Why being the “first” is both an honor and a burden

Year after year, award show after award show, headline after headline, we hear the same phrase repeated: the first Black woman to. The first Black woman to win this award. The first Black woman to lead that company. The first Black woman to hold this office. Each time, there is an undeniable sense of pride. Seeing someone who looks like you reach a milestone that once seemed impossible affirms that progress is real and that barriers, however deeply rooted, can be broken.

But after the applause fades and the headlines cycle out, another realization sets in. Being “the first” is not just a celebration—it is a responsibility. It is a weight that does not disappear after the ceremony ends. That woman now carries a title that follows her everywhere, shaping how she is perceived, criticized, and remembered for years to come.

Perhaps no one embodies this duality more clearly than Kamala Harris. Harris made history as the first Black woman and the first South Asian woman to serve as Vice President of the United States. For many Black women, her election felt deeply personal. It was a moment of validation, a reminder that spaces historically closed off to us are not entirely unreachable. Yet Harris’s time in office also highlights the burden of being first. Every decision she makes is scrutinized at a level far beyond that of her predecessors. Her mistakes are magnified, her successes questioned, and her presence itself debated. She is not simply Kamala Harris, a public servant navigating an incredibly complex political landscape—she is Kamala Harris, the first, expected to represent an entire demographic rather than herself alone.

This expectation is what makes being first so heavy. When you are the first, you are rarely allowed the grace of being ordinary. You cannot fail quietly. You cannot learn publicly. Your missteps are not seen as individual errors but as reflections of your entire community. Society often treats firsts as test cases, as proof points to determine whether “someone like you” truly belongs in that space at all.

The pressure to be exceptional at all times becomes overwhelming. There is an unspoken demand to be flawless, to overperform, to leave no room for doubt. While others are allowed to grow into leadership, firsts are expected to arrive fully formed. They must be polished but relatable, confident but not threatening, assertive but never aggressive. For Black women especially, this tightrope is nearly impossible to walk.

At the same time, being first is undeniably an honor. It opens doors that were previously sealed shut. It creates visibility where there was once erasure. It gives younger generations something tangible to point to when they are told their dreams are unrealistic. Representation matters, not as a buzzword, but as a lived experience. Seeing a Black woman occupy a space of power changes what feels possible, even if subtly.

Yet representation alone is not enough. Too often, institutions celebrate firsts without addressing why it took so long to have one in the first place. The applause can feel hollow when it is not followed by structural change. Being the first should not mean being the only. Progress stalls when organizations treat one historic appointment as the finish line rather than the starting point.

There is also an emotional toll that rarely gets acknowledged. Being first often comes with isolation. There are few peers who truly understand the pressure you’re under. Mentorship is limited because there are so few who have walked that path before you. Every room you enter reminds you that you are an exception, not the rule. That awareness can be both motivating and exhausting.

Despite all of this, many firsts persist—not because the burden is light, but because the purpose is heavy. They understand that their presence is bigger than themselves. They know that even under scrutiny, their existence in that space disrupts a narrative that once said “never.” Their courage lies not in perfection, but in endurance.

The hope is that one day, the word first will lose its novelty. Not because the achievements are any less meaningful, but because they are no longer rare. The goal is a future where Black women are not anomalies in leadership, media, politics, or culture, but integral parts of those spaces. 

Until then, we must learn to celebrate firsts more responsibly. That means applauding their achievements while also offering them grace. It means recognizing the systems that made their journey harder and committing to dismantling them. And most importantly, it means ensuring that the path they carved does not close behind them.

Being the first is both an honor and a burden. It is a testament to resilience, courage, and possibility—but it should never be a lifelong sentence. The true measure of progress is not who breaks the barrier first, but how many are allowed to walk through after.