Book Review: ‘The Only Black Girl in the Room’
A razor-sharp story about race, resilience, and reclaiming your voice — even when the room wasn’t built for you.
What It’s About (In My Own Words)
The Only Black Girl in the Room by Alex Travis
Gen is a Black journalist in a white newsroom, trying to do her job while everyone around her quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) makes it harder. She’s tired. She’s brilliant. She’s stuck in a system that wants her talent but not her truth. When an old flame reappears — Jude, a recovering alcoholic and unexpectedly tender tech CEO — she’s forced to face how much she’s been pushing down: her grief, her ambition, her anger.
It’s a story about voice. About the quiet, corrosive power of microaggressions. About what happens when you start speaking up. And it’s about love, too — not just romantic, but the one you reclaim for yourself when you decide you’re done shrinking.
There’s a particular kind of book that feels less like escapism and more like a quiet confrontation — the kind that sits you down and says, you need to look at this. That’s what reading The Only Black Girl in the Room by Alex Travis felt like.
This is Gen’s story — a Black journalist in a predominantly white newsroom, trying to do her job while also navigating constant, casual bias and the weight of being the only one. The only Black girl in the room, on the pitch, in the meeting. The story is contemporary, yes. But the themes? Deeply structural. Exhaustingly real.
This book is both soft and sharp. It’s about microaggressions and missed opportunities. About the invisible weight Black women carry at work, in relationships, in silence. And it’s about what happens when you start to name those weights — and decide you’re done carrying them alone.
As a white reader, it wasn’t comfortable. It’s not supposed to be. Gen’s inner world is sharply drawn — full of dignity, frustration, fatigue, and brilliance — and through her, the book asks its readers (especially white ones) to reckon with how racism shows up in insidious, everyday ways.
But this isn’t just a workplace novel. It’s a coming-of-age story for someone who’s already technically come of age. It’s about identity, loneliness, and finding your voice again after the world has tried to shrink it. There’s a romance, too — a second-chance one — but it’s not the centrepiece.
Gen reconnects with Jude, a wealthy ginger CEO (yes, really) who’s dealing with his own grief and sobriety. I wasn’t sure what to make of him at first. There’s a hint of White Knight Complex1 in his early appearances, and I bristled. But to my surprise, he steps back. He listens. He grows. And Gen doesn’t let him take up too much space — in her story or her healing. Their relationship isn’t the spark that sets her free. It’s a flicker of possibility, which is enough2.
This is the kind of book that won’t be for everyone, and it’s exactly the kind of story that could set off a hundred different conversations in a book club. Probably some arguments, too. And honestly? That’s the sign of a good book.
MOM BRAIN FILTER
I want Teresa to grow up knowing that being the only one in the room doesn’t mean staying quiet. And that her voice matters — even when it shakes — and she’s allowed to take up space. But I also want her to uplift the voices of those too often talked over or shut out. I want her to read stories like this, where speaking truth to power is hard but necessary, and strength looks like softness, solidarity, and showing up for yourself and others.
READ IF YOU:
Want a grounded, contemporary story about what it actually feels like to be the only Black girl in the room
Are up for a romance that simmers in the background
Are ready to examine your own biases, even if it stings
Miss newsroom dramas
SKIP IF YOU:
Prefer romance front and centre
Aren’t up for confronting white privilege, systemic bias, or workplace microaggressions
Are looking for a feel-good escape — this one leans more thoughtful than cosy
⭐ RULING
This one got under my skin. The Only Black Girl in the Room doesn’t coddle its reader, nor should it — especially if you’re white, like me. It’s not a story that wraps itself up neatly or offers easy catharsis. Instead, it holds up a mirror. And if you’re paying attention, you’ll find yourself sitting with some uncomfortable truths. That said, it’s never cruel. Alex Travis writes with compassion and clarity, and refuses to let her characters (or readers) off the hook.
It’s not a perfect book — the romance teeters on the edge of cliché at times — but Gen never loses her agency, and that kept me grounded. I finished it feeling cracked open and quietly grateful. A bold, timely, necessary read.
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YOUR TURN
Haven’t read this yet? No worries — I still want to hear from you:
Do you tend to read books that challenge you?
Ever felt like the “only” in a room?
What’s a book that made you think differently about identity or belonging?
👇 Let’s talk. I’m listening.
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Jude has a bit of a white saviour complex, a concept that refers explicitly to the damaging effects of white individuals, upon a place of power, trying to help BIPOC. You can read more about What Is White Savior Complex and Why Is It Harmful?, in Colleen Murphy’s article, from Health, a publication focused on health and wellness.
Their chemistry confused me more than once, but you know what? Not everything needs to sizzle. Sometimes slow, awkward healing is the vibe.
I don't know if you've also read The Other Black Girl but it is a thriller with similar themes and it's really good. And Such A Fun Age is a classic book about race that is easy to read because it's so well written and it's still fun but hard because of the themes it approaches.