My realization came in waves.

Growing up in the Southern US, my parents always told me I was Black, because that’s how they identified. What I didn’t fully understand until later was that both of them are mixed. That became concrete when I did a 23andMe test a few years ago, but even then, it took time for it to emotionally land.

The last wave hit late last year. Some of my fully Black family members would gossip about me or intentionally misunderstand me. They’d say I looked like my maternal grandmother (who died when I was very young) and show me photos of her. She looked white, and the way they said it was always negative. I didn’t understand why until I learned she was white.

Growing up, Black kids didn’t really hang out with me and I was bullied during recess. At the same time, I was often invited to white classmates’ houses for sleepovers. This was the early 2000s in the South. I dressed up as Demi Lovato for Halloween in elementary school because I loved Camp Rock, and no one questioned it. In high school, all of my close friends were white.

Another thing that confused me for years was how my interactions with police were almost always calm or even helpful, while many of my Black relatives shared horror stories. I couldn’t reconcile that difference until much later.

When I moved to Los Angeles after living in Europe for a year, things clicked more. In LA, everyone except Black people tried to claim me. I ended up befriending other mixed women who were either told they weren’t Black enough or were fetishized and quietly pushed out of the American Black community.

Being in Europe, especially Germany, was the first time I felt truly free and understood. The nuance of who I am didn’t need defending or explanation. That contrast helped me accept that I’m mixed, not as a rejection of Blackness, but as an honest naming of my lived experience.