Misogynoir makes this type of isolation painfully relatable to me and my peers.
In a now-viral TikTok, 33-year-old Mayte Lisbeth gets vulnerable about how a recent long-term lack of affectionate touch has affected her psyche. The video’s caption — “It’s been five years of touch starvation. I’ll probably have some more of it. I’m not handling it well” — is telling in itself, but the emotional recording reveals so much in the context of the isolation of Black women in America.
“I feel like I’m dying … I feel like if I were to get the kind of hug that I fucking really want, I would crumble into pieces,” Mayte said during a poignant, nearly three-minute post in which she explains how difficult it is for her not to receive the affectionate touch her body and mind desperately crave.
The video has garnered thousands of comments from other Black female TikTokers who share similar experiences. Some make links between quarantine, technology and celibacy.
As a Black woman, it’s hard not to watch and think of how misogynoir makes this experience uniquely relatable to me and my peers.
According to Healthline, touch starvation (also known as touch hunger or deprivation) is indeed a thing; it occurs when a person receives little to no touch from other living things for a prolonged amount of time. As humans, most of us naturally crave daily skin-to-skin gentle touch, which can release the important “cuddle” chemical oxytocin, an essential contributor to our overall well-being and function. Positive physical interactions as short as three seconds — think: a great, genuine hug — can reduce cortisol levels and improve one’s immune system.
Healthy, consensual touch is not limited to only sensual or sexual exchanges. Handshakes and friendly hugs fit the bill, too. Still, we all know the difference between what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a handshake from a stranger and a hug from a loved one, which is also something Mayte justifiably critiques. “None of those people love me,” she says when discussing comments that suggest she pay for self-care services to meet her needs.
When viewing Mayte’s TikTok through the lens of Black womanhood, it’s evident how severely isolation plays a part in Black women and femme-identifying people’s health. Colorism, texturism, classism and proximity to whiteness all impact the love Black women do or don’t receive. Studies show that Black women marry less often and face discrimination within dating pools due mainly to white supremacist ideals around desirability. These feelings of loneliness also show up in work settings. Black women often tend to feel unsupported and undervalued as they must constantly prove their ability and worth in the workplace.
With all of the love that Black women and femme-identifying people give the world, it’s upsetting to see us have public breakdowns about not being loved in return. A world that loves and values us is possible. It happens when we collectively decide to discard violent tropes that isolate Black women and queer people. There’s a ton more to say about the hypersexualization of Black women and how that ironically isolates us even further, but for the sake of keeping it simple: This TikTok really resonated with me. Being touched regularly, lovingly and intentionally is our right, too.
Now, this doesn’t mean go run and hug the next Black woman or queer person you see, but do invest in creating spaces where we are safe — spaces that don’t require us to fight for our humanity to be seen as deserving of loving touch.
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