Tiffany Rothe Workouts

I am tired of being strong. If my strength is the star of my show, then struggle is my supporting cast. The movie is getting old, I am tired of being the strong black woman.

I grew up in a loving household with “strong” women all around me. I was provided for, supported and nurtured and I am so grateful for that.

I have a typical story of growing up black in America, I say typical because I am just a few generations away from the awful institution of slavery. In order for black people to elevate from the vestiges of generational oppression, many of us go through the same stuff. My story may be similar to some of your stories, so here is a brief summary.

I never met my great grandmother Eva, but I heard she was a lovely woman, who was a great cook, devout Christian, and a nurturing mom to her only daughter Louella. She was also known to have the singing voice of an opera singer which she proudly displayed in the church choir. I don’t know exactly what she did for a living, but I can make a pretty accurate guess that she was a domestic servant in some white woman’s house. She died in her 50’s of cancer, of what,.. I don’t know. Did she have a husband? Who knows? Who was my great grandfather? No one ever mentioned him. It didn’t really matter though, because Eva was a “strong woman”. She managed to handle it all on her own, until she died of cancer. 

Then there were my maternal grandparents, Raymond and Louella. They were my everything, my “American Dream” heroes. They were married for over 45 years,  owned their home, they had four children and in their 50’s they bought their first new car, a Chevy Nova.  No one in our family had ever bought a new car before, so when they picked me up from school, I felt like I was getting into a Rolls Royce. 

My grandparents had monthly parties with their friends called “Club Meetings”.  Each couple from their friend group would take turns to host a fancy gathering at their home full of delicious homemade food, music, dancing and lots of laughter. My grandmother was heralded for being the best cook ever. She grew fruit trees, grapes and planted strawberries in the backyard. We even had a roller coaster, which made me believe they were rich. They were perfect in my eyes and perfect was synonymous with strong.

I knew my grandmother was strong by the way she took care of her son Darryl who was diagnosed with diabetes in his teens. When his sugar would drop he would appear drunk and my grandmother always knew how to fix it. An orange slice here, a salitne cracker there.

She was strong when my father shot my grandfather in her driveway. I was two years old, my mom was hysterical, my uncle was enraged, yet my grandma was crazy glue strong. She handled it all and then forbade my dad from ever stepping foot in her house again. My grandpa lived, but my close relationship with my dad died that day.

She was strong when they had to tear her away from the casket, after her eldest son Terry was murdered in a drive-by shooting while he was talking on the phone at a phone booth (no cell phones then).

She was strong when my mom had her stroke and she left her home to stay with us for 6 months, because my mom could not walk, talk very well or take care of herself or me for that matter.

She was strong when her youngest son Sherril got hooked on crack and kept stealing from her, she stood her ground when she refused to let my grandfather kick him out of the house. Once my grandparents passed away, Sherril accidently burnt the house down while preparing his crack in the back house.

She was strong when she threatened the nurses to step up their game or else, when my grandfather was in the hospital dying. My grandma studied to be a nurse, but she ended up being a domestic servant in a rich white ladies house. There were few nursing opportunities for black women back then.

She taught me to be strong too. She told me to be strong for my mother when she cried all of the time and would fall down every time she tried to walk. She taught me to be strong when my baby brother died in my moms stomach when she was 7 months pregnant. She told me to be strong when I never got to play the lead in the school play ( I will tell you about that later).

My mother was strong too, she raised me as a single mom, when she was on disability. My mom was the strong one that sacrificed to send me to private school, when my whole family thought she was crazy. She taught me about the value of education and the benefits of traveling.  She always encouraged me to be strong in the face of adversity. She did her best to maintain and cultivate a positive relationship for me and my dad, even though he was ostracized from the rest of my family. My mom believed in dreaming big for others, but for herself she thought small and her dreams withered away.

I come from a legacy of strong women.

And

I am tired of being strong.

I was strong when my uncle died, my grandparents died, my godmother died, my close friend died, two of my ex-boyfriends died, my dad died, my mom died…

Strong was on my right side and struggle was on my left.

I am tired of being strong. 

Throughout my life, I am grateful for the strength, yet I realize there is so much more to me than that. For as long as I focus on being strong, I will always struggle to prove my strength.

Through personal development and leadership, I got to know the other parts of me, the scared little girl, the abandoned daughter, the student with unworthiness issues, the woman with trust issues and the single mom who struggles to keep it all together. 

I realize there is so much more to me than being strong. What I discovered is that I am a woman who is afraid, who doubts herself, who feels like she is not enough, who pushes people away, who isolates and in spite of all of this…I have the audacity to believe in myself and find the COURAGE to THRIVE.

I wrote this book so you can learn to overcome your story, let go of the identity that limits you, reach for your potential and discover the parts of yourself that motivate you to thrive and manifest the best version of your life. 

Tiffany Rothe