Black Girl Swim Club

Hey Siri, Find Your Wings X Tyler The Creator.

Hey Siri, Find Your Wings X Tyler The Creator.

Swim with the Current

I’ve always had this aversion to water. Particularly when it comes to submerging my face. Swimming as a leisurely activity has never made sense to me. And now, at age thirty, I can say with full confidence, I do not swim for fun.

Due to a traumatic experience as a toddler, swimming has always been about survival.

I don’t have any memory of what happened. As my parents tell it, another kid pushed me into the baby pool or held me down. Something that got their daddy rocked, haha.

But my body remembers. It holds the fear like a reflex.

I can’t even stand under a shower head and let the water run over my face. My crazy ass stands backward, facing the wall, head tilted like I’m rinsing shame off a statue. It’s wholly inefficient, but otherwise my breaths get shallow and scattered.

When I try to stand directly under the water, my chest tightens like an elephant is sitting on it. I can hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, loud and erratic, like it’s trying to warn me. My toes curl, gripping for stability on slick tile. Every muscle in my body braces. I’m afraid to open my eyes. Afraid something will go wrong if I do. My brain prepares for death.

After many failed attempts at swimming lessons, at twenty-six I took a water survival course. And wahhh laa, I developed the skill. I still insist I do not swim for fun. But now, I can save myself. And I can save a kid if needed.

But let’s be clear. Swimming is a survival skill.

Those who cannot swim sink. Drown. Then die.
Swimming is not optional in life, whether you find pleasure in it or not.
You need the skill of swimming to survive.
But swimming alone does not save you.

There’s a reason swim lessons never stuck for me and water survival did.
Because it’s not about grace. It’s not about perfect circumstances.
It’s about staying calm, and ultimately alive when your body is screaming.

There was no instructor asking if I felt ready. There was no easing into the shallow end. No slow build. I learned to swim in deep water, fully clothed, heart pounding, fear rising in my throat, the option to sink synonymous with death.
It was never about technique. It was about survival.

And that difference follows me.

Especially in rooms with no water at all. 

Can you swim?
Can you tread water?
Can you float long enough?

Three hours and forty minutes.

That’s how long it took RMS Carpathia to reach the site after the Titanic sent out its distress call.

Are you keeping up?

Because I’m not speaking literally anymore. We will come back to this in a few. Hold that thought. 

The Function of Your Career

Let’s get something straight. Work is not meant to be your source of happiness, love, joy, or purpose. It can be. And if you’re one of those lucky few? God bless you.

For the rest of us, I’m introducing my 70/30 Rule.

Seventy percent of your work week should feel content. Not thrilling. Not magical. Not life-affirming. Just... manageable. Functional. Like you can do the job without losing your mind. 

Because who the hell actually likes working, let alone loves it?

Your salary needs to be competitive enough that you do not care too much about what you’re feeling during that other thirty percent.You’ll need the resources to fill your life with meaning from 5-9pm. 

You need a life outside your career. A full one. With real interests, deep connections, hobbies, rest, joy, and purpose that is not attached to a job title, a paycheck, or a LinkedIn headline.

I’m speaking from experience, diva.

Do not confuse who you are with what you do for money. That is how America keeps you spinning. Hustling. Performing. Chasing a carrot. Not because you actually  want the carrot. But because you’ve convinced yourself it’s the only way to matter.

That is how you end up with what I call “And Then” Syndrome.

And then I’ll be happy.

And then I’ll start dating.

And then I’ll sign up.

And then I’ll go.
And then I’ll move.
And then I’ll take a break.
And then I’ll live.

But you look up, and it’s been years.
Years of shrinking your joy into weekends and PTO requests.
Years of waiting for a title or a salary to give you permission to be whole.

Your career is not your identity.
It is a tool. A means to an end.

A resource.
A way to fund the life you actually want. Nothing more unless YOU want that. 

That is the function of a career.
Not to own you. Not to define you. And certainly not to delay your joy.

Since you need permission so damn bad to start living, here it is. You have it.

As the old church folks say, “What if tomorrow never comes?”
Stop putting your life on layaway for a conglomerate.

We give our work persona too much. I’ll take ownership of how miserable I was while living in Winston, North Carolina. It is, without a doubt, the most drab place I have ever encountered. But two things can be true at once. The town of Winston was bleak, and I had no personal business.

The only “friend” I made was my nail tech. Hey Jessica, girl. We got on great, I am not obtuse. I was paying for quality time. I would commute forty-five minutes to the office, drive back home, smoke, walk my dog, and go to sleep. That was my life. A rinse and repeat cycle. Of course I was miserable. I was functionally depressed. There were days I called out of work to cry.

At the time, I was completely isolated in the office. The only Black woman in a sea of middle-aged country white men and deeply homely white women who had definitely never heard of Hanifa,Tracee Ellis Ross,  and were still buying their foundation from the neighborhood Mary Kay lady.

You can imagine how fast I went from pet to threat once I started working full-time in person.

I was coming off a nasty layoff, so I was genuinely excited to have a regular paycheck and some stability. But let me be clear. I am about to make it about race.

And if you are a white woman reading this, a few of you already understand. Before you decide to shut down or look away, know this. It is always about race.

My Blackness shapes how the world interacts with me.
My Blackness shapes how I react to the world.

That’s all I am going to explain. It is a privilege I even shared that much insight.

Day one in the office. I am feeling it. Fresh pixie, Ruby Woo lipping, cute and smart casual in my Gucci platform slide. Then I hear this aggravating voice say, “Interesting outfit! Where is your belt from?” doing that fake ass no teeth smile. You know the one!

Again, my Blackness shapes how I react to the world. I am in their office. So I smile and ask what she means by “Where is it from.” Because heaux, are you cool? I won’t waste my characters describing her. Use your imagination and know I was everything she was not in that office. 

She laughs it off and says, “Oh I am so sorry. I guess it is a real belt by your response. They did say you’re from Atlanta. I could never spend that on a belt.”

Right then I knew.

This was a room with no water but somehow still full of water.
And I would need to swim. For three hours and forty minutes. Maybe more.

I called my mama that night. I knew I wasn’t crazy. It was in her tone, her word choice, her body language.

One thing about Pennsylvania? The racism is overt. My preference. Just call me the slur. Hard ER. Say the ugly thing with your chest. Give me that good ol’ Perry County racism. I like to know when I’m in enemy territory.

That office? It was death by microaggression. My entire year was riddled with them.

Everything was an issue.
Me taking my lunch on a different floor.
Me not joining for drinks after hours.
Even my email headshot.

They tore me up every quarter during evaluations, and it was never about the quality of my work.

If I had a dollar for every time I was told I wasn’t a “cultural fit” because I didn’t socialize after hours, I could buy myself the entire Hanifa Resort Collection.

Which brings me to #PinkBlazerGate.

#PinkBlazerGate

It was very silly to me from the start. When I joined this company which shall not be named, HR asked for a headshot to introduce me in the team newsletter. I had the perfect picture. Or so I thought.

I also sent a little blurb. Strategically crafted—just enough to seem interesting, but not enough to invite questions. I’ve mastered the art of sharing nothing in the workplace. I do not want people in my business.

An hour later, I got a ping asking for a “more professional” photo. I was confused, but not lost. I knew exactly what that meant.

The current was already sweeping me out to sea, and I knew I would be treading water for months. I wasn’t in a position to resign. I had no fuck you money. I would have to stay afloat just long enough to reach the next job.

Want to see the photo?
Here you go. 

They really had me fucked up!

Told you we’d circle back to the metaphorical survival skill of swimming. That office tested my endurance, my mental agility, and my ability to smile while sinking. I wasn’t swimming. I was TREADING.

My head barely broke the surface. I kept my breathing slow and deep, not for calm, but for conservation. Panic takes energy. I could not afford that.

I moved my hands just beneath the water, sweeping side to side like tired windshield wipers. Not to get anywhere, just to stay visible. Just to stay upright.

My legs circled beneath me in silent choreography. No splashing. No showing off. Just steady, invisible effort. I even had to control my heart rate. Could not let it spike. Could not let the water know I was struggling.

That is the thing about treading. It looks like nothing from above. But it demands everything.

Clocking into an office as a Black woman? The environment is less “community swimming pool” and more open ocean. Unlike a pool, it’s unpredictable. Freezing temperatures. Rip currents. Jellyfish that sting you when you least expect it, while sharks circle, already smelling blood in the water.

First, the temperature drops. You speak. Nothing. Just a long pause like the Wi-Fi cut out. Moments later, a man repeats your idea with less clarity, no strategy, and more volume, and suddenly muthafuckers can hear. You get used to the chill. The half-heard thoughts. The extra follow-up decks to approve the project. The constant toggling between polite and passionate.

Women who win in these rooms learn how to warm the space. When to speak and when to let silence work for them. How to manufacture rapport with people they know they’re smarter than. How to babysit egos while staying sharp, strategic, and absolutely uncompromising.  How to command respect without demanding it. How to balance adoration and quiet resentment…sometimes in the same breath.

When the pull starts. You think you are moving forward, but the current is dragging you sideways. Performance reviews get vague. You are told to soften your tone or be more collaborative, right after leading the project that saved the quarter. Your résumé read impressive, but your presence reads disruptive. You are not the kind of employee they thought they were getting. You are prepared. Strategic. Direct. Well dressed.Hard to read.

And that makes them uncomfortable

Now they’re not questioning your competence. They’re negotiating their comfort, as your overperformance sheds light on their mediocrity they’ve whole heartily thought was the baseline for excellence when in reality their community adjusts the grading curve to bend the world to serve their reality.

They start adjusting. Not themselves, but the room.

Meetings get tighter.
Praise gets quieter.
Your name disappears from emails but your work keeps showing up in decks.

Suddenly collaboration means re-explaining your choices to people who barely did the reading. They pile on excess admin, not to support the work but to weigh you down. To make your spirit too heavy to tread and too exhausted to swim.

They do not say they are threatened, but the shifts are too specific to ignore. It is a quiet reordering meant to protect ego and maintain hierarchy. Not the company org chart, the emotional one. The one where their confidence stays intact by keeping yours small and making sure no one else experiences your brilliance. 

A work experience like the one I described can break a person, especially someone early in their career. I was able to tread for so long because I was trained. Unlike my experience swimming in literal water, I had ideal conditions and calm, nurturing instructors who asked if I felt ready.

But they did not ease me into the shallow end. This wild woman took me out past the rope at the beach, fully clothed, heart pounding, fear rising in my throat, and told me to swim back to shore.

I contemplated.
I treaded water, weighing my options.
She started swimming back to shore. I hesitated, then followed.

Then again, before I could catch my breath, I met another wild woman who pulled me onto her back and took me beyond the rope, three times farther than before. Fully clothed, already exhausted, salt burning my eyes, she handed me goggles and told me to swim back to shore.

And I did. No hesitation. I put on the goggles and followed her.

With my vision clear, everything shifted. The waves no longer felt like chaos, but rhythm. I could see what I was moving through. I adjusted my strokes, found my pace, and started gliding. The ocean had not changed, but now I knew how to move in it.

I paused to float. Letting myself feel the beauty and the triumph of swimming this far.

Before I can turn around and head back to shore, I meet another wild woman who says, “You’ve really got the hang of swimming.” Then she tells me to swim toward the sun. Says when I feel like stopping, don’t. Just keep swimming.

I pause to evaluate. Thinking to myself, can I really swim that far?

I have to vet this. I start asking every question. What’s beyond the sun? Has she been? How far is it really?

She does not explain. She hands me flippers.

And we swim together. She guides me through rip currents and freezing temperatures, sharks circling us, jellyfish stinging her more than me.

My swim instructors were Black women. Black women managers who shifted the trajectory of my career. Some of the first non-familial hands laid to the clay, helping shape my identity as a woman.

God told me! *Plays Dr. Dorinda Clark Cole Red dresses tiktok*

Each time I thought I had made it to shore, another Black woman met me in the water and showed me there was further to go.

Gab didn’t rescue me.  Mandi trained me. Tahani took me through rough currents. Virtually Myleik handed me tools when I was tired (Need to keep swimming? Please checkout MyTaughtYou podcast).

Black women like Necole Kane,  showed me how to adjust my stroke, how to breathe differently, how to see clearly. They didn’t just help me survive. They stretched my vision. Made me braver.

Black women reminded me that I was never meant to stay near the shore. Never underestimate the power of a sponsor, mentor, and friend.

I am a living prayer. That is mostly God’s favor, and partly the result of me being a wild woman with just enough audacity to believe I can bend the world to my will.

As I sit here, poolside in Phoenix, on PTO, sipping a mocktail and negotiating a new title and pay increase almost exactly one year to the day, I can’t help but reflect. So many moments, so many women, so many swims brought me here. And if you are reading this, I want to encourage you.

I don't think anyone pretends on purpose. We all desire realness.

In the pursuit of finding themselves, some people try on personalities like skin. Others play Frankenstein, collecting characteristics and piecing together the best parts of their favorite people.

But the ones sent to guide you can’t recognize what you have become. Your patchwork self will not fit through the doors that were custom built for your original being.

Is it clicking now? You have to be yourself. You don’t have to try. Just be.

That is my career advice.
That is my confidence course.

Once you return to yourself, the doors that matter start recognizing you. The obsessive need to control how people see you begins to loosen its grip. The urge to over-explain, over-perform, or over-edit starts to fade. You stop bending to fit rooms that were never meant to hold all of you, and instead, you start walking into spaces like you belong—because you do.

So with that I ask you again. In rooms with no water at all. 

Can you swim?
Can you tread water?
Can you float long enough?

Three hours and forty minutes.


Xoxo,

The Cool Girl Karmen