For centuries, Black women have carried the weight of society’s distorted perceptions of their bodies. From the inhumane objectification of Saartjie Baartman to the media’s ongoing portrayal of Black women as inherently provocative, our identities have been shaped—and scarred—by a narrative we never consented to. This hypersexualization is not just a cultural stain; it’s a weapon, one that makes us uniquely vulnerable to exploitation and abuse, especially in the form of human trafficking.

Traffickers prey on societal biases, knowing they can exploit the stereotypes that paint Black women and girls as “grown,” as “willing,” as less worthy of protection. These harmful narratives create a perfect storm where Black girls are overpoliced, underprotected, and blamed for their own victimization. In too many cases, their cries for help are dismissed, their pain overlooked, and their humanity ignored. Black women and girls are disproportionately targeted in this brutal trade. They account for over 40% of sex trafficking victims in the U.S., despite making up just 13% of the population. This isn’t just a statistic; it’s a grim reminder of the vulnerability imposed by systemic inequities and the undervaluing of Black lives.

When a young Black girl goes missing, she isn’t met with the same urgency as others. Too often, assumptions are made: She’s a runaway. She’s fast. She wanted this. These insidious judgments don’t just harm the victims—they embolden predators. A culture that reduces Black women to their physicality and hypersexualizes them at every turn essentially hands traffickers the keys to their exploitation.

This problem is deeply rooted. It starts early. Think about the way Black girls are disciplined more harshly in schools, viewed as older than their age, and denied their innocence. Consider the ways media reinforces the idea that Black women are “exotic” or “wild,” commodifying their sexuality while ignoring their humanity. This conditioning feeds a system that dehumanizes Black women, making them easier targets for traffickers and harder candidates for rescue.

The impact is devastating. Black women and girls make up a disproportionate number of trafficking victims in the United States, yet their stories rarely make headlines. Their voices are silenced, their trauma dismissed, and their road to recovery filled with obstacles that others rarely encounter. Survivors face stigma not only because of their exploitation but because of the stereotypes that perpetuated it in the first place.

Ending this cycle requires a collective reckoning with how we view and value Black women. It means dismantling the harmful tropes that reduce them to their bodies and replacing them with narratives that honor their intellect, creativity, and resilience. It means educating our communities to recognize that the hypersexualization of Black women is not just offensive—it is deadly.

We must hold media, institutions, and ourselves accountable. Every time we tolerate a degrading stereotype, share a harmful image, or excuse predatory behavior, we contribute to a culture that endangers Black women and girls. Protecting them means shifting this culture, one conversation, one action, and one system at a time.

Black women are not commodities. They are not stereotypes. They are not to be erased, exploited, or ignored. It’s time we see them fully—for their strength, for their humanity, for their worth—and work together to build a world where their safety is never in question.