Let’s keep it real: being a Black entrepreneur in America is like running a marathon in steel-toe boots while everyone else sprints in track spikes. You’re covering the same distance—but with extra weight. That weight? A double tax.

It’s not about the IRS. It’s the unspoken, systemic toll that says: prove yourself twice as hard, twice as often, and twice as flawlessly just to end up with half the opportunity.

Take venture capital. Billions of dollars are being thrown around every year, but less than 2% ever finds its way into the hands of Black founders. Why? Because we’re rarely given the luxury of “potential.” White founders can walk into a pitch with a slick deck, a “vision,” and zero receipts—and leave with a multi-million-dollar check.

Black founders? We better walk in with receipts, revenue, a proven track record, and a miracle—and even then, the question isn’t “How can we help scale this?” but “Are you sure the market is big enough?” The double tax makes you earn belief the hard way, while others get belief as their down payment.

Let’s talk consumers. When a Black-owned brand hits the market, the bar isn’t just high—it’s sky-high. Products have to be flawless, packaging has to be pristine, and the rollout has to look like it came out of a Fortune 500 marketing budget.

Meanwhile, we’ve all seen mediocre brands (we won’t name names, but you’ve bought their watery skincare before) make it to shelves and stay there, buoyed by a system that extends grace we’re rarely offered.

Think of Rihanna’s Fenty Beauty. Forty shades shook the industry. But here’s the gag: inclusivity should’ve been standard. Fenty didn’t just enter the game; it rewrote the rulebook—because Black founders don’t get the privilege of “good enough.”

Here’s another layer of the tax: the weight of representation. When a Black business fails, it’s never just your failure. It becomes “See, that’s why investing in Black businesses is risky.” That kind of stigma doesn’t hang over white startups that crash and burn. They get to call it “experience.” We get to call it “a setback for the culture.”

That pressure—to be excellent for yourself and for everyone watching—creates a psychological tax no one talks about but every Black founder feels.

And yet—despite all that—we shine.

• Tristan Walker’s Bevel revolutionized men’s grooming and got snapped up by Procter & Gamble.
• Mellody Hobson co-leads Ariel Investments and chairs Starbucks’ board.
• Angela Benton’s Streamlytics is changing the way consumer data gets valued.

These are not exceptions—they’re proof. Proof that Black excellence endures, even when the system tries to double-charge us.

Here’s the bottom line: buying Black, investing Black, and supporting Black isn’t charity. It’s strategy. It’s equity. It’s survival. The double tax is real, but it’s not unbreakable. Consumers can shift habits beyond hashtags. Investors can check their bias at the term sheet. Corporations can stop handing out “allyship” press releases and start cutting actual contracts.

Because here’s the truth: Black entrepreneurs have always made a dollar out of fifteen cents. The question is, why are we still being forced to?