I sometimes wonder if white people *felt* it.

The moment the pandemic hit.
The moment offices emptied.
The moment work-from-home became the norm.

I wonder if they noticed that something else left too.

Not just bodies.
Not just labor hours.
But **energy**.

For decades, Black people—especially Black women—have been more than employees in white-dominated workplaces. Beyond our job descriptions, many of us were quietly expected to provide emotional regulation, cultural texture, humor, grounding, conflict mediation, and morale. We softened sharp edges. We translated tension. We made sterile environments feel human.

This wasn’t listed in the offer letter.
It wasn’t compensated.
And it was rarely acknowledged.

It was simply *available*—and therefore assumed.

When offices shut down, access to that energy shut down with it.

No more hallway venting sessions.
No more desk-side emotional offloading disguised as “checking in.”
No more relying on Black coworkers to bring warmth, perspective, or emotional steadiness into systems that were never built to generate it themselves.

Remote work did something radical: it **introduced boundaries** where none had been allowed before.

Cameras off.
Mics muted.
Slack messages unanswered until business hours—if at all.

For many Black workers, this shift didn’t feel like loss.

It felt like **relief**.

Less masking.
Fewer microaggressions.
Less unpaid emotional labor.
More space to see work for what it actually was.

Meanwhile, institutions began lamenting “culture loss.”

They said collaboration was suffering.
That creativity had declined.
That something intangible was missing.

What they were often mourning wasn’t the office.

They were mourning the loss of **unreciprocated access**.

Energy *is* labor.
Presence *is* labor.
Being the emotional shock absorber in inequitable systems *is* labor.

And when labor is exploited long enough, withdrawal isn’t apathy—it’s **self-preservation**.

So when people talk about disengagement, burnout, or Black women “opting out” since 2020, it’s worth asking: opting out of *what*?

Of overextension without protection?
Of contribution without care?
Of systems that demand wholeness while offering fragmentation in return?

This moment isn’t about disappearance.

It’s about **reclamation**.

Reclaiming energy.
Reclaiming boundaries.
Reclaiming the right to exist at work without being mined for more than we’re paid to give.

And if certain workplaces feel hollow, frantic, or unmoored right now—that’s not a mystery.

That’s what happens when a system built on extraction suddenly loses its most reliable source.