Unbound: My Story of Liberation and the Birth of the Me Too Movement

by Tarana Burke

The story of how empathy for others—without which the work of ‘me too’ doesn’t exist—starts with empathy for that dark place of shame where we keep our stories, and where I kept mine.

Unkindness is a serial killer. Death in the flesh sometimes seems like a less excruciating way to succumb than the slow and steady venom unleashed by mean-spirited, cruel words and actions that poison you over time. I guess that’s why I can’t stand the old children’s rhyme: sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Every time I hear it, I think to myself: that’s a lie. You can dodge a rock, but you can’t unhear a word. You can’t undo the intentional damage that some words have on your mind, body, and spirit.

There is no question that self-hate severely limits one’s capacity to love fully and wholeheartedly.

“You know there is absolutely nothing that can separate you from my love,” I whispered.

“I mean it, my baby, nothing. There is nothing you could do or say or think that could make me not love you. You can tell me anything—absolutely anything—and I will still love you and do everything in my power to help you. Okay?”

It makes me think of what Carrie Fisher wrote in her memoir, Wishful Drinking, “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”