Recent waves of online harassment made me think about one thing we should leave behind in 2026: The normalized digital harassment of Black women. Earlier this year, a clip from the debate show, BKChat LDN, exploded across social media. In it, a Black male panelist known as Ginga Jay says he doesn’t date Black women because they “don’t like to listen,” then yells at a Black woman to “take off your wig,” and boasts that he’ll “bring [his] natural-hair Indian woman” on set. The men around him laugh; the Black women are furious and humiliated. It’s ugly—and deeply familiar.
But I’m less interested in him than in us—in what it does to Black women and girls to hear, again and again, that we are unintelligent, undesirable, “too much,” too masculine, too fake, too different, too…everything. Online, this is not background noise; it’s a constant. Black women face disproportionate abuse on social platforms, and we’re targeted at higher rates than our white counterparts. This consistent flood of hostility not only impacts our mental health but also narrows the space where we get to be fully human. And that loss is particularly cruel given that Black women were among the pioneers of online culture, building digital communities, shaping trends, and creating space for themselves long before the platforms recognized their value.
I am a clinical psychologist who studies colorism, gendered racism, and their health impacts. In my field, there’s a name for the online vitriol Black women experience: misogynoir. The phenomenon refers to anti-Black misogyny, a term coined by scholar Moya Bailey to describe how racism and sexism fuse in our lives, especially in digital culture. The science is clear: repeated gendered racial microaggressions, such as being labeled “angry,” “masculine,” or “unfeminine,” are linked to higher levels of depression, anxiety, and trauma symptoms among Black women. What made the BKChat clip so hurtful wasn’t just the content; it was the pile-on of every tired trope at once. “Act like men.” “You cheat.” “Your hair is fake.” That last one hit a raw nerve because it taps texturism and colorism, the centuries-old devaluation and policing of our hair, texture, and shade.
There’s also a quieter harm here: Black women’s anger is policed, then pathologized. When we respond with rage to humiliation, we’re told we’re proving the stereotype. Many of us therefore perform composure, swallowing our feelings to avoid the “angry” label—what researchers call the Strong Black Woman or Superwoman schema. It can be adaptive in the moment, but over time, that constant emotional labor is associated with anxiety, depression, and neglect of self-care. In therapy and community, I invite Black women to move beneath the rage: into the sadness and grief that come when strangers publicly chant that your hair, your body, your very self are unacceptable. Grief is not weakness; it’s truth-telling, and it’s healing.
If you’re tempted to digital harassment as “just the internet,” consider scale and exposure. Amnesty International’s analysis found Black women were 84% more likely than white women to be mentioned in abusive or problematic tweets. That’s not a couple of bad actors; it’s a digital ecosystem intentionally designed to harass Black women. Expectedly, consistent harassment impacts all aspects of mental health, including self-esteem, body image, risk for depressive symptoms, and even suicidality among Black girls, which has been rising at alarming rates.
To be clear: Black women are not broken by attacks or viral clips. We are, and always have been, resourceful, funny, brilliant, and loving beyond measure. There is no one “correct” way to be a Black woman, and Black women do not have to earn their worthiness. We are worthy by default. However, knowing all of this does not negate the harm of the moment.
We know that not everyone feels this way about Black women. However, private disagreement does not remedy the broader pattern of collective digital harassment Black women face. To address the collective harm, we must engage in tangible solutions for collective healing.
- Producers and platforms must stop treating misogynoir as a ratings strategy and ensure the presence of zero-tolerance harassment policies and trauma-informed facilitation.
- Editors and outlets should commission Black women—especially clinicians and scholars—to write about the effects of these spectacles, not just the spectacle itself.
- Clinicians, schools, and youth programs should build media-coping curricula for girls: name misogynoir, practice boundary-setting online, and teach somatic tools for when the timeline turns toxic.
- Families and partners: ask the Black women in your life not “What’s your clapback?” but “How’s your heart?”—and truly listen.
And to my sisters: your feelings are valid. You’re not “too sensitive.” You are having a normal reaction to abnormal cruelty. Take breaks. On social media, mute and block liberally. Choose a trusted friend to text before you doom-scroll. If the sadness keeps sitting on your chest, please reach out to a culturally responsive therapist or support space. You deserve care, not a thicker skin.
These types of moments will pass. The message we send to Black girls will not. Let it be this: You are never too much or not enough. You are allowed to feel all the feelings. You are perfect and worthy of love—all the time, and no matter what.