I’m angry. I’ve been angry for a long time. Usually about a lot of things. But there is nothing that infuriates me more than disparities in payment, in value, in how skill and talent are measured, or rather, manipulated.

I’ve sat at enough tables to know the difference between being praised and being paid. One, I’ve received in fair share and abundance. The other, I’ve always had to fight for. And still, somehow, come up short.

In my industry, I don’t see myself as better than the next person, nor worse. I’m different. I’m original or authentic (whatever you call it), and I’m consistent. I bring delivery, quality, creativity, and value. That much is clear. And yet, time and again, I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to be compensated in ways others receive automatically, without question, without negotiation, and often without justification. And it doesn’t take long to realize what it is: perception. Prejudice. A rigged system with entrenched structures.

You don’t have to be malicious to maintain inequality. All you have to do is follow the rules you’ve inherited and believe they’re fair.

There are people in my field, no more talented than I am, some far less, whose names or surnames come prepackaged with assumptions of value. Of polish. Of prestige. A skin tone that speaks louder than a CV. Meanwhile, I’m constantly asked to prove, again and again, that I deserve to be here. To be paid the value of my worth. To be taken seriously.

At one point in my career, I headed teams. I led them, trained them, and covered their mistakes. I discovered, slowly and with growing horror, that most of them, especially the white women, were earning at least twice what I was. Some of the white men, three times. I had more experience and more qualifications. I was doing more. The offer I had accepted had been final, non-negotiable, and tightly sealed. When I raised the issue, I wasn’t met with transparency or concern. I was gaslit. I was told I had simply “negotiated badly,” even though no one else had to negotiate at all.

I later learned that colleagues who shared their salary info with me, in an act of solidarity, were hauled over the coals and hazed for doing so. Silenced. Disciplined. Because exposing inequality is a greater crime than creating and perpetuating it.

And this has followed me. Every company, every project, every so-called opportunity. I’ve heard the same murmurs from others. But mostly, I’ve seen how their eyes roll over when you bring it up. Not because they disagree, but because they’ve accepted it. “It’s the way things are.” And that is what hurts the most. Not just the pay disparity, but the silence around it. The resignation. The deep, weary acceptance that your worth will always be calculated in someone else’s currency.

It chips away at your confidence. Slowly, insidiously. It tells you, again and again, that no matter how much you improve, no matter how skilled or consistent or excellent you are, you are not seen as worthy of reward. You can master the language, perfect the craft, shatter doors, earn your seat at the table, and still be shown how others value you. Because the system doesn’t care that much about mastery anymore. It cares about maintenance. About hierarchy. About keeping the gate locked and calling it a ladder.

I’ve seen it in every industry: sport, fashion, film, and academia. In fashion, for example, female models are paid more than male models, but not because their labor is respected. Because their bodies are commodified. Because male desire, filtered through capitalism, rewards the image of the objectified woman. Not as an agent, but as a product. And even then, those women are more often than not white. Chosen. There is a fantasy being sold, and that fantasy does not include people like me.

In film, white male actors dominate pay scales because they’re seen as box office draws, as marketable. Leo DiCaprio “sells more,” and so he gets the bigger piece of the pie. Sure. That logic is never applied with the same energy to Thuso Mbedu or a brilliant Mexican actress whose name doesn’t sit easily in the mouths of producers. Their excellence is never enough to defy the market logic shaped by whiteness, by history, by colonial tastes.

I’ve had clients sing my praises. Colleagues celebrate my work. Audiences are applauding it. But celebration is not compensation. And applause does not pay bills. If you love what I do, if you admire the lengths I go to, the ideas I bring, the ungodly hours I put in, and the obscene deadlines I meet, then you need to prove that with what matters: money.

Why do I have to justify my worth when you’re using the work to elevate your own brand, to bring in revenue, and to claim innovation and edge?

The truth is, I’ve started to recognize the pattern. When the phone rings and the job comes through, it’s not always because I’m the juiciest and plumpest tomato on the rack; it’s because I’m excellent and affordable. I’ve been in conversations where I know, without doubt, that I’ve been chosen not for my uniqueness, but for the price that they set.

I’ve seen graduates, fresh out of school, quote day rates that induce instant diarrhea and still be approved because they fit the profile. Because often a certain skin color comes with built-in interest. It inflates value before the work even starts.

This isn’t just about ego. It’s about integrity. Economic exploitation is baked into the system, and it replicates itself through housing, health, insurance, and loans. You get paid less but charged more. You’re offered lower salaries and higher premiums. Financial freedom, for many Black professionals, remains an illusion: something always just out of reach, just beyond the next hustle.

And that’s the cruelty of it. This system doesn’t just underpay us. It steals clarity. It robs us of our ability to know our own true worth. We’re left wondering if we’re being difficult, ungrateful, or unrealistic. We are trained to doubt ourselves. To hustle harder. To jump through the most impossible hoops just to be in the race, you are bound to lose. To accept less because it’s an opportunity.

I don’t want to overinflate my worth. I’m realistic. But the hardest part is this: I may never truly know how much I’m worth, because I’ve never lived in a system that allows me to make that decision. That lets me say, without apology, what I deserve and be met with agreement, not suspicion.

This is a cruel cycle. And it breaks people in ways we don’t talk about enough. Not just financially, but emotionally. Psychologically. It bleeds into every sphere of life.

But the silence must end. We need to name the lie: that meritocracy exists. That talent is neutral. That the market is fair. Because none of it is true. And until we dismantle that lie, we will continue to confuse applause for reward and praise for parity.

I’m not asking for applause anymore. I’m asking for financial justice. For honesty. For compensation that reflects reality, not race. And if that’s too much to ask, then maybe it’s not me who’s being unrealistic.