I didn’t expect Straw to break me open.

But it did.

Taraji carried the weight like some of the women in my life once did—

shoulders slumped from stretching pennies,

lights off but pride on.

That kind of poor you don’t just live through—

you remember in your bones.

I’ve known hunger that hums in your belly like a warning.

I’ve seen neighbors lose their homes

and felt their grief in my own chest—

that’s what being an empath does.

You feel everything.

Even when it’s not yours to hold.

And then… she broke.

So loud, 

Not violent.

But still.

Like a tree cracking at the root after one too many storms.

That moment shattered me.

Because I know what it’s like to not know what to do.

To run out of answers, out of strength,

out of self.

But what held me was Sherri.

Her presence. Her warmth.

Her peer support wasn’t a service—it was soul.

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough:

how community saves us.

How sisterhood can be the bridge back to ourselves.

This film?

It’s not just about a woman snapping.

It’s about all the straws we carry.

All the times we don’t cry until it’s too heavy.

All the ways Black women are told to be strong

when what they really need

is rest…

and someone to say,

“I see you.”

As a Black human, I cried watching her pain.

Because behind every “strong” woman

is a story of being too strong for too long.

And behind some of us?

Is the ache of not knowing how to help

without falling apart, too.

Straw wasn’t a movie.

It was a mirror.

And sometimes, breaking

is how peace begins.