Every February, Nova Scotia pauses to celebrate the history, culture, and contributions of Black communities whose roots here date back before Confederation; It is a month of pride and reflection, a reminder of the strength and resilience woven into our identity as Black people and Black professionals in this region. Yet, alongside the celebration sits a quieter truth: the past still shows up in our present, in the rooms we enter, in the processes we navigate, and in how our accomplishments are sometimes interpreted by the majority. 

I have had remarkable opportunities and recognition over the years, some of which were directly correlated to Black excellence and representation. Trust me when I say I was, and continue to be, beyond proud of these accomplishments and the sense of responsibility and confidence they instilled in me as a young African Nova Scotian woman. However, there have also been times, especially after a competitive job offer, an invitation, or an opportunity, when a quiet question surfaced: Would this have happened if I were not Black? Comments like, “you are so smart – plus you are a woman and you are Black, you will definitely get a call back” linger in my mind, framing identity as an added advantage rather than an essential part of my genealogy and lived experience. Invitations to apply to programs through “special” application streams designed to support Black individuals sometimes reaffirmed this; In one breathe I was told I am capable, while in the next, as a Black applicant, I was told I would need to complete extra steps or commit additional time that “regular” applicants did not; Despite the intention, it was as if to say without saying that my background, qualifications, education, and intelligence are ever so slightly more untrustworthy or less valid than my white counterparts. Even when the opportunity is positive, it can feel like entering through a side door, affirmed, but marked “different”, leaving you to wonder how your capability is truly being evaluated. 

That feeling, questions of insecurity, deepen even more when you find yourself to be the only Black person in the room; You look around and instantly notice that no one else looks like you. The noticing is not the issue, it is what it signals: Your presence is still unusual. Suddenly, you are aware of your skin in a way your younger self may never have been and start to vividly realize others are aware of your difference too; Sometimes, you even fear an innocent notice of your colour has caused some rude awakening or assumption to what your skin says about you and why you are in this space. Beneath the surface, you can feel the expectation to be exemplary, to represent, to be proud, and to avoid mistakes that are often overlooked when it comes to the majority. You become the one who looks different from the rest – the one who is seen before being heard and, with that, comes the quiet question: If I were the same person in different skin, would I still be here? Would I have been invited, chosen, or considered equally qualified? It is not about doubting your talent, it is about moving through environments that were not built with you in mind and still do not always make room easily. 

This is why African Heritage Month, and the equity efforts surrounding it, matter so deeply. They exist because the past still influences the present, because barriers (systemic and psychological) still shape what progress looks like for many Black professionals, and because true inclusion never happens passively. The initiatives in this province have moved the needle in meaningful ways, but my point is to say that another truth also exists: recognition, access, and “special streams” can empower, but they can also heighten awareness of our skin, spotlight our presence, and create quiet moments of insecurity. Acknowledging this complexity does not undermine these programs, initiatives, celebrations, or dedications; it simply means that truly understanding the purpose of African Heritage Month requires an honest recognition of how these realities coexist. It means putting ourselves, and inviting others to put themselves, in the shoes of Black individuals who are still navigating these experiences daily, whether in moments of praise or in moments of scrutiny. 

As the month closes, I am left with both gratitude and perspective. Gratitude for the community I belong to, for the skin I wear, and for the progress taking shape in this province and country. And perspective, because each year I grow to understand more deeply what it means to be an “other” that exists in this world as well as an “other” that is celebrated this month. For those who do not live this experience, imagine being the only one in the room knowing you are qualified yet still feeling measured differently. Imagine your identity being noted as an asterisk. I ask this not to create shame or discouragement, but to generate new perspective and approach to celebrating this month. For those of you who share this experience, know that your presence is not a side door – your work, talent, language, and lived history are the main entrance. And know that being celebrated this month does not diminish the complexity of our lived reality; if anything, it brings it into sharper focus. 

Happy African Heritage Month! 

Rheannon Richards is an HR Associate at uptreeHR, an outsourced Human Resource department for small to medium-sized businesses. Rheannon and the team are based in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

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