voiced rage and pain together.

Hiding their true self had gotten Hemphill through some difficult times.

But now they were ready to be seen.

Chapter 6: Church should be a place where Black women are supported instead of shamed.

Tracey Michae’l Lewis-Giggetts remembers Sundays in church – being surrounded by women singing beautiful hymns, like “Love Lifted Me.

” Church was a sanctuary for her, but it also became a place that betrayed her.

When she was just entering adolescence, Lewis-Giggetts was sexually abused.

Instead of acknowledging what had happened to her and helping her to heal, her church community covered up the abuse.

She was instructed to recite scripture and stay silent.

And, to keep the peace, she was sent away.

As a middle-aged woman experiencing the effects of that trauma, Lewis-Giggetts began to get better with the help of therapies like EMDR.

But she realized that in order to truly heal, she’d have to unravel the betrayal of her church.

The key message here is: Church should be a place where Black women are supported instead of shamed.

She realized that the older women who'd let her down were trying, in a strange way, to protect her.

They were trying to show her that to survive in a world where Black girls were unvalued, she’d have to toughen up and silence her feelings.

In order to live, she’d have to accept she’d be dehumanized.

These women were passing on their methods for surviving hardship and abuse – experiences they lived because they were women and because they were Black.

The church seemed to validate their suffering and reward their good behavior.

So these women clung tightly to religious gospels and started policing the younger women in their midst – scolding one for her short skirts and another for promiscuity.

But the theological teachings these women espoused were influenced by racist, patriarchal Western beliefs.

Lewis-Giggetts knew that this interpretation did no justice to the Jesus she had come to know and love.

That Jesus never shamed anyone.

He prioritized love above all else, and he helped the most needy and vulnerable.

He was interested in social justice – not unthinking conformity.

For Lewis-Giggetts, healing involved rethinking the religion she knew.

What if church could become a place of love?

Of institutional support?

A place where women encouraged each other to wear whatever they wanted?

A place where there was intergenerational healing from the traumas the Black community bears?

Creating that community around her has been the purest expression of Lewis-Giggetts’s faith – a faith that’s free of harmful teachings and shame.

Chapter 7: Emotional vulnerability is essential for connecting with others, but it requires a safe environment.

When was the last time you listened to the blues – to artists like Etta James, B.

King, and Muddy Waters?

When was the last time you let their voices move through you, pouring out pure emotion through song?

Singing the blues is about getting in touch with all the raw feelings, all the pain, and transmuting it into song.

It’s about opening up and sharing your darkest truths.

That takes a lot of courage and vulnerability.

But being emotionally vulnerable is a surefire way to create connection with others.

That’s something Shawn Ginwright has discovered in his 30 years of working with young people who’ve experienced trauma.

The key message here is: Emotional vulnerability is essential for connecting with others, but it requires a safe environment.

As a facilitator, Ginwright knows he has no hope of being able to connect with young people if he’s not honest and open about his emotions – if he’s not “keeping it real.

” And he sees it as his job to create a space, a container, where Black youth have the luxury of letting down their guard and experiencing vulnerability.

But vulnerability is more than emotion; it’s also a structural condition.

Some people are made vulnerable because of their gender or the color of their skin.

Black Americans are structurally vulnerable to poverty, police violence, and housing discrimination.

The young people Ginwright works with are some of the most structurally vulnerable.

On one occasion, he was explaining the concept of post-traumatic stress disorder – or PTSD – to a group of young people from Oakland.

One of the women in the circle stopped him and reminded him that there was nothing “post” about the trauma she experienced in her daily environment.

PTSD suggests that trauma is a discrete incident with an ending.

But so many African American youths live with the persistent stress of poverty, precarious housing, and violence.

They live in persistent traumatic stress environments, where they’re forced to numb their feelings just to survive day-to-day life.

Ginwright wanted to find a way to allow these youth the opportunity to be emotionally vulnerable – even in the face of this daily stress and uncertainty.

So he decided to create an annual summer camp: a safe and nurturing environment where they could take a break.

In that secure environment, the youth he works with finally have the chance to open up, share experiences, and build vital connections through shared vulnerability.

Chapter 8: Black women are told that their labor is more important than their well-being.

Tarana Burke was working harder than ever – even though she was stuck at home in a global pandemic.

As she sat at her desk, dealing with a seemingly endless rotation of emails and Zoom calls, she started to feel exhausted and lay down for an uncharacteristic nap.

But, soon after, she woke up in the grip of panic: the whole right side of her body was completely paralyzed.

After lying there for a while and urging herself to get it together, she finally called out to her daughter.

She was taken to the emergency room, where her doctor revealed she’d had a mild stroke caused by stress.

The key message here is: Black women are taught that their labor is more important than their well-being.

Burke is no stranger to stress and anxiety.

Her earliest memory of having a panic attack is when she was staying over at a friend’s house; she was just seven years old.

The panic attacks followed her to high school, and college, and then into her adult life.

But she became skilled at hiding them.

As soon as she felt dizzy, she’d leave the room.

She practiced appearing emotionally steady, unlike the weak and emotional women her mother had warned her against becoming.

But, sometimes, a crack broke in her seemingly calm facade – like when she was part of the Hurricane Katrina disaster relief efforts and received a phone call that something had happened to her uncle Ted.

She fainted and then started cursing and screaming.

But as soon as she regained her composure, she just pretended that nothing had happened.

Burke was skilled at suppressing her emotions.

But her body revealed them anyway – through the panic attacks, jaw grinding, insomnia, and now the stroke that had paralyzed her right side.

Her neurologist told her that if she wanted to live, she’d have to make drastic changes to her lifestyle.

She was working herself to death.

Burke realized that although she’d spent her life telling other Black women they were intrinsically worthy, she’d never felt that way about herself.

Instead, she’d internalized the oppressive idea that her worth was dependent on how hard she could work.

So she worked through the exhaustion, stress, anxiety, and teeth grinding.

She worked so hard that it took a stroke to actually make her pause.

In order to really heal, Burke would have to start practicing what she’d preached all those years.

She’d have to stop defining herself by her labor and excellence.

She’d have to realize that she was always already enough.

Chapter 9: Violence against trans women is propagated by the historic trauma of Black men.

Laverne Cox is a famous Hollywood actress.

She’s also fearful every time she leaves the house.

Recently, she had to go and pick up a prescription from the pharmacy.

She was recovering from an operation and could only move down the street very slowly.

That scared her; she was used to walking at a brisk pace while scanning for threats.

Now she felt incredibly vulnerable.

Cox has experienced being beaten up, misgendered, and harassed.

Being famous and wealthy hasn’t made her stop fearing this reality on every public street.

This violence stems from generations of historic trauma.

The key message here is: Violence against trans women is propagated by the historic trauma of Black men.

Cox’s great-grandfather was a freed man who was sold back into slavery as a sharecropper.

Her grandfather was born on a plantation, where he was beaten ferociously to force him to work.

He, in turn, beat his wife and children – turning the full force of that violence onto his family home.

Cox’s mother grew up breathing in this intimate family violence, and she was later emotionally abusive toward her own children.

Violence begets violence.

The people who most often murder Black trans women are Black men.

Cox is sometimes told that being trans is a disgrace to the Black race.

She thinks it’s seen as an emasculation of Black men, who’ve already been so emasculated by white supremacy – literally.

In lynchings, Black men’s genitals were often cut off and sold.

As a trans woman, Cox feels this historic trauma is projected onto her.

But being trans isn’t a result of white supremacy.

Trans people existed long before white oppression loaded it with shame.

Internalized transphobia and racism are things that Cox still struggles with herself.

She’s grown up with this intergenerational trauma; the effects are etched into her neural pathways and how she feels in her body.

But she keeps confronting her trauma, fears, and biases when they come up.

As a public figure, she’s also made a commitment to openly talk about these issues.

She knows that acknowledging historic trauma and shame is essential in the fight for racial and gender justice – and to ending the cycle of violence.

Aiko D.

Bethea has used various tactics to armor up in response to the reality of being a Black woman in a racist country.

Chapter 10: Shame resilience allows you to live wholeheartedly in the face of adversity.

She’s tried assimilating, collecting degrees, and increasing her wealth and social status – all as a way of becoming more accepted in a white world.

At other times, she’s tried responding with anger, or fighting off rejection by making it clear she doesn’t need anyone anyway.

And she’s tried hiding: flying under the radar and playing small.

These have sometimes been useful survival strategies, but they’ve also prevented her from living wholeheartedly; they’ve stopped her from sharing her full self with the world.

In order to learn how to express herself in an environment that discriminates against her, Bethea has spent her adult life developing another strategy: shame resilience.

The key message here is: Shame resilience allows you to live wholeheartedly in the face of adversity.

How do you develop shame resilience?

Bethea has identified some key tools.

The first involves confronting white supremacy head-on – and calling it out for what it is.

Reading the works of intellectuals like Audre Lorde, bell hooks, James Baldwin, and Ibram X.

Kendi can provide a framework for deconstructing white supremacy, sexism, and homophobia.

You’ll begin to understand the mechanisms of the oppression, as well as its historical legacy.

Reading and watching the work of Black creatives like Jordan Peele, Lena Waithe, Frank Ocean, and adrienne maree brown yields another essential tool: a way to dream about and imagine the future differently.

The creative visions of these artists validate Black people and present pathways to freedom and new possibilities.

Aside from communing with Black artists and intellectuals, people also need to create in-person spaces for healing.

Bethea’s Sister Circle has been a crucial support in helping her develop shame resilience.

In that circle, she’s able to speak freely, share experiences of oppression, and express her love openly with other Black women.

Last, tapping into your higher calling or purpose is a key tool in developing shame resilience.

This might be through a religious or spiritual belief, or through something else entirely.

What’s important is being able to affirm that you’re part of something bigger – that you have ancestors preceding you and a purpose that transcends the here and now.

Shame resilience allows Black people the space to choose to be vulnerable in environments where they feel supported.

It grants the opportunity to share their stories on their own terms and to live wholeheartedly – even in a world filled with risk.

The key message in this summary is that: White supremacy creates complex experiences of intergenerational trauma for Black Americans, who experience racist violence, microaggressions, and discrimination every day.

Final summary

In order to tackle shame – and internalized oppression – it’s essential to name and dismantle racist systems.

Emotional vulnerability can be experienced only when there is also a feeling of safety, which is why supportive community spaces are so important.

Despite living with fear and adversity, Black Americans have found ways to build resilience and create societies that are filled with joy, connection, and purpose.

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About the Author

Tarana Burke, the founder of the Me Too movement, is an activist who has fought sexual violence and sytemic inequality for the last 25 years. She was named Time magazine’s Person of the Year in 2017.

Brené Brown is a research professor at the University of Houston and the author of five #1 New York Times best sellers, including The Gifts of Imperfection and Daring Greatly.