Proximity to Power Is Not Liberation
There is a quiet violence that exists within nonprofit spaces—one that rarely gets named, but is deeply felt by those doing the real work in the community. It’s the violence of proximity to power. In theory, nonprofits exist to challenge inequity, to redistribute resources, and to uplift marginalized communities. But in practice, many have become institutions that replicate the very systems they claim to dismantle. And at the center of that contradiction is a troubling dynamic: the strategic use of Black and Brown bodies as shields—symbols of representation that mask harm happening behind the scenes.
Representation Without Protection
We are often told that representation matters. And it does. But representation without protection, accountability, and integrity is exploitation. Black and Brown staff—particularly Black women—are positioned as evidence of equity. Their faces are placed on websites, in grant reports, on panels, and in leadership pipelines. But what is less visible is the cost of that visibility. Behind closed doors, many of these same individuals are navigating environments where:
Their voices are only valued when they align with dominant narratives
Their advocacy is labeled as aggression or insubordination
Their proximity to leadership does not translate to actual power
Their labor—emotional, intellectual, and cultural—is extracted without reciprocity
This is not inclusion. This is performance.
The Harm Within Leadership
Perhaps the most difficult truth to confront is this: harm is not only inflicted by those outside the community. It is also perpetuated by those within it. Leadership in nonprofit spaces is often shaped by proximity to institutional power—funders, boards, and systems that reward compliance over courage. And within that dynamic, harm can be reproduced, even by those who once sought to challenge it. This is where the conversation becomes more uncomfortable—and more necessary.
When Harm Comes From Within
There is a truth many of us hesitate to say out loud: sometimes, the harm experienced in nonprofit spaces does not come from white leadership or external systems—it comes from other Black and Brown women in positions of power. This is not an easy truth. It disrupts the narrative that shared identity guarantees shared values, protection, or care. But proximity to power changes people—or more precisely, systems reward certain behaviors, and survival within those systems often requires adaptation in ways that can be harmful.
Internalized Power and the Replication of Harm
Black and Brown women leaders are navigating institutions not built for them, often having fought hard to gain access. But once inside, there can be an unspoken pressure to prove legitimacy, maintain control, and protect position at all costs. And in that pressure, harm can take shape:
Policing tone, language, and expression of other Black and Brown women
Silencing dissent under the guise of professionalism or “alignment”
Withholding support, mentorship, or advocacy
Creating hierarchies of “acceptable” Black and Brown identity expression
Using proximity to power to distance themselves from those still pushing for systemic change
Instead of disrupting harmful systems, these behaviors can reinforce them.
The Scarcity Mindset
At the root of this dynamic is often scarcity. The belief—whether spoken or not—that there is only room for a few. That access is limited.That visibility must be protected. When that belief takes hold, collaboration becomes competition. Solidarity becomes conditional. And other Black and Brown women are no longer seen as community—but as threats. This is how harm begins to mirror the very systems we claim to resist.
Respectability Over Truth
Another layer of this harm is respectability politics. Black and Brown women in leadership are often rewarded for upholding institutional norms—norms that prioritize order, compliance, and image over truth and disruption. Those who challenge systems, name harm, or push for accountability can then be seen as liabilities. And so:
Truth-tellers are labeled “difficult”
True advocates are framed as disruptive
Calls for change are treated as personal attacks
In these moments, harm is not always loud or obvious. It is quiet. Strategic. Often justified as necessary for the “greater good” of the organization. But the impact is the same.
The Betrayal Hits Different
When harm comes from other Black and Brown women, it carries a different weight.
Because there is an expectation—sometimes unspoken, but deeply felt—of understanding, shared experience, and care. So when that expectation is broken, it doesn’t just feel like workplace conflict. It feels like betrayal. And that betrayal lingers:
In the hesitation to trust again
In the emotional labor of navigating spaces that feel unsafe
In the questioning of one’s own voice, instincts, and worth
Black and Brown Women as Collateral
Black and Brown women, in particular, bear the brunt of this entire dynamic. They are often the backbone of nonprofit work—holding communities, programs, and teams together. They are the truth-tellers, the bridge-builders, the ones who push for integrity even when it is inconvenient. And for that, they are often punished. They are labeled difficult. Emotional. Unprofessional. They are isolated, overworked, and unsupported. They are expected to carry the weight of systemic change while navigating environments that actively undermine their wellbeing. Too often, Black and Brown women’s bodies become collateral for “leadership success”—used to demonstrate impact, credibility, and progress, while absorbing the unspoken cost of organizational dysfunction. The result is not just burnout—it is harm that manifests in deeply personal ways:
Chronic stress and anxiety
Autoimmune conditions
Depression and PTSD
A profound sense of betrayal and disillusionment
These are not individual failures. They are organizational outcomes.
The Cost of Silence
What makes this harm particularly insidious is how often it is hidden under the guise of mission-driven work. Speaking out can feel risky—especially when careers, reputations, and livelihoods are on the line. But silence does not protect us. It protects the system. And the system, as it stands, is not neutral. It rewards proximity to power over proximity to community. It uplifts compliance over courage. It prioritizes optics over truth.
Toward Accountability and Healing
If nonprofits are to truly serve as vehicles for change, there must be a reckoning. This means:
Naming harm, even when it is uncomfortable
Holding leadership accountable, regardless of identity
Centering the voices of those most impacted—not just publicly, but in decision-making spaces
Prioritizing collective healing over institutional preservation
Reimagining leadership as responsibility, not control
It also requires something deeper from those closest to power: self-interrogation. Not just “Have I made it?” But “Who did I have to become—and who did I harm—along the way?”
A Final Truth
We cannot dismantle oppressive systems while replicating their logic internally. Using Black and Brown bodies as a cover for harm is not just unethical—it is antithetical to the very mission many organizations claim to uphold. The work of justice requires more than representation. It requires courage. It requires truth. And it requires a willingness to confront the harm within, not just the harm outside. Until then, proximity to power will continue to come at a cost—and that cost is being paid, disproportionately, by those who were never meant to be collateral in the first place.
