COREY STRONG

There was a version of me that showed up to work every day.

He smiled a little longer. Chose his words a little more carefully. Laughed at jokes that weren’t particularly funny. He softened his voice, straightened his posture, and made sure every sentence sounded polished enough to reassure people that he belonged there.

Then there was the version of me my friends knew.

The one who laughed until his stomach hurt. The one whose voice naturally became louder, warmer, more expressive. The one who didn’t spend every conversation wondering how he might be perceived before he even finished a sentence.

For years, I thought everyone lived this way.

Then I learned there was a name for it.

Code switching.

For those unfamiliar with the term, code switching is the practice of changing the way you speak, behave, dress, or express yourself depending on the environment you’re in. While people from many backgrounds do this to some degree, for many Black Americans it carries a much heavier weight.

It isn’t simply about being professional.

It’s about survival.

It’s about reading a room before the room reads you.

Growing up Black in America often means becoming fluent in two cultures.

One language for home.

Another for work.

One personality around family.

Another around people who hold power over your paycheck.

That doesn’t mean we’re dishonest.

It means we’ve learned that authenticity sometimes comes with consequences.

I can remember sitting in meetings where I’d consciously lower the rhythm of my voice. I’d avoid certain expressions. I’d pronounce every word with almost surgical precision. Not because that’s who I naturally was, but because somewhere along the way I learned that sounding “too Black” might cause someone to question my intelligence before they ever questioned my work.

No one had to say it directly.

You just learn.

Sometimes through sideways glances.

Sometimes through jokes.

Sometimes by watching another Black coworker be labeled “aggressive” for saying the exact same thing someone else said five minutes earlier.

You notice patterns.

And patterns become habits.

Eventually those habits become second nature.

The strange part is that code switching can become so automatic you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

You leave work and call your cousin.

Within seconds your voice changes.

Your cadence changes.

The words you’ve been holding back all day suddenly return.

Nothing about you became fake in either conversation.

But something did become exhausting.

People often ask whether code switching means you’re being inauthentic.

I’ve wrestled with that question for years.

I don’t think it’s as simple as saying yes or no.

We all adapt.

I don’t speak to my grandmother the same way I’d speak to my closest friend.

I wouldn’t give a podcast interview the same way I’d order coffee.

Context matters.

But for many Black Americans, code switching isn’t merely adjusting to context.

It’s adjusting to comfort.

It’s wondering whether your natural self will be interpreted as threatening, uneducated, emotional, difficult, or “not a good fit.”

That’s a very different calculation.

It asks you to constantly edit yourself before anyone else has the chance.

There’s an invisible tax that comes with that.

Mental energy.

Emotional energy.

The quiet pressure of wondering whether you’re representing yourself or representing an entire race every time you open your mouth.

That’s a burden many people never have to think about.

The irony is that many workplaces today celebrate words like diversity, inclusion, and belonging.

But belonging isn’t asking someone to bring only the acceptable pieces of themselves.

Belonging means they don’t have to leave parts of themselves in the parking lot before walking through the front door.

I’ve become more comfortable with who I am over the years.

I still know how to navigate different spaces.

That’s part of being emotionally intelligent.

But I’ve stopped believing that professionalism requires me to erase my personality.

Those aren’t the same thing.

I’ve learned that confidence doesn’t always sound like everyone else.

Sometimes confidence sounds like finally letting your own voice be heard.

Maybe that’s the real conversation we should be having.

Not whether Black Americans code switch.

We do.

The better question is why we’ve felt the need to become experts at it in the first place.

Imagine how much creativity, joy, humor, and authenticity could exist if fewer people felt they had to perform acceptance before they ever received it.

Maybe freedom isn’t reaching a place where we never adjust to different situations.

Maybe freedom is reaching a place where the distance between our public voice and our private one becomes so small that we finally recognize both as our own.

I think that’s a version of success worth striving for.

Have you ever felt like you had to become a different version of yourself just to make someone else comfortable, or have you been fortunate enough to always speak in your own voice?

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Title photo by Theo Decker.