Whiteness Is Exhausting. Silence Feels Worse.

I know I’m not the only one who feels it—a deep fatigue around whiteness. I notice it in conversations, in the glances that say, “Are we still talking about this?” Sometimes I even get tired of hearing myself bring it up.

Photo by Keagan Henman on Unsplash

But the truth is, my exhaustion isn’t from talking or writing about whiteness—it’s from living inside it. From feeling how it seeps into nearly everything in the U.S.—our schools, workplaces, politics, media, and faith communities. How it shapes who gets to feel at ease, who’s seen as competent, who’s given the benefit of the doubt.

I notice how whiteness influences me, too—in my sense of self, the way I show up, and the things I was taught to overlook. I witness how it impacts the white folks around me. I’m tired of how heavy it feels in our collective life.

It’s exhausting to live inside something that keeps insisting safety comes from being “on top.” That everyone has an equal shot at getting there—if we just work hard enough, we’ll make it. And if we don’t, well, we must’ve done something wrong. It’s exhausting to live in a world that treats dignity as something we earn rather than something we all already deserve.

Whiteness spins stories to keep us striving and separate. It tells us that some lives are more deserving of ease and care, while others have to prove their value. That individual wealth somehow strengthens the whole, that money and power equal virtue, that control makes us more secure.

Whiteness might not be the only one telling and repeating these kinds of stories—but it’s the one that feels loudest for me.

I am tired. And yet, I can’t stop talking about it. Because silence feels worse.

When I look at the cruelty, the dehumanization, and the fear that fill our headlines and streets—the stripping away of rights, the disregard for human life—I see echoes of the same force that created whiteness in the first place. The same impulse to divide and control. The same logic that justified enslavement, land theft, broken treaties, and mass incarceration.

When I look closer, I also see something else. Moments of resistance. Visions of true freedom and connection.

People remembering that our wellbeing is bound up together. That what happens to one person or one community ripples out to others. That none of us are separate, no matter how hard we try to live like we are.

That’s what keeps me going. Not whiteness itself, but what happens when I face it honestly. When I start to question the things it taught me to accept without thinking.

There’s something alive in that practice. It’s like something loosens—a breath I didn’t know I was holding finally lets go. A small but real taste of freedom that comes from telling the truth about whiteness and working to undo it. Silence never gave me that. Silence just kept me bound to the very thing that was shrinking my humanity.

For a long time, I didn’t see how much I’d bought into whiteness. Not because I meant to cause or uphold harm. Most of the time, I was just doing what I thought I was supposed to do—trying to fit in, striving to succeed, following the rules. And in doing that, I was participating in harm without even meaning to—my intention doesn’t erase impact.

I believed the stories I was told about what makes a “good” life—what success looks like, what kind of person I should be. I didn’t realize how much of that script had been written for me by a system that benefits from my compliance—a system that ultimately works against my own wellbeing. One that keeps me striving but never really at peace.

I couldn’t see how those ideas of goodness and success were rooted in disconnection—from my own values, from community, from the wider web of life I’m part of. How whiteness has always fed on a false sense of scarcity—the belief that freedom is something we can hoard. I didn’t know that the more we cling to that idea of freedom, the less free any of us actually are.

Though I wouldn’t say it, I believed that whiteness was keeping me safe. Now I see that what it really does is separate us—from our own humanity and from each other. How it teaches us to defend an idea instead of protecting one another.

It’s taken time—and plenty of discomfort—to start seeing that the world I was told to chase wasn’t neutral. It was built. And it came at a cost. Once I saw that, I couldn’t unsee it. And once I caught a glimpse of something freer, something more honest and whole—I couldn’t go back.

What I want now is to help take whiteness apart and make space for something more human. Something built on relationship instead of hierarchy. On care instead of control. Because if race and all these other systems—class, gender, capitalism—were made by people, then people can remake them too.

The supposed “benefits” of whiteness for us white folks are fragile anyway. They can vanish in an instant. History has shown how quickly the definition of who counts as “white” shifts when it serves power. Whiteness is not solid ground—it’s a treadmill, always speeding up, demanding more silence, more pretending. No wonder we’re tired.

So no—it’s not the talking or writing about whiteness that wears me down. It’s whiteness itself. The systems, the stories, the endless contortions it requires to keep itself intact.

But here’s the good news—we don’t have to keep feeding it. The fear, the scarcity, the false promises—they’ve had their time. They’re not helping us live better lives or build a better country.

Undoing whiteness isn’t a punishment or a burden. It’s an opening. A doorway to something truer. To more connection. More honesty. More freedom for everyone.

That’s why I keep writing. Keep talking. Keep facing it. Because pretending whiteness isn’t shaping everything won’t make it disappear. But facing it—honestly, together—might help us all breathe a little easier.

And since I’ve been writing about race and walking alongside other white folks for a while, I can almost hear the response coming: “Well, I’m tired of blackness.”

If that’s what rises for you, I’d invite some reflection:

Where in your life are you directly impacted by blackness? How often do you find yourself under black leadership or surrounded by black voices shaping the space you’re in? How much of what you read, watch, or listen to is overwhelmingly led by black people—so much so that there’s little else to choose from? How often does blackness define your opportunities, your safety, or your sense of who you can be?

If reflections come up, I’d truly love to hear them. Honest, curious, respectful engagement is welcome here. This isn’t about shaming—it’s about collective wrestling toward something better.

Because I still believe we can be freer than this.