
I remember the first time I realized something was off, even if I didn’t yet have the language for it. People would look at me, smile a little longer, speak a little softer, and say things that felt like compliments—but carried something heavier underneath. “You’re the beautiful one,” they would say, as if beauty had been divided between my late sister and me, as if it were a limited resource that could not fully belong to us both.
My sister, darker than I, carried a quiet strength that I did not fully understand at the time. Where I was welcomed, she was often overlooked. Where I was praised, she was measured. I watched rooms respond to us differently, even when we walked in together. The difference was not our intelligence, not our character, not our worth—it was our skin tone.
In modeling spaces, the disparity became even more visible. I was offered opportunities more quickly, more easily. Photographers called me “a genetic masterpiece,” agencies called me “unique,” and brands seemed to see me as a safer reflection of Black beauty. Meanwhile, as I was signing my first lucrative modeling contract, my darker-skinned close friend, “Elvira” —someone who had genuinely dreamed of modeling—was turned away and cruelly labeled “ugly.” The rejection cut deeply, not just because of the words used, but because modeling was something she truly desired and believed in for herself. For me, it had never been a dream. It was something spoken over me so often—“You’re so beautiful—you really should consider modeling”—that I eventually stepped into the opportunities placed in front of me. What came easily to me was something she had to fight for, only to be denied, and that contrast has never left me.
Men, too, played a role in reinforcing this hierarchy. I received gifts, attention, validation—sometimes from men who, in the same breath, would describe darker women as “too much” or “too strong.” These experiences were not flattering; they were revealing. They exposed a system of preference that had nothing to do with genuine connection and everything to do with conditioning.
At the time, I did not celebrate this attention the way others assumed I should. It felt uncomfortable, like being rewarded for something I did not earn while someone I loved was silently penalized. That tension stayed with me, especially as I began to understand the deeper roots of what we were experiencing.
Colorism did not begin in our generation. Its roots trace back to systems of oppression, particularly during the era of slavery, where proximity to whiteness often determined treatment, labor, and even survival. Lighter-skinned enslaved individuals were more likely to be placed in domestic roles, while darker-skinned individuals endured harsher conditions in the fields (Hunter, 2007). These divisions were not accidental; they were strategic.
Over time, those divisions evolved into internalized hierarchies within Black communities themselves. What began as a tool of control became a social norm, shaping perceptions of beauty, worth, and desirability. According to the American Psychological Association, colorism continues to influence self-esteem, mental health, and social outcomes among people of color.
The media has only amplified these patterns. From film to fashion, lighter-skinned individuals are often positioned as the face of “acceptable” Blackness. Even as representation improves, it frequently does so within a narrow spectrum. Actresses like Lupita Nyong’o and Viola Davis have openly spoken about the challenges they faced due to darker skin tones, despite their undeniable talent and global acclaim.
In her speeches, Lupita Nyong’o has reflected on how rarely she saw women who looked like her celebrated as beautiful while growing up. Viola Davis has similarly addressed the barriers she encountered in Hollywood, where darker skin often meant fewer opportunities and delayed recognition. Their testimonies are not isolated—they are representative.
The persistence of colorism today is not simply about preference; it is about conditioning. From childhood, many are taught—directly or indirectly—that lighter is better. These messages appear in dolls, advertisements, music videos, and even family conversations. Over time, they become internal beliefs.
Social media has complicated this further. Filters, editing tools, and beauty standards often favor lighter complexions and Eurocentric features, reinforcing the same hierarchy in digital form. What appears to be progress can sometimes be a repackaging of the same bias.
Psychologically, colorism creates a divide not only between individuals but within them. Darker-skinned individuals may struggle with feelings of invisibility or inadequacy, while lighter-skinned individuals may wrestle with guilt, confusion, or misplaced validation. Both experiences are shaped by the same system.
For me, acknowledging this reality meant confronting my own position within it. I had to recognize that the favor I received was not simply personal—it was systemic. And more importantly, I had to decide what to do with that awareness.
Change begins with honesty. We cannot dismantle what we refuse to name. Conversations about colorism must move beyond denial and discomfort into accountability and action. This includes challenging language, preferences, and assumptions that reinforce hierarchy.
Education is also critical. Understanding the historical roots of colorism helps to contextualize its presence today. It shifts the narrative from individual bias to structural influence, making it clear that this is not just a personal issue but a societal one.
Representation must expand—not just in quantity but in authenticity. Darker-skinned individuals deserve to be seen in roles that reflect the full spectrum of human experience: love, success, vulnerability, and joy. Not as exceptions, but as norms.
Within families and communities, affirmation matters. Teaching children that their skin—regardless of shade—is valuable, beautiful, and God-given can disrupt cycles of internalized bias. These lessons must be intentional, consistent, and rooted in truth.
Men, too, must examine their preferences. Attraction is not formed in a vacuum; it is shaped by culture, media, and exposure. Questioning why certain features are prioritized can lead to deeper self-awareness and more genuine connections.
Ultimately, dismantling colorism requires both internal and external work. It is about unlearning, relearning, and actively choosing to see beauty beyond conditioned standards. It is about shifting from comparison to appreciation.
My sister deserved to hear that she was beautiful without qualification, without comparison, without hesitation. And so do countless others who have been made to feel less than because of their skin.
Colorism is still running things—but it does not have to. The moment we confront it, challenge it, and refuse to participate in it, we begin to take that power back.
References
Hunter, M. (2007). The persistent problem of colorism: Skin tone, status, and inequality. Sociology Compass, 1(1), 237–254.
Keith, V. M., & Herring, C. (1991). Skin tone and stratification in the Black community. American Journal of Sociology, 97(3), 760–778.
Norwood, K. J. (2015). Color matters: Skin tone bias and the myth of a postracial America. Routledge.
American Psychological Association. (2017). Colorism and its psychological effects.
Wilder, J. (2010). Revisiting “color names and color notions”: A contemporary examination of the language and attitudes of skin color among young Black women. Journal of Black Studies, 41(1), 184–206.








