Single, Black, Female. A powerful paradigm ahead of its time.

Lately, I’ve noticed more prominent white women in mainstream media, and women from various other communities, openly speaking about decentring men: choosing to raise children alone, or not having children at all, embracing independence, and prioritising their own fulfilment. An interview with Sharon Stone recently came to mind, in which she spoke about stepping away from relationships and finding contentment in her autonomy. This perspective has been hailed as revolutionary, ultra-feminist, and a significant societal shift.

Many of our grandmothers lived in an era where they couldn't open a bank account without their husband’s permission, were barred from certain industries, and were expected to play supportive roles rather than be primary breadwinners. But at the turn of the 21st century, women in many parts of the West have gained greater financial power, career opportunities, and social autonomy, thus significantly reducing their reliance on men.

Studies and discussions now suggest that, particularly in Western society, more women are prioritising their independence and moving away from traditional relationships for the sake of their mental and emotional well-being. This shift has fundamentally altered relationship dynamics, reshaping how men and women engage with one another in modern society.

We see the emergence of radical movements like the 4B movement in South Korea, which advocates for women to reject heterosexual relationships, marriage, and childbirth as a form of resistance against patriarchy. We see a surge in female-led podcasts and conversations where women openly talk about the emotional toll relationships with men often take, particularly the unequal burden of domestic labour and childcare.

Studies indicate that single women report higher levels of happiness and life satisfaction compared to married women, and tend to live longer, healthier lives than their married counterparts.

Yet, while mainstream feminism now applauds white and other women for decentring men and reclaiming their autonomy, historically, Black women in the diaspora—who have had to do the same—have been actively criticised, ridiculed, and pathologised. The very qualities now hailed as empowerment, have long been used to shame and demonise Black women.

Even when they have no children, when they choose to be single, the independence of Black women has been positioned as some kind of failing.

As a sort of rebuttal to society's critique, I grew up hearing Black women in hip-hop declare their independence, sexual agency, expression, and power long before it was seen as empowering for women to be so daring. I heard voices like Sister Souljah speaking on the social conditions and political structures responsible for shaping the so-called “baby mama” culture. I read books by legends like Zora Neale Hurston and Toni Morrison, and others who wrote courageously about the generational traumas—like sexual violence and fractured relationships—that were byproducts of slavery and its legacy. These authors documented what mainstream narratives often ignore: that the prevalence of single motherhood in Black communities across the diaspora is the result of deeply entrenched historical and structural factors.

But instead of being explored with nuance, it’s easier, and more convenient, for lazy, agenda-driven journalism to frame Black women as the problem. This harmful depiction filters through the media and into society’s collective perception of Black womanhood.

For years, Black women have been cast as the antithesis of femininity. They're labelled “too strong,” “too independent,” and “unwilling to submit”. Their choosing to raise children alone, out of wedlock, and refusing to tolerate disrespect, has been showcased as a betrayal of womanhood, a sort of degradation of femininity. And it’s easy to see why.

Through the lens of the Western male gaze, femininity is defined by fragility, vulnerability, and dependence on men. By that logic, Black women—many of whom exist loudly and proudly as matriarchs—are seen as deviating from true womanhood, and therefore unworthy of the respect and protection afforded to women from other communities.

Sidenote: Isn’t it strange that men are rarely scrutinised for their absence, while women are relentlessly questioned for their presence as single mothers? The weight of blame always seems to fall on the woman. She should have "chosen better," as if she had the power to foresee betrayal, abandonment, or failure. Instead of holding absent fathers accountable, society fixates on the woman, demanding explanations, shaming her choices, and making single motherhood her burden alone. Especially when she's black.

So, girls, what are we really saying? Are we celebrating all women who go at it alone—or only some? Because the double standards are wild!

And just to make it clear, single motherhood isn’t unique to Black women. It isn’t some failure of culture or morals. It’s a reality that affects people across all racial and ethnic backgrounds. The only difference is who gets publically shamed for it.

And maybe, just maybe, the real reason society is so bothered by single Black mothers isn’t because they have children out of wedlock. That happens in every community. The real problem is that, despite everything, they do not shrink. They do not wallow in shame. They do not retreat into the shadows, heads bowed, waiting for approval. Black women raise children, build businesses, get degrees, and create legacies, all while being told that their existence is a crisis.

As most of us know, very few women choose to raise a family alone. But when that becomes reality, I’m proud to be part of a community of women who survive and thrive—raising their children with resilience and unapologetically flipping the middle finger to societal judgement.

As I mentioned earlier, what’s often ignored is how Black women in the diaspora came to be in this position in the first place. The reasons are layered, deeply nuanced, and vast—unpacking even a fraction of them could turn into a thesis. So I won’t bother. A quick Google search will lead you to books, journals, and essays that explore it in depth. Only a fool reduces it to a cultural issue instead of a structural one. Only a fool ignores the evidence of historical discrimination, economic inequality, restrictive immigration policies, and the cascading effects of black male mass incarceration and systemic racism. The list goes on. But that’s not what this post is about.

This is about giving single, Black women—particularly single Black mothers—their flowers.

Long before terms like “decentring,” “personal autonomy,” and “independence” were trending, before they were rebranded as progressive or empowering, Black women were living them out. And I know it has never been ideal. I know no one wants to go at it alone. But I feel immense pride for the many women I’ve known, from childhood to now, who have done it, and done it brilliantly.

I think of my friend’s mother, who raised four children on her own. Today, all of them are thriving—well-educated, grounded, and successful. Defying the stereotypes about children raised by single parents. If I’m being honest, I know more successful adults raised by single mothers than the media would ever let you believe.

So this post is for those women, to honour and celebrate them.

Thank you for your strength. Your resilience. Your dedication. They may not mention our communities when they discuss female autonomy, power, and success, but those of us who were raised in these homes know just how phenomenal our mothers, aunts, cousins, and neighbours were.

We know what they endured. We know what they sacrificed. We know the judgement they faced. And while they may never get the spotlight or applause, we see them.

And they are deeply appreciated.