When Movements Punish Black Women for Leading

I survived a coup. No, really. I survived a failed coup staged by misguided colleagues I trusted—some I even once called family. Like so many other Black women leaders, I went from “pet to threat” the moment my leadership began to take root, when I dared to lead with clarity, accountability, and vision. What unfolded was not just betrayal—it was misogynoir in motion, fueled by anti-Blackness dressed up in “progressive” language. And yet I held on to hope that the truth would reconcile everything.

Let me be clear: I was not a perfect leader. Who is? I made mistakes. Who doesn’t? But what I endured was not about imperfection. It was about a system that cannot tolerate Black women in power unless we are ornamental, compliant, and silent. Nothing I did justified the nearly yearlong campaign of harassment, hostility, and betrayal that followed. The consequences for me were brutal: My financial stability was

threatened. Two stress-induced miscarriages. A diagnosis of hypertension. Pills to force sleep. Suicidal ideation for the first time since high school. Weight loss. This was violence—organizational violence sanctioned in whispers, silence, and defiance.

My leadership was systematically targeted and dismantled. I was excluded from secret meetings, framed as concern for me to “rest” and “reclaim my time.” My marriage and even the purchase of my home were dragged into false accusations. I was surveilled in ways that grossly violated professional boundaries - even to the extent of screenshots of personal travel, emails, and messages. The Board—also Black women—was held hostage by staff who used chaos as a tactic: bombarding them with demands, misinformation, and lies until governance itself became nearly impossible. The Board even faced “anonymous” calls into their own Boards with various false claims.

Progressive tools—like unionizing—meant for liberation were twisted into weapons—used to criminalize me and smear the Board as anti-union when the reality was the opposite. I was harassed relentlessly, to the point where lawyers had to intervene. I received coercive texts and calls pressuring me to quit. I even received calls from staff posing as ‘neutral’ or pretending to ‘check in,’ weaponizing care itself. It was gaslighting disguised as concern—surveillance tactics that failed in their attempts to extract ammunition and sound bites to add to their slanderous assault. There were even anonymous calls to ICE—ICE!—made by staff who claim to stand for equity and human dignity. I was left stunned by the mob behavior of staff I once believed were principled, who instead fueled lies and acted with calculated ongoing malice. I watched longtime colleagues who knew what was happening fall silent publicly while privately claiming to me to be saddened by the attack on my character, all complicit in their absence. I watched “ally” funders prove that their solidarity only extends as far as their risk tolerance. The hedging of funders made clear: the movement has perfected the language of supporting Black women, but not the practice and what was the result? No one won. Disillusioned staff abandoned their own demands to unionize. Hundreds of thousands of dollars drained in legal fees, NLRB hearing, and investigations—resources that should have supported the mission, the field, the staff, and our work. The movement talks a good game about loving, uplifting, and protecting Black women—but when tested, too many reveal that it’s performance, not practice. Even now, nearly a year later, when I would rather leave it all behind me, I am still fighting for a fair severance as an acknowledgment that what happened was wrong, unjustified, and harmful.

And sadly, I am not alone. This is not just my story. Unfortunately, there is a club of Black women leaders who, like me, are still recovering from traumatic leadership experiences. This is what happens when movements claim to center Black women but, in truth, punish us for leading. This is what misogynoir looks like in movement spaces. This is how anti-Blackness hides behind progressive rhetoric. So now I am doing what I should have done then - publicly speaking my truth. The truth. The truth that was made clear in the investigations. The truth that the Board knew. The truth that should have reconciled everything. For my own sanity and healing, I will no longer be silent. Because silence has never saved Black women leaders—and it never will.

Josephine Kalipeni, a Malawi native, is a seasoned programmatic strategist and social justice executive with over twenty years of experience in the nonprofit sector. She is currently consulting and open to new opportunities.

Contact her at josephinefaith@gmail.com