“You Are Your Best Thing” isn’t just another book about vulnerability and shame; it’s a heartfelt collaboration between two powerful voices, Tarana Burke and Brené Brown. Their goal? To create a space where Black voices could share their stories of vulnerability, resilience, and healing without fear or judgment.

Tarana Burke, founder of the #MeToo movement, takes the lead as the primary author of this project. The idea behind this book came after the #SharetheMic campaign in 2020. This happened during a time of social unrest following the deaths of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. It was strange to Tarana how the conversations centered on ‘making white people antiracist,’ as it seemed to ignore the real impact on Black lives and the need to talk about Black humanity. 

When Tarana decided to reach out to Brené – a longtime friend and expert in trauma, she was unsure at first, but she eventually did. She wanted to explore how shame resilience applies to Black experiences; how shame, vulnerability and trauma in Black experiences are added with extra dosage, thanks to systemic racism. And Brené was supportive right away. She admitted that, even though she tried to include diverse voices in her work, some Black people still felt distant from it, as her research often came from her own privileged middle-class white perspective. She even shares an anecdote from her book "The Gifts of Imperfection," where she chose to support her daughter’s joyful dance over societal judgment. She recognized that the same scenario would have posed different challenges for a Black mother. This highlighted the need to view shame resilience through the Black lens.

What makes this collaboration even more heartfelt is how Brené chose to support it. Instead of focusing on herself, she diverted her share of the profits from the book to support Black storytellers. Isn’t that inspiring? Together, they created a space where shame doesn’t silence Black experiences; where stories can uplift and inspire. 

Here, we present seven powerful stories from this collection where Black storytellers – artists, intellectuals, parents and activists speak their truth, reclaim their stories, and, in doing so, uplift others.

First story coming your way…

Her life had been colored by shame from an early age. She felt it in her dark skin, broad nose, and body size. As she grew older, shame followed into her identity: for not attending prestigious schools, struggling to provide for her six children from four different men. This shame didn’t just weigh her down emotionally; it manifested physically. And then! One night she woke up bruised and battered – her partner, the father of two of her children, almost killed her. That was it for her!That relationship was one of many that left her feeling used, as though she were a tool for others' pleasure and pain. For years, she allowed herself to be reduced to a stereotype—seen as the "mammy," because of how she looked and lived—a label screaming she wasn’t enough. But after that violent night, sitting bruised in police confines, something shifted in her. "Shame is a liar, a thief, a murderer of dreams. It, too, is an abuser," she realized. Shame had taken so much from her, but now she saw her own worth. "I am magic, cocoa powder, shards of glass and shrapnel, and the deepest parts of my grandmothers' imaginations," she told herself. She no longer “deserved” love, joy, happiness, health and safety—they’re inherent.  Because ‘deserving’ is transactional, isn’t it? It means you did a thing, performed a thing, earned a thing.Society had already tried to convince her otherwise, telling her that as a fat, dark-skinned Black woman, she was undeserving. But now, she was determined to break free. Her strength? Her children. "If you can’t love yourself enough to turn this around, do you love your children enough?" This question gave her the courage to leave her toxic home, taking her children to a homeless shelter.The journey was hard, but she persevered; showed resilience. She began speaking openly about the abuse she had endured, rebuking shame. In sharing her story, she found solidarity with other women who had suffered in silence, and with this community, she began to heal.She didn’t owe the world prettiness or femininity, softness or strength, desirability or thinness. Rather she owed herself—and her children—a life of joy and self-worth. Eventually, her career flourished. She’s TANYA DENISE FIELDS—founder of The Black Feminist project. As she had dreamed, her home became her sanctuary. True freedom comes from rejecting shame. Having emerged from that fire stronger and whole, she rightly quotes,...

Their horror movie collection, now over three hundred DVDs, is organized by genre: zombies on the top shelf, vampires in the middle, and slashers on the bottom right. For Halloween, they decorate with gray skulls and tombstones instead of pumpkins and orange candles. When the fall weather arrives and the leaves change, they playfully whisper, “The harvest…is near.”This love for horror movies is unusual, but it has taught them to enjoy the thrill of a good scare. After all, most horror films often start with happy scenes of friends or family having a great time. But then, something goes wrong, and the fun turns dark. This pattern reminds them of how quickly joy can feel threatened.Can you relate to this sense of joy being threatened? It’s like parents worry when their kids are happily playing, partners feel uneasy when love seems overwhelming, students worry when everything is going well, and pet owners freak out when their pets are too darn cute. There's always a fear….something will come along to take away their happiness.In Daring Greatly, Brené talks about this fear as “foreboding joy.” The outcome? Often worrying that our happiness won’t last or that it will lead to disappointment. We might even question if we deserve to be happy. This fear makes us hold back from fully enjoying our moments of joy.Meet AUSTIN CHANNING BROWN. She confesses to this struggle personally. When she saw her toddler dressed in a jacket resembling Trayvon Martina, her heart clenched. Why? Because Trayvon was a 17-year-old who was fatally shot in 2012 by a neighborhood watch volunteer in Florida because, apparently, he looked “suspicious.”For Black people and people of color, racism adds an extra layer of anxiety. The source of this anxiety? Not just one high-profile case of Trayvon but many like him. Ahmaud Arbery, a 25-year-old was killed in 2020 while jogging in Georgia by three white men who confronted him. For what? Because they “assumed” that he was responsible for recent burglaries in their area. One word—SHAMEFUL! Such experiences create an atmosphere of fear. Black individuals have been reported to avoid walking through areas known for racism. Mothers constantly worry about their child’s safety. Isn’t that pathetic? That’s how racism can overshadow joy.But despite these challenges, the Black community remains resilient. They draw strength from a deep-rooted belief that joy cannot be taken away, as expressed in the gospel song: “This joy...

As a young boy, around five, he couldn't recall who exactly said it or even what was said, but it had made him cry. His tears flowed freely—so freely that he was told, “You’re too sensitive” — a phrase that stuck with him for long, reminding him that he was… odd. And it wasn’t just his open emotions that got him labeled as such. He was a reader! It was VERY unlike a young Black boy growing up in North Philadelphia. Yet, it wasn't just about personal interests—it was something deeper.In his world, Black boys were supposed to be tough, stoic, strong, and definitely not cry babies — typical masculinity. And he wasn’t like this. So, he adapted a hardened exterior and never showed vulnerability. This young boy, now MARC LAMONT HILL, realizes that much of his adaptation was for survival. Because “looking tough meant he wouldn’t have to fight.” But behind that tough veneer? All he really wanted was to live, to be loved, and to be seen for who he was.His father played a big role in shaping his Black masculinity. He would often call out to his son, “Put that book down. Look at that building they’re putting up over there!” Why? To mold him to fit the expected Black masculine frame—a provider, a man of strength. Would you blame his father? You can’t because like many men of that time, he too was emotionally reserved—been taught that vulnerability had no place in their world. All thanks to the toxic examples around them from pop culture to real life.Here’s the irony: The more Marc thought about it, the more he recognized how masculinity—especially Black masculinity—was often modeled after those who oppressed them—white men! Freedom was having that kind of power, control, and privilege. In getting there, Black men absorbed harmful traits like hypermasculinity, misogyny, and violence. And if you deviate from this model? You risked feeling "less masculine"—and by extension, less human.Fast forward to June 2020, amidst the social unrest following George Floyd’s murder, Marc was invited to a podcast that focused on racism and policing. However, the conversation took an unexpected turn when Russell Simmons, a man accused of sexual assault, appeared as a surprise guest. Marc was angry. His immediate instinct was to leave, but something stopped him—the desire to appear "professional"—held him back from speaking out or walking away. Reflecting on it later, he...

As an adult from Mississippi, Kiese Laymon found himself avoiding light, working and eating in bed, expecting to die tomorrow. This wasn't just quirky behavior—it was a manifestation of deep-seated trauma and anxiety. What fear? The very system meant to help—the medical establishment—was the source of his deepest fears. The irony wasn't lost on him! White doctors, with their cold gazes and dismissive attitudes, became symbols of a society that refused to see his humanity. A cardiologist who missed his panic attacks, a college administration that weaponized mental health diagnoses against him—these experiences cemented his distrust.Yet, even as he navigated this maze of mistrust and misdiagnosis, Laymon yearned for understanding, for a way to articulate his pain that didn't pathologize his very existence. He found himself caught between the raw honesty of calling himself "crazy" and the clinical sterility of terms like "depression" or "anxiety disorder." Neither fully captured the complexity of his experience as a Black man in America.Meanwhile, in Oakland, Shawn Ginwright was learning his own lessons about vulnerability and healing, but from a different angle. As a facilitator working with traumatized youth, he discovered the power of creating safe spaces where young people could let down their guard and truly be seen. Ginwright's journey began with the blues—that raw, honest expression of pain and resilience. His Uncle Kenny's love for blues music taught him that there was power in vulnerability, in laying bare one's soul. This lesson would become the foundation of his work with Black youth.In the neighborhoods where Ginwright worked, trauma wasn't a past event but a persistent reality. One young woman challenged his use of the term PTSD, pointing out that there was nothing "post" about the stress in her environment. This insight led Ginwright to develop the concept of "persistent traumatic stress environments," recognizing the ongoing nature of trauma in many Black communities. Determined to create a sanctuary for healing, Ginwright founded a summer camp for African American teens. Here, in this safe container, young people could practice vulnerability, could sing their own blues. Through healing circles and culturally grounded practices, they began to process their pain collectively, tapping into a shared cultural identity as a source of strength.Both Laymon and Ginwright's stories underscore a crucial truth: in a society that often fails to recognize the full humanity of Black Americans, creating spaces for vulnerability and authentic expression becomes an act of radical...

DERAN YOUNG’s son came home from kindergarten crying, “I wish I was white like everybody else.” Because a white classmate refused to play with him, saying, "Brown kids aren’t as fun." Shocked and unsure of how to respond, she initially blamed herself—How she had failed as a mother! She spun into a shame-guilt spiral, "I’m the founder of Black Therapists Rock, for goodness’ sake! I’ve really messed up somewhere along the way if my own kid wants to be white."Later, she realized that her son truly needed someone to sit with him in his pain. He didn’t need her to drown in guilt or shame. His pain was real, and it hurt. He needed her to name the experience for what it was: racism. In fact, her son had voiced what many Black children feel but don’t always express. Her son gave words to his pain—something that even adults struggle to do. It was a powerful step for him.This incident triggered memories from her own childhood in Texas, where racial violence and intimidation was something on a daily-basis. While in Texas, her mother, a proud Black woman, taught her about Black leaders to instill a sense of pride. But her mother’s struggles with addiction and untreated mental illness left little room for her “little feelings.” So, like many Black people would have done, she learned to numb them, and worked twice as hard to "make something" of herself. But working twice as hard often leads to emotional burnout. And emotional burnout means no real connection—something she now sees Black parents, including herself, struggling with  while raising their children.The thing is, we don’t talk enough about racial trauma. It runs deep and manifests in ways we may not always recognize. Example? Fighting white supremacy in a body that’s constantly made to feel less. As a result, Black people choke  with shame—from everyday humiliations at work to witnessing public murders of Black and Brown people. And to survive all this, we need to break the emotional walls, confront that pain, and be vulnerable, even when everything around us tells us to stay guarded. The tricky part is this: Vulnerability can feel counterintuitive for Black people. Because it means dropping the armor, the collective protection mechanisms passed down from our ancestors that helped us survive. But this armor also keeps us from living fully. Besides, for many Black people, discussing emotions is useless....

Have you ever written a message to your younger self? Chances are you would have! If not, here’s a chance for you to write one but to your future self because they might need those words more than ever in the moments to come. Here’s one from TARANA BURKE to her future self:Tarana begins with “I want you to stop, breathe, and relax, and keep coming back to this whenever you need to as we move forward.” She asks for this caution because of the weight of what she is about to share.“We are sick.” Because the container they built to hold their emotions and trauma is now overflowing, no longer able to contain the pain they've packed away for so long. What does their container hold?She suffers from anxiety attacks. It all began at seven during a childhood sleepover. The physical response—racing heart, uneven breathing—was immediate, but she forced herself to act as if nothing was wrong. That night, she cried a river. The adults labeled it to her being afraid of new places. But her fear was hidden in plain sight.She began to contain her fear, shame, and anxiety. In the process of expanding this container and carefully packing away emotions, she even began to forget about them. To add to it, the pressure to appear perfect was always lurking. In seventh grade, despite rehearsing for the liturgy, the fear gripped her so tightly that she could barely whisper through the prayer, stammering and fighting off an attack of nervous laughter. It was an early indication of an anxiety attack that no one saw.Gradually into adulthood, anxiety became an unspoken part of her life. It was finally a friend of hers in a car who named what was happening: an anxiety attack. It shook her. Despite her friend’s support, she brushed it off, burying the truth deeper into the container just like she always had. Well, old habits die hard, don’t they?This container finally cracked during Hurricane Katrina. Tarana was working tirelessly for three days, helping set up shelters. She drowned her worry, waiting to hear if her loved ones were safe. When she finally received the news that her family survived, she was overcome with emotions and blacked out. Once she regained her senses, she pushed away the very people who were trying to help her.  As a “strong Black woman” who was always composed and in...

"You Are Your Best Thing" by Brené Brown and Tarana Burke highlights Black voices, addressing vulnerability, shame, and resilience against systemic racism. The collection emphasizes healing through storytelling and reclaiming identity.