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“We’re not going back!” ~ Kamala Harris
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While the others sat frozen, their eyes blinking as if in slow motion, I felt a familiar surge of heat rising inside me.

That burning desire to “let it go,” to not make this another “race thing.” But this time, I couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t—let it slide.

Because it was a race thing.

“What did you just say?” My voice sliced through the suffocating silence that had descended over the room, thick and smothering like a venomous fog, choking the life out of every corner.

Six of us sat at that table, supposedly here for lunch, for a “getting to know you” exercise. But when our lead coach—let’s call him Josh—decided to commandeer the conversation, I felt the shift. Instead of passing around the question, “Why do you want to become a coach?” Josh took the floor.

“I sure do miss the ‘good old days,’ when ‘men were the best instructors…’” he quipped to the only other male at our table. My stomach scrunched. Side-eyes flashed around the table, but no one said a word. I craved for someone to step in, redirect the conversation—anyone other than me.

No one did.

Having just learned the value of interruption as a strategic tool, now was the time to put it to use. Carefully, I cut into his monologue.

“Josh—”

“Don’t you know that Irish are the n****rs of…”

His words struck me with the weight of a thousand storms, leaving the air heavy with unspoken truths, the kind that carve deep into the soul. They demanded a certain kind of reckoning.

I was the only Black person at that table—hell, I’m usually the only Black person in nearly every work or social situation I find myself in. I’ve been here before, surrounded by the less-tutored-when-it-comes-to-race conversations. But something shifted inside me this time. I wasn’t going to let this turn into another moment where I stood alone, tongue-tied, against my own instincts, trying to erase myself into nothingness to avoid making others uncomfortable about race—or more accurately, racism.

“What did you just say?” I demanded again, louder, sharper.

“Well, I’m happy to repeat it if you like…”

My heart thundered. “Ouch, your use of that word feels terrifying to my system. I no longer feel seen or safe with you.”

His response was as flat as his expression. “I didn’t know the word n****r was so offensive to you.”

Everything inside me screamed. As an emotional wealth coach, my job is to teach others (and myself) how to navigate that critical space between stimulus and response. Holocaust survivor, author, and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl calls it the space where freedom and choice exist. But in this moment, that space felt impossibly narrow—inaccessible.

Then, something shifted. My dignity, my self-worth—they anchored me. I stood up, reclaiming the space around me, and walked out.

One of the other coaches, a woman with a lively spirit and a kind heart, followed me into the hallway.

“What just happened back there?” she asked, breathless.

I wanted to scream, but instead, I became curious.

“How did you feel when you heard Josh say what he said?” I pushed her, needing her to name it, to feel it. I knew that even if her mind couldn’t process it, her body had already registered the truth.

“I don’t know…but my heart, it clenched into a fist. I wanted to run.”

“If that tight fist could speak, what would it say?”

“Run! Get TF outta here! I came after you.”

“And how are you, though?”

I’d spend the rest of the night figuring that out.

I didn’t want to abandon the entire experience. I reported Josh and decided to complete the weekend training. Later, via email, someone apologized on behalf of that “isolated” incident. They assured me they’d follow up. The last I heard, Josh was still leading master coach certification workshops, his record of similar offenses brushed away with his analogous response when confronted.

“I didn’t know…”

But now I do. I know that trusting who I am is the ultimate refuge. In times of unconscious racial bias and tension, holding onto my dignity is my safe harbor. And I know the power of allyship—of that one coach who listened to her body and trusted herself enough to follow me out of that room. She didn’t need to have the words to explain it; she just needed to trust her instincts to know the difference between saying nothing and doing something, no matter how seemingly small the act.

Here are three tools we can use when we’re caught between stimulus and response and don’t know what to do: 

1. Utilize Interruption as a Strategic Tool: Employ the skill of interruption to challenge an insensitive remark, rather than allowing the situation to go unaddressed. This demonstrates emotional wealth by taking control of the situation and setting boundaries.

2. Model Emotional Awareness and Response: By verbalizing the impact of the offensive language (“Ouch, your use of that word feels terrifying to my system”), you can demonstrate emotional intelligence. By acknowledging the emotional response to the stimulus, you make a conscious choice to stand up and walk away, rather than reacting impulsively.

3. Recognize and Value Allyship: Recognize the significance of an ally despite the ally’s inability to articulate her feelings initially. This recognition and validation of another’s emotional response are integral aspects of emotional wealth and regulation, showing that they each value connection and mutual support in overcoming challenges.

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