The Fear and Anxiety of Raising a Black Son in America
I can teach him to be respectful, to keep his hands visible, to comply when necessary—but none of these lessons guarantee his safety. How do you explain to a child that sometimes even doing everything right may not protect you?
As a mother, the world outside our home often feels like a battlefield, and each day brings a wave of anxiety and fear that I struggle to contain. While I have my own set of worries navigating life in America, the fear I have for my son is far greater. The weight of raising a Black son in this country is overwhelming, and it keeps me up at night wondering if I’ve done enough to prepare him for the challenges he will face simply because of the color of his skin.
I remember before he was born, the excitement I felt imagining all the joys of motherhood—the laughter, the milestones, the love. But as he grew older, that innocent excitement became clouded with the sobering reality of what it means to be Black in America. The heartache hit me in waves, and now, every time he steps outside the four walls of our home, I can't help but wonder if he’ll make it back safe.
There is a constant tension in my heart, a silent battle between wanting to trust the world with my child and knowing that the world has not always been kind to boys who look like him. In a world that often sees him as a threat, I fear for his safety, not because of what he might do but because of how he might be perceived.
I can teach him to be respectful, to keep his hands visible, to comply when necessary—but none of these lessons guarantee his safety. How do you explain to a child that sometimes even doing everything right may not protect you? How do I send him out each day knowing the danger could come from something as simple as the color of his skin?
This fear isn't just about potential encounters with law enforcement, though that is a significant part of it. It’s about the systemic biases that will follow him into classrooms, jobs, and social settings. It's about the harsh realities of being judged before being known. I can only hope that he encounters more love than judgment and more compassion than suspicion.
And as I write this piece, my heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s about to leave my chest. The fear is palpable, and it's hard to even breathe at times. The only thing that gets me through is constant prayer. Each time he walks out that door, my heart follows him, and I find myself in a never-ending cycle of prayers—prayers for his protection, for his safety, for his safe return. There’s a certain peace I find in that moment, handing my worries over to something greater than myself because, as a mother, I’ve done all I can. But the fear still lingers, tucked away in the corners of my mind, surfacing when I least expect it.
No parent should have to live in fear for their child simply because of who they are. Yet, here I am, clinging to hope, trusting that my prayers will carry him through.