Microaggressions are the small, often unintentional slights that remind you, in a flash, that you are being read as other. For those of us who carry a Nigerian-British life in our bodies, they arrive in ordinary places: the pause before a shop assistant says your name, the question about where you are really from, the hand that reaches for your hair without asking. They are not always dramatic. That is partly why they are so exhausting. This article is about how I have learned to meet them without letting them set the temperature of my whole day. It is not a manual. It is a record of practice, written for anyone who has ever walked home replaying a sentence and wondering why it stung.
I think of microaggressions as small interruptions in the story you are trying to live. The psychologist Derald Wing Sue, who has written extensively on the subject, describes them as brief, everyday exchanges that send denigrating messages to people because they belong to a marginalised group. They can be verbal, behavioural, or environmental. What matters is not always the intent. What matters is the cumulative weight. One comment about how well I speak English is easy to brush off. The fiftieth comment, delivered in the same week you are already homesick for Lagos and tired of explaining your surname, is not.
In my own life, the most common microaggressions fall into a few familiar shapes. There is the geography question: “But where are you from originally?” There is the compliment that is really a correction: “You’re so articulate.” There is the assumption of struggle: “It must have been so hard growing up there.” And there is the invisible border: the way a room shifts when I walk in, or the way my Britishness is treated as provisional until I prove it with a certain accent, a certain reference, a certain ease.
None of these are, on their own, catastrophic. But they arrive with a quiet regularity that can make a day feel like a series of small negotiations. I have learned that the goal is not to eliminate them. The goal is to decide, again and again, how much of my attention they deserve.
What I Mean When I Say Microaggression
I use the word carefully. Not every awkward comment is a microaggression. Sometimes people are simply curious, or clumsy, or trying to connect. The difference, for me, is in the message underneath. A microaggression carries a hidden assumption about who belongs, who is normal, and who is perpetually outside. It is the difference between “What part of Nigeria is your family from?” and “But you don’t look Nigerian.” The first is an invitation. The second is a verdict.
Researchers often group microaggressions into three categories: microassaults, microinsults, and microinvalidations. A microassault is the most obvious, like a racial slur or a deliberate exclusion. A microinsult is subtler, like telling a Black British woman she is “so professional” in a tone that suggests surprise. A microinvalidation is the one that erases your experience, like saying “I don’t see colour” or “You’re overthinking it.” I have experienced all three. The last one is the one that used to undo me most, because it made me doubt my own reading of the room.
What I have come to understand is that microaggressions are not really about the moment. They are about a pattern. A single drop of rain is nothing. A season of rain changes the landscape. That is why I no longer ask myself, “Was that really a microaggression?” I ask instead, “Is this part of a pattern I recognise, and how do I want to respond today?”
The Cost of Carrying It All
There is a particular tiredness that comes from being the person who is always expected to explain. Explain your name. Explain your hair. Explain your food. Explain why you are in Britain, as if migration is a mystery that needs solving. I used to carry every comment home with me, turning it over like a stone. By evening, I would be exhausted, not from the comment itself, but from the effort of deciding whether to respond, how to respond, and what my response might cost.
That exhaustion has a name in the research literature: racial battle fatigue. It describes the cumulative psychological toll of constantly navigating racially charged environments. I am not a researcher, but I know the feeling in my body. It is the tightness in my shoulders after a meeting where I was the only Black person and had to perform calm. It is the way I sometimes rehearse a sentence before saying it, because I know my tone will be read differently than a white colleague’s tone. It is the small grief of realising that a friend did not notice what I noticed, and that explaining it would take more energy than I have.
I do not say this to invite pity. I say it because naming the cost is part of how I stop paying it so freely. When I can say, “That comment cost me twenty minutes of mental energy,” I can also say, “And I am not willing to give it more.”
My Three-Part Practice
Over the years, I have developed a small practice for handling microaggressions. It is not a formula. It is more like a set of questions I carry in my pocket. I use them when I feel that familiar prickle at the back of my neck.
1. Pause Before I Decide
The first thing I do is pause. Not a dramatic pause, just a breath. In that breath, I ask myself: Do I have the energy for this right now? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes the answer is no. Both are legitimate. There is a strange pressure, especially for Black women, to always be the educator, the one who explains, the one who stays calm while doing the emotional labour of someone else’s learning. I have given myself permission to opt out. Not every moment is a teaching moment. Some moments are just moments, and I am allowed to let them pass.
This pause is not avoidance. It is discernment. It is the difference between reacting from a place of hurt and responding from a place of choice. When I pause, I am not swallowing the comment. I am deciding what to do with it.
2. Name It, Even If Only to Myself
The second thing I do is name what happened. Sometimes I name it aloud, if the situation feels safe and the relationship matters. More often, I name it silently. I say to myself: That was a microaggression. It was not about me. It was about an assumption someone carried into the room. Naming it matters because it stops the slow leak of self-doubt. It reminds me that my perception is not the problem.
When I do choose to speak, I keep it simple. I might say, “I’m not sure what you meant by that. Could you say more?” Or, “I’d rather you didn’t touch my hair.” Or, “I’m from London, and my family is Nigerian. Both are true.” The goal is not to win an argument. The goal is to mark the boundary clearly, without setting fire to the whole afternoon.
3. Close the Loop
The third thing I do is close the loop. This is the part that keeps a microaggression from defining my day. After the moment has passed, I give myself a small ritual of return. Sometimes it is a cup of tea and a few minutes of silence. Sometimes it is a text to a friend who understands without needing a long explanation. Sometimes it is a walk around the block, letting my feet remember that I am more than that one exchange.
Closing the loop is not about pretending it did not happen. It is about refusing to let it become the centre of gravity. I have learned that I can acknowledge a wound without living inside it. The comment happened. The day is still mine.
The Questions I Ask Myself
There are a few questions that help me decide how to respond in the moment. I offer them here not as a checklist, but as a way of slowing down the rush of feeling.
- Is this person important to me? If it is a stranger on a bus, I owe them nothing. If it is a colleague I will see every day, the calculus changes.
- Is this a pattern or a one-off? A single clumsy comment from a friend who is usually thoughtful deserves a different response than the fifth comment from someone who never listens.
- What do I need right now? Sometimes I need to speak. Sometimes I need to leave. Sometimes I need to laugh, because the comment is so absurd that laughter is the only honest response.
- What will this cost me? Every response has a price. I try to be honest about what I am willing to pay.
These questions do not make the moment painless. But they make it less chaotic. They give me a small ledge to stand on while the ground shifts.
What I No Longer Do
There are things I used to do that I have stopped doing. I no longer pretend I did not hear. I no longer laugh along to soften the discomfort. I no longer rush to reassure the other person that it is fine, that I am not angry, that they do not need to feel bad. I no longer spend the rest of the day writing and rewriting the perfect response in my head.
I also no longer believe that my worth depends on being unbothered. There is a certain performance of resilience that Black women are expected to maintain, a kind of unflappable grace that is exhausting to sustain. I have given myself permission to be bothered. To be hurt. To be tired. The goal is not to feel nothing. The goal is to feel it and still choose my next step.
The Role of Humour
Humour has become one of my quiet tools. Not the kind that hides the hurt, but the kind that names the absurdity. When someone asks me, for the third time, where I am really from, I sometimes say, “Woolwich, but my ancestors took a detour.” It is a small joke, but it does real work. It reminds me that I am not a problem to be solved. It also reminds the other person that the question has been asked before, and that the answer is not as simple as they imagined.
I do not use humour when the wound is too fresh. But on ordinary days, it is a way of holding my own without holding a grudge. It is a way of saying: I see what you did there, and I am still here, and I am not diminished.
When the Microaggression Comes from Someone You Love
The hardest microaggressions are the ones that come from people I love. A family member who says something careless about my hair. A friend who makes a joke that lands wrong. A partner who does not understand why a comment about my accent stung. These are the moments that test my practice most.
With loved ones, I try to lead with the relationship, not the correction. I might say, “I know you did not mean it that way, but that comment landed hard for me.” Or, “When you said that, I felt like I had to defend a part of myself that I should not have to defend.” The goal is not to punish. The goal is to be known. If the person is willing to listen, the conversation can become a kind of repair. If they are not willing, that is information too.
I have learned that love does not exempt anyone from the work of seeing me clearly. And I have learned that I can love someone and still tell them the truth about how their words landed.
The Longer Arc
There is a longer arc to all of this. Microaggressions are not just personal. They are part of a larger story about who gets to feel at home in Britain, who gets to be seen as fully belonging, and whose difference is treated as a problem to be managed. When I write about my own small encounters, I am also writing about that larger story. I am writing about the Nigerian-British experience as a lived geography, a place where two worlds meet and sometimes collide.
I think of my mother, who came to Britain in the 1980s and learned to navigate a world that was not built for her. She did not have a word for microaggressions. She had a way of straightening her back and carrying on. I carry some of that with me. But I also carry a newer language, a way of naming what she could not always name. Both are part of my inheritance.
What I Want My Children to Know
I do not have children yet, but I think often about what I want to pass on. I want them to know that they do not have to shrink to make others comfortable. I want them to know that their name is not a burden. I want them to know that they can be fully Nigerian and fully British, and that no one gets to tell them which part is more real. I want them to know that a comment can sting without defining them, and that they are allowed to choose their response.
Most of all, I want them to know that the work of belonging is not theirs alone. It is a shared work, a family work, a community work. The unspoken rituals that hold families together are also the rituals that hold us steady when the world is careless with us. A pot of jollof on a Sunday. A phone call to a cousin who understands. A hymn hummed in the kitchen. These are not escapes from the world. They are the ground we stand on while we face it.
Practical Ways to Protect Your Day
Over time, I have gathered a few practical habits that help me keep a microaggression from taking over my day. They are small, but they work.
- Keep a note on your phone. When a comment stings, I sometimes write one line about it. Not a long journal entry, just a line. It helps me release it without carrying it in my body.
- Have a code word with a friend. A single text, like “teapot,” can mean “I need to vent for two minutes, no advice please.” It is a small lifeline.
- Create a re-entry ritual. When I come home after a hard day, I have a small ritual: shoes off, kettle on, a few minutes of silence. It marks the end of the outside world and the beginning of my own space.
- Remember what you are not responsible for. I am not responsible for someone else’s learning. I am not responsible for making them comfortable. I am responsible for my own peace, and that is enough.
These habits are not magic. They do not make the comments stop. But they help me remember that I am a person with a life, not a target with a scorecard.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is a microaggression?
A microaggression is a brief, everyday comment or action that sends a negative message to someone because of their identity. It can be intentional or unintentional. Examples include asking a Black British person where they are really from, touching someone’s hair without permission, or expressing surprise that someone is articulate. The harm comes from the cumulative effect of these small slights over time.
How do I respond to a microaggression without making things worse?
There is no single right answer. I often pause first and ask myself whether I have the energy to respond. If I do, I keep it simple and clear: “I’m not sure what you meant by that,” or “Please don’t touch my hair.” If I do not have the energy, I give myself permission to let it pass and protect my peace. The goal is not to win an argument, but to mark a boundary and keep my day intact.
What if the person did not mean any harm?
Intent and impact are different. A person may not mean harm, but the comment can still land painfully. I try to lead with the relationship when it matters: “I know you didn’t mean it that way, but that comment stung.” If the person is willing to listen, the conversation can become a moment of repair. If they are not, that is information about the relationship.
How do I stop microaggressions from ruining my whole day?
I use a small practice: pause, name it, and close the loop. I pause to decide how much energy the moment deserves. I name what happened, even if only to myself. Then I close the loop with a small ritual, like a cup of tea or a walk, to mark the end of the exchange and the return to my own life. It does not erase the hurt, but it keeps it from becoming the centre of the day.
A Note for the Road
If you have read this far, you probably know the feeling I am describing. You know the small pause in a conversation, the slight shift in a room, the question that is not really a question. I want you to know that you are not imagining it. And you are not alone in it. The work of handling microaggressions is not about becoming unbothered. It is about becoming more fully yourself, even in rooms that do not know what to do with you.
I am still learning. Some days I respond with grace. Some days I am tired and quiet. Some days I laugh. All of it is part of the practice. The day is still mine, and I am still here, and that is not a small thing.
This piece is part of a longer series on the emotional cartography of migration. In the next article, I will write about the unspoken rituals that hold Nigerian-British families together across distance, and what happens when those rituals begin to fade.
