Excellence — An Armor That Can't Protect You

Today's Take: Perfection has never been our protection.

For community consideration — three recent, distinct stories that give voice to the cumulative challenges Black high-achievers can face in pursuit of flourishing throughout the professional lifecycle. Taken together, they bring attention to the structural barriers — the artificial limitations — that, left unchecked, can confine our ability to flourish and create an unnatural absence in spaces where we’d otherwise belong and thrive. Moreover, they demonstrate the real costs of having to do everything right just to get ahead, and the harm that comes when doing everything right still can’t protect us.

In mid-July, news broke that only three Black students were accepted into Stuyvesant, New York’s premier college preparatory high school, and one Black student was accepted into Staten Island Tech’s incoming class of nearly 300. Citywide, just 140 of 4,023 specialized high school offers — about 3.5% — went to Black students, who make up nearly a fifth of New York’s public school enrollment.

While there have been calls to reform admission criteria, which are determined solely by the Specialized High School Admissions Test (SHSAT), the question worth examining in the interim is what assumptions about the absence of Black students in that environment get reinforced and reproduced as a result?

When Black representation is missing or limited in high-achieving environments, the implication is that we aren’t capable — that we don’t belong. That is a questionable and oversimplified framing, of course, but messages don’t have to be true to do harm. Further, the harm doesn’t just touch the people who don’t get in the room — it also has a significant impact on those of us who do.

So often gaining access into elite spaces is framed as a win. But for Black high-achievers, winning comes at a distinct cost. Students, who have done everything right — done the work and passed the test — will still have to contend with the extra pressures that come with being one of very few. Their difference will make them more visible. Their visibility will invite more scrutiny. Their ability to blend in will be non-existent, so their presence and their absence will be more noticeable. They will also have to manage the burden of explanation — the unrealistic external expectation that they can and will explain themselves and translate their culture to others in satisfying ways. Extra visibility, extra scrutiny, extra labor, with absolutely no extra credit.

College-bound students looking to avoid these challenges often choose to attend Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs), which offer a decidedly different experience. Within these majority-Black spaces, Black culture is the default — the everyday standard — and an assumption of safety comes with that. So, when Howard University reportedly unenrolled over 500 incoming students whose tuition payments remained in dispute after the deadline — less than two weeks before they were to arrive — the decision was met with confusion, heartbreak, and criticism.

But what the Howard situation truly exposes is what it looks like for students to navigate a new and foreign system with unrealistic expectations of precision and near perfection — even in what they expect to be the safest of environments. The constant concern that a single mistake could cost everything isn’t imagined — it’s a very real aspect of the Black high-achiever experience that we know all too well. A concern that can harden us in harmful and counterproductive ways.

The reality is that perfection is not protection. We can do everything right, meet every expectation set before us, and still find ourselves unprotected. Social climates change, company ownership changes, organizational leaders change — these are things most people have no control over. What’s different is the predictable greater impact these shifts have on Black professionals, whose unemployment reached 6.6% in June 2026 — nearly twice the 3.6% rate for white workers. We earn our way into the rooms but have no guarantee that they will be safe, or permanent.

So, what most of us are confronting in this moment, is the truth about our power relative to our circumstances. That isn’t a “woe is me” framing, it’s pragmatic realism — based on solid evidence — that can motivate us to invest in ourselves.

Former NFL player, Ryan Clark, was suddenly let go from his role as an ESPN commentator amid the layoffs that followed ESPN’s acquisition of NFL Network. The unexpected news shocked Clark, his ESPN colleagues, and his fans, especially given his indisputable knowledge and talent. However, Clark spent the better part of the last three years building his own successful podcast brand, The Pivot, so he has something of his own to fall back on.

Clark used The Pivot platform to share details about his dismissal and the impact it is having on him — noting with sadness that he “adjusted who [he] was to try to keep his job.” He also discussed the tension he experienced as a result of loving his job at ESPN and also loving and speaking up for his community. Here we see the true cost that comes with the burden of explanation. When the explanation isn’t satisfying, others can experience it as a threat.

These three stories highlight the hardships that Black professionals face when they define success by external measures. What if Black students accept that only an exceptional few of them belong in the best public schools in New York? What if students believe they will lose everything if they are human and imperfect? What if Black professionals believe they must stay silent in rooms because speaking their truth could cost them their access? Unfortunately, these are not what-ifs — they are everyday realities.

The truth is, as Dori Tunstall argues in her recent essay, success isn’t freedom for most of us. Instead, it’s a constant and perpetual performance ritual. One where we trade our authenticity for access and hope the rules don’t suddenly change. Or alternatively, we lean into our authenticity until it becomes too much for others in the room to handle.

So, we make two moves. First, we stay rooted — knowing who we are and the value we bring is inherent and internal, not defined by external measures or expectations. Black genius exists within New York City public schools; a test score doesn’t make that any more or less true. Missing a deadline doesn’t make Black students less worthy of attending Howard University, whether they are unenrolled or not. And Black excellence isn’t dictated, defined, or rescinded by an employment contract with ESPN. Our worth can’t be determined by such fragile measures.

From there, we pivot and build our own. Clark’s media legacy is just beginning because he invested in building a space where he can be real and where the people who support, value, and match that realness can come along for the ride — partners, fans, and brands. When we build our own, we do more than just ensure individual safety nets — we create spaces where we are never alone, don’t have to perform, and are surrounded by genuine community.

So, let’s stay rooted, support those building, and get building ourselves, my friends.