By Laura Onyeneho
Growing up as a child of Nigerian immigrants, I was raised with a clear vision of success meant for them. Like many others who came to the United States, my parents had a goal. They arrived in the 80s, determined to go to college, establish themselves, and care for their family back home. They believed in the American Dream—go to school, get a good job, work hard, start a family, buy a house, and eventually retire. This was the blueprint for a successful life, and they expected nothing less for their children.
I vividly remember my father reminding my siblings and me how blessed we were to be born and raised in the U.S. “You have opportunities here that we never had,” he’d say, stopping at any chance to remind us that immigrants always have something to prove. They carried the weight of the families they left behind on their shoulders, working three times as hard to make it in this country. They wanted us to appreciate the sacrifices they made to continue their legacy of hard work and perseverance.
But as my generation grew up, we saw the cracks in that dream. My parents, well into their 60s, are still working as hard as they did when they arrived. The times have changed—technology has advanced, society and culture have evolved, and the economy has shifted. Yet, their approach to success remains rooted in a relentless work ethic, often at the expense of their well-being.
Many millennials, like myself, looked at their struggle and said, “Aht aht, not today, and not ever.” The exhaustion, the overworking in a capitalist system that never seems to reward you enough, the endless bills—what kind of life is that? We want to put ourselves in a better position to avoid the exhaustion that our parents experienced. But in doing so, we face the question of what Black excellence means to us.
There’s an unspoken rule that Black people, especially in America, have to be exceptional to be considered successful. We’ve been conditioned to believe mediocrity isn’t an option and that we must always strive to be the best in whatever we do. I was proud to be in spaces nobody expected me to be in because I felt like I was supposed to be, but then what? So, if you miss the mark, what does that make me? Not excellent?
During the devastating global pandemic and after a “racial reckoning” that left more promises of hope and change unfulfilled, more Black folk are realizing that Black Excellence is a setup.
Statistics confirm that Black women, in particular, are leaving traditional 9-to-5 jobs at staggering rates. Some are quitting the corporate world to find happiness elsewhere, tired of toxic workplaces where they are underpaid and undervalued. The Great Resignation allows Black women to redefine excellence on their terms, but it’s not always by choice.
Black people are choosing peace of mind over thankless servitude—no matter how excellent the jobs look on paper, a pat on the back these days equates to more work. However, regardless of how hard Black people work, the workforce’s expectation of perfection without reward still disproportionately negatively impacts us. We remain at the bottom even if we break through hurdles. What’s the point of being a rat on a treadmill? Moving and not going anywhere at the same time?
The pandemic was a hard reset for me, a moment to rethink what success means. Black Excellence has evolved into a show for white validation, even though it began as a reclaiming of our power. During Black History Month, we parade our achievements as proof that we have survived despite the “isms” that still stigmatize us, but we need to do better to talk about how much of who we are we have to give up to be accepted for who we are.
True success should be about thriving, not just surviving. It’s about finding joy, peace, and fulfillment in our lives, not just checking boxes on a societal checklist. Our parents dreamed big for us, but it’s time for us to dream even bigger—for a life that values our humanity as much as our accomplishments.
