Being Black and progressive means constantly confronting the reality that many white progressives have not actually deconstructed their relationship to whiteness—they’ve just learned the right language to mask it. The second it becomes more useful for them not to understand concepts like white fragility or tokenism, they revert. They stop listening. They protect their comfort and positioning. And they do so while still claiming the identity of “ally.”

This is why solidarity with white progressives can feel impossible. Because for many of them, understanding racism is optional. It’s a costume they can put on when it’s socially beneficial and take off when it requires sacrifice or self-reflection. Their politics are performative, their surprise at being called out is weaponized, and their unwillingness to sit with discomfort upholds the very systems they claim to oppose. I’ve learned the hard way: shared ideology doesn’t mean shared risk.
Being Black and progressive means constantly confronting the reality that many white progressives have not actually deconstructed their relationship to whiteness—they’ve just learned the right language to mask it. The second it becomes more useful for them not to understand concepts like white fragility or tokenism, they revert. They stop listening. They protect their comfort and positioning. And they do so while still claiming the identity of “ally.”

Especially when it comes to those white progressive “allies” having other friends who haven’t unpacked as quickly. They will always choose the comfort of the people who haven’t learned over the protection of Black and POC folk. They will bring people who are hostile—who are still “working on it”—into safe spaces with their Black allies, not understanding that those people are exactly who we’re trying to defend ourselves from. They don’t see how their neutrality in those moments is complicity, how their desire to keep everyone comfortable puts us directly in harm’s way.

This is why solidarity with white progressives can feel impossible. Because for many of them, understanding racism is optional. It’s a costume they can put on when it’s socially beneficial and take off when it requires sacrifice or self-reflection. Their politics are performative, their surprise at being called out is weaponized, and their unwillingness to sit with discomfort upholds the very systems they claim to oppose. I’ve learned the hard way: shared ideology doesn’t mean shared risk.
And when we speak up—when we name the harm, set boundaries, or question why our safety was compromised—we become the problem. We’re told we’re being divisive, too intense, not understanding enough of where “they’re at.” Our refusal to tolerate harm is reframed as intolerance. Meanwhile, the people who made the space unsafe are protected, centered, and comforted. Again.

This cycle is exhausting. It teaches Black and POC progressives that our well-being is always negotiable, that our inclusion is conditional on silence, on making ourselves smaller for the sake of someone else’s learning curve. These aren’t safe spaces—they’re spaces where we are expected to absorb harm in the name of someone else’s eventual growth. Where our boundaries are secondary to their feelings.

Eventually, we learn. We stop calling everyone ally. We get quiet. We build our own spaces—imperfect, evolving, but honest. Because solidarity that asks us to tolerate harm isn’t solidarity. It’s exploitation with a progressive label. And we deserve more than that.

And the more we build our own spaces, the more we see how deeply ingrained the entitlement is. The same white progressives who failed to protect us now feel excluded when they’re not centered in the communities we build to survive. They claim hurt. They demand access. They ask for forgiveness without accountability, presence without responsibility.

But this is what liberation work demands: not just proximity to the oppressed, but the willingness to decenter oneself entirely. To understand that being shut out of a space built for healing from your harm is not oppression. It’s consequence. It’s the result of repeated breaches of trust and safety, and a refusal to reckon with them.

Real solidarity means stepping back when asked. It means holding your people accountable, not making excuses for them. It means recognizing that your learning doesn’t get to come at our expense. And until that’s understood—until that becomes the norm—many of us will continue to walk away, to protect ourselves, and to find power in community without you. Because survival is not negotiable. And trust, once broken, isn’t easily restored.

And as we walk away, something else becomes clear: the emotional labor we once gave so freely—explaining, softening, mediating—was never sustainable. It was survival strategy disguised as community-building. We were trying to make change while managing white feelings. But liberation doesn’t come through managing anyone’s discomfort. It comes through naming truths without apology, setting boundaries without guilt, and letting go of relationships that depend on our silence.

We stop centering reconciliation and start centering repair. And repair means work—not just intention, but action. Not just self-identification as “anti-racist,” but proof through choices: who gets prioritized, who gets believed, who gets protected when power and harm collide. Because in every moment of tension, the choice is there: to uphold safety for the marginalized, or to preserve comfort for the dominant.

The more we claim space for ourselves, the more we expose the gap between performance and principle. Between allyship as identity and allyship as practice. And that exposure unsettles people who’ve built their progressive credibility on being seen as good. But this work was never about being seen. It was about transformation.

And transformation is uncomfortable. It’s disorienting. It costs relationships, status, belonging. It’s supposed to. Because systems of oppression are held in place by comfort, by the unspoken agreements not to push too hard, not to name things too plainly. So when we name them—when we leave, when we stop explaining—we’re not being unkind. We’re refusing to lie.