I’m not your Dr. King: Reflections on the Humanity of Black Leadership

As we kick off the 100th anniversary of Black History Month, I look around our nation with a heavy heart. The tragedies impacting our communities at the local, state, and national levels should be a call to reconciliation. From ICE raids to legislation that “others” our transgender neighbors, to the economic challenges weighing heavily on our most vulnerable, we are being called to look inward—and to act—to ensure that the world we live in today is not the same world we pass on to the next generation.

Each Black History Month, many take to social media to honor prolific Black leaders of the past and present who helped shape a better world. Among them is Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—my fraternity brother and a civil rights activist renowned for advancing justice through nonviolent action. His work was celebrated just last month in honor of his birthday. Yet every year, as this month arrives, I find myself wrestling with a deeper question: Why don’t we more honestly contend with the cost of that leadership?

Many Black leaders, including Dr. King, did phenomenal work to advance civil, social, and human rights during a time when their social and economic power was limited, and their intellectual capacity was often challenged or outright dismissed. What we talk about far less is what that work demanded of them mentally, emotionally, and personally. At what cost did they push forward progress for everyone?

As I sit in a seat on the Wichita City Council—one that very few Black people have had the privilege to occupy—I wonder the same thing. I hear Black leaders across our state express an overwhelming pressure to go above and beyond, often feeling as though they are playing by a different set of rules. I imagine Dr. King felt this pressure too, yet still carried the charge of leading his generation toward a higher calling and purpose. I feel that responsibility as well.

But as we reflect on the 100th anniversary of Black History Month, I believe it is time to challenge the status quo.

While Dr. King and so many others we honor this month were transformational, the burdens they carried might have been lighter had more people who believed in the vision shared the load. 

We do not know what Dr. King endured behind closed doors—arguably only his wife, Coretta Scott King, and his family truly did. What we do know is that research consistently shows Black leadership comes with higher risk and fewer rewards. Studies from organizations such as Catalyst and Harvard Business Review have found that Black leaders experience higher levels of scrutiny, emotional stress, and burnout—often referred to as the “emotional tax”—while receiving less social capital, fewer second chances, and slower advancement than their white counterparts. In short, we are expected to show up more, endure harsher criticism, outperform our peers, and deliver beyond normal expectations—without receiving the same respect, mobility, or acknowledgment of our sacrifices.

One night before his assassination, Martin Luther King Jr. delivered what would become known as the Mountaintop speech. What is often overlooked is that King never planned to speak that night. He was exhausted, sick with a fever, and asked his friend, Ralph Abernathy, to speak instead. But as Abernathy took the stage, he sensed the crowd’s disappointment in not getting to hear King speak and decided to call his friend: “Please can you get down here? The people are here to see you.”

It’s hard not to imagine the mental and emotional wrestling in that moment. His body needed rest, and he had every legitimate reason not to show up. Yet King likely understood the unspoken reality of Black leadership: absence is rarely met with grace. Disappointment can turn into discouragement. Commitment can be questioned. Credibility can be doubted.

In the months leading up to the Mountaintop speech, King openly expressed frustration that the movement’s vision was not being fully realized. Research on Black leadership describes this as a unique burden: constant scrutiny, heightened moral expectations, and little room for vulnerability or rest.

That reality hasn’t changed much.

Modern Black leaders—whether in politics, nonprofits, faith spaces, or grassroots movements—still navigate the same tension. We are expected to be present even when depleted, strong even when grieving, and consistent even when systems move slowly. Our humanity is often secondary to the role we represent.

Seen through this lens, the Mountaintop speech is more than prophecy. It is the sound of a tired leader choosing presence over preservation—not because he was well, but because he knew the cost of absence would be placed on him, and on the people watching.

That is the unspoken inheritance of Black leadership—then and now.

In a world that celebrates Dr. King, it is time for this generation to be clear: while we honor and love Dr. King, we are not Dr. King.

Today’s generation of Black leadership is demanding more of our peers. We are speaking boldly about the realities of leading while Black, and we are calling people in, not out, to examine the expectations placed on us compared to those placed on our counterparts.

This month, I challenge each of us—myself included—to sit down and have a real conversation with a Black leader you admire. Get to know them beyond their title. Ask what keeps them up at night. Ask what makes leadership harder when their identity is taken into account. Ask how you can help. Acknowledge the weight that often comes with occupying space in systems that were not always crafted with us in mind.

When we engage in these tough but necessary conversations, we begin to understand that the dream is not yet fully realized. But with collective hands and a shared voice, it can be—not only for the next generation, but for ours as well.