I was in a supermarket queue in South London, holding a basket with plantain, yam, and a single bottle of oat milk. The woman behind me, clutching her sourdough and organic kale, leaned forward and said, with the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, “You must be making something very… traditional.” She paused before the word, as if tasting it for the first time. I smiled back, paid, and walked out. But the sentence sat in my chest like a pebble in a shoe for the next hour.
Microaggressions are the small, often unintentional, everyday slights that communicate hostile or derogatory messages, particularly to people from marginalised groups. The term, coined by psychiatrist Chester Pierce in the 1970s and expanded by psychologist Derald Wing Sue, describes those brief interactions that leave you feeling diminished, other, or like a permanent guest in a place you call home. For those of us navigating the hyphenated identity of Nigerian-British life, these moments are not rare storms but a kind of constant drizzle. They are the questions about your “real” name, the surprise that you speak English so well, the handbag clutched tighter as you pass. This is the emotional cartography of migration: mapping the small hurts so they don’t become the whole terrain.
This article is not a guide to fixing the people who commit microaggressions. It is a quiet, practical, and deeply personal reflection on how I have learned to handle them without letting them define my day. It is for the diaspora soul who is tired of explaining, tired of performing resilience, and simply wants to reclaim the hours after the sting.
The Anatomy of a Microaggression: Naming the Sting
Before I could handle microaggressions, I had to learn to recognise them. Not the overt, neon-sign racism—that’s easier to name and, in a strange way, easier to process because it confirms what you know. Microaggressions are trickier. They arrive wrapped in politeness, curiosity, or even a compliment. “Where are you really from?” is the classic. But there are others, specific to the Nigerian-British experience: the slight pause when you give your surname at a hotel check-in, the surprise that your father is a doctor and not a taxi driver, the assumption that your family’s food must be “exotic” rather than just dinner.
Chester Pierce, the Harvard psychiatrist who first named these “subtle, stunning, often automatic, and non-verbal exchanges which are ‘put downs’,” saw them as a form of death by a thousand cuts. The harm is cumulative. Each one is a tiny erosion of your sense of belonging. For the diaspora, this erosion is particularly painful because it targets the very thing we are often trying to negotiate: our place between two cultures. The question “Where are you from?” isn’t just a question; it’s a reminder that you are perpetually seen as from somewhere else, even if your accent is pure London or Manchester.
I used to react with a hot flush of anger, followed by a rehearsed, patient explanation. I felt a duty to educate. But I noticed that the education was draining me more than it was changing them. The turning point came when I realised that my goal was not to correct every stranger’s ignorance but to protect my own peace. This is not about passivity; it is about strategic energy conservation.
The Pause: Creating Space Between Stimulus and Response
My first tool is the pause. It sounds simple, but it is a radical act. When someone says, “Your English is so good,” I no longer rush to fill the silence with a biography of my British schooling. Instead, I take a breath. I let the comment hang in the air. This pause does several things. It gives me a moment to check in with my body—is my jaw tight? Is my heart racing? It also shifts the discomfort back to the speaker. Often, in that silence, they hear their own words and begin to fumble. “I mean, you know, because you’re… I just meant…” The pause is a boundary, not a wall. It says: I heard you, and I’m choosing my response, not just reacting.
This practice is rooted in the emotional cartography I often write about. Migration is not just a physical journey; it’s an internal one, mapping the spaces between who you are and who the world tells you you are. The pause is a way of marking a safe house on that map, a place where you can decide whether to engage or to keep walking. Viktor Frankl’s idea—that between stimulus and response there is a space, and in that space is our power to choose—has become a quiet mantra for me. In that space, I choose my freedom.
The Ritual of Release: Washing the Day Away
Some microaggressions stick, no matter how mindful the pause. They burrow into the soft tissue of the evening, replaying as you try to unwind. For these, I have a ritual. It is not grand or spiritual in any formal sense; it is domestic and deeply personal. I wash my face. But I do it slowly, deliberately, as my mother taught me to do after a long day at the market in Ibadan. She would come home, her wrapper dusty, her feet aching, and she would pour cool water from a plastic kettle over her hands and face. It was a reset, a washing away of the day’s transactions—both financial and emotional.
I have adapted this. When I get home after an encounter that has left a residue, I go to the sink. I use cold water. I cup it in my hands and press it to my closed eyes, just as she did. I let it run down my wrists. It’s a physical act of saying: this is not mine to carry. The microaggression was a moment; it does not get to become my evening. This ritual is not about forgiveness or forgetting. It is about refusing to let someone else’s ignorance colonise my private hours. It is a small, unspoken ceremony of re-entry into my own skin.
The Art of Selective Education
There is a time to teach and a time to protect your peace. I used to feel a crushing responsibility to correct every microaggression, to turn every awkward moment into a teachable one. But I’ve learned that not everyone is my student, and not every classroom is mine to manage. Now, I assess. Is this person open to learning, or are they just performing curiosity? Is this a relationship I value, or a stranger I will never see again? My energy is finite, and I guard it fiercely.
When I do choose to engage, I keep it brief and personal. I don’t quote studies or statistics; I speak from my own life. “When you say that, it makes me feel like I don’t belong here, even though this is my home.” I use “I” statements, not because the burden of explanation should be on me, but because it is the most disarming and effective way to reach someone who might otherwise become defensive. It’s hard to argue with someone’s lived experience. And if they try, that’s my cue to exit the conversation. I’ve learned that my story is not a debate topic.
This selective approach is not about letting people off the hook. It’s about recognising that my primary responsibility is to my own well-being. The work of dismantling systemic bias is vital, but it is collective and long-term. My daily emotional health cannot be sacrificed on the altar of every ignorant comment. I contribute to that larger work through my writing, my art, and my intentional conversations—not by bleeding out in the cereal aisle.
Finding Anchors in the Unspoken
There is a particular kind of microaggression that comes from within our own communities, and it is perhaps the most disorienting. It’s the subtle policing of how “Nigerian” or “British” you are. Speaking Yoruba with a slight accent. Not knowing the exact village your grandfather came from. Preferring jollof rice with quinoa (I know, I know, but it’s healthier!). These moments can feel like a betrayal, a small exile from the very culture that is supposed to be your refuge from the outside world’s othering.
My anchor here has been the unspoken rituals of family. The way my auntie will wordlessly hand me a plate of pounded yam after a difficult day. The shared look with my cousin when an elder says something particularly old-fashioned. The rhythm of our patois, a blend of Yoruba and English that is a language of belonging. These are the counterweights to the slights. They remind me that identity is not a checklist to be policed but a living, breathing thing. When a microaggression—internal or external—threatens to make me feel like an impostor, I ground myself in these rituals. I remember that I am not a theory of diaspora; I am a daughter, a sister, a friend. I am loved in a language that needs no translation.
Building a Soft Armour: Daily Practices for Resilience
Handling microaggressions is not just about in-the-moment strategies; it’s about building a life that can absorb the blows without shattering. For me, this “soft armour” is woven from three threads: community, creativity, and rest.
Community as a Mirror
I have a small circle of friends—other Black British women, other children of the diaspora—with whom I can share these experiences without having to explain the context. We have a WhatsApp group called “The Sigh Heard Round the World.” When someone posts a story of a microaggression, the responses are not always advice. Sometimes it’s just a voice note of laughter, a “they tried it,” or a string of emojis that say, “I see you, and you are not crazy.” This mirroring is essential. Microaggressions often make you question your own perception. Was that really a slight? Am I being too sensitive? Community reflects back the truth: your feelings are valid, and you are not alone.
Creativity as a Processing Plant
Writing is my primary way of metabolising these experiences. When a comment lodges under my skin, I often sit down and write it out—not as a polished essay, but as a raw, private journal entry. I give the moment a name, describe the taste it left in my mouth, trace its roots back to other, similar moments. This process turns a diffuse, painful fog into something solid and manageable. It takes the power out of the event and puts it into my hands. I transform the microaggression into material. It becomes a story I control, rather than a story that controls me.
Rest as Resistance
Finally, I have learned to rest. Not as a reward for enduring, but as a form of resistance in itself. The world often expects people of colour to be constantly resilient, to bounce back with a smile and a lesson. I reject that. Some days, after a particularly grating encounter, I will do absolutely nothing productive. I will lie on my sofa, watch a Nigerian rom-com, and eat Indomie noodles. This is not laziness; it is a deliberate act of self-preservation. It is a way of telling the world: you do not get to dictate my emotional state. I am reclaiming my time, my energy, my joy.
When the Micro Becomes Macro: Knowing When to Walk Away
It’s important to distinguish between a microaggression and outright hostility. A microaggression is often born of ignorance or unconscious bias; it’s a paper cut. But when those paper cuts become a pattern, or when they escalate into something sharper, it’s no longer micro. It’s a hostile environment. In those cases, handling it gracefully is not the goal. The goal is safety and self-preservation. I have left jobs, ended friendships, and avoided certain spaces because the emotional tax became too high. This is not failure; it is discernment. Your peace is not a bargaining chip.
There is a quiet grief in these decisions, a mourning for the relationship or opportunity that could have been. I allow myself to feel that grief without letting it convince me to stay. The Nigerian-British experience is full of such trade-offs: the longing for home that exists in two places, the balancing of respect for elders with the need for self-definition. Walking away from a toxic environment is an extension of that negotiation. It is saying: I deserve a space where my full humanity is recognised, and I will not settle for less.
FAQ: Navigating the Everyday
How do you respond when someone says, “But where are you really from?”
I used to give a geography lesson. Now, I often say, “I’m from South London, but my heritage is Nigerian.” If they push further, I might ask, “Why do you ask?” with a curious, not confrontational, tone. This gently turns the mirror back on them. Sometimes they realise the question is loaded; sometimes they don’t. Either way, I’ve protected my energy by not launching into an explanation I didn’t owe them in the first place.
What if the microaggression comes from a family member?
This is the hardest terrain. With family, the cuts are deeper because the love is real. I try to separate the comment from the person. If my auntie says something about my weight or my marriage status, I remind myself that she is speaking from her own cultural script, one written long before I was born. I might say, “I know you mean well, but that comment stung a bit.” Sometimes it lands; sometimes it doesn’t. But I’ve said my piece, and I can release it. The ritual of washing my face is especially helpful after family gatherings.
How do you avoid becoming bitter or cynical?
By focusing on joy as a discipline. I actively seek out beauty, laughter, and connection. I curate my social media to show me Black joy, not just Black trauma. I cook meals that remind me of my grandmother. I dance to Burna Boy in my kitchen. Bitterness is a valid emotion, but it’s a heavy coat to wear every day. I choose to hang it up when I can. This doesn’t mean ignoring injustice; it means refusing to let it be the only story I live.
Is it ever okay to just ignore a microaggression?
Absolutely. You do not owe anyone a response. Your silence is not complicity; it is a choice. Some days, you simply don’t have the capacity, and that is perfectly valid. Ignoring a comment can be a powerful act of boundary-setting. It says: this is not worthy of my time or my emotional labour. Save your energy for the battles that matter to you.
A Quiet Invitation
This is not a definitive guide. It is a snapshot of one woman’s practice, a collection of small, imperfect strategies for navigating a world that often forgets to see you fully. I am still learning. Just last week, a colleague complimented my “exotic” lunch, and I felt that familiar flush of irritation. I paused. I breathed. I said, “It’s just stew and rice, but thank you.” And then I let it go. The pebble was there, but I didn’t let it become a stone in my shoe for the rest of the day.
I invite you to find your own rituals, your own pauses, your own soft armour. And if you have a story or a strategy you’d like to share, I would love to hear it. This space is built on the understanding that our individual maps, when laid side by side, create a larger cartography of belonging. Perhaps, together, we can chart a way home.
