i keep coming back to this truth that sits in my chest like a drumbeat older than language. i have never known myself outside of being Black. not the costume version. not the corporate translation. not the february performance the country dusts off once a year. i mean the marrow-deep, universe-wide, soul-threaded kind. the kind that feels like sunlight and thunder living in the same body.

being Black is an inheritance that arrives without ceremony but with so much weight it reshapes your posture. it’s the taste of something your great-grandmother cooked without measuring. it’s the familiar hum in your throat even if you don’t know the song. it’s the shared look between Black strangers that says i see you, i know you, i got you.

being a Black woman is a revelation every morning. it’s sacred and soft and perilous and mighty. it’s walking through a world that keeps trying to misname you, misunderstand you, underestimate you, and still managing to bloom in ways they can’t predict. it’s being a storm and a sunrise in the same skin. it’s the beauty that grows from resilience but also from joy that refuses to die.

some days i feel the ancestors crowding around me, whispering reminders in a language my body understands but my mouth can’t speak. straighten your back. walk in your purpose. don’t let them make you small. you come from people who bent the world to stay alive. hold your head like you remember.

being a Black artist is building entire universes with bare hands. it’s crafting beauty from memory and fire. it’s honoring the voices that didn’t get the mic. it’s telling the truth even when the truth is a fist. it’s protecting the tenderness inside our culture that outsiders only want to dissect. it’s knowing that creation itself is rebellion. creation itself is healing. creation itself is proof we survived the unimaginable.

and showing up for kids, for community, for young souls in need of structure and softness. that is its own kind of devotion. it’s a ministry disguised as everyday work. it’s laughter erupting in hallways. it’s wiped tears. it’s raised eyebrows. it’s rules delivered with love. it’s being the adult who sees them clearly even when the world blurs their edges.

you know that feeling.

the one where a child who never trusts anybody trusts you.

where they tell you the truth by accident.

where they run to you before thinking.

where they ask questions they’ve never asked aloud.

where they look at you like you are the safest part of their day.

that isn’t a job.

that’s heritage.

that’s legacy.

that’s living proof that Black care is a force capable of saving entire generations.

being Black is a long collection of love letters written into our bodies.

ode to the kitchen table where truths spill out with the collard greens and cornbread.

ode to hair grease and satin scarves and braids that carry whole histories quietly.

ode to the music that lifts us from our lowest places. r&b that tastes like longing. gospel that sounds like deliverance. trap that feels like survival. blues that remembers what we’ve lost. hip hop that tells our stories when nobody else will.

ode to the aunties whose voices rise like prophecy when they talk to you.

ode to the joy that comes out of nowhere and fills the room like sunlight breaking through a storm.

ode to the grief we carry with grace because it’s older than our own names.

ode to our softness. how miraculous it is. how rebellious it is. how we learned to protect it after spending years believing we didn’t have the right to it.

ode to the beauty that isn’t curated or manufactured but simply is. the curve of a nose. the fullness of a lip. the brown of a shoulder glowing in summer light.

ode to our survival. not the dramatic kind. the everyday kind. the quiet, constant, stubborn continuation of choosing life and joy and laughter again and again.

ode to the ancestors who kept going even when there was no reason to believe the future would hold someone like me.

being Black is sacred. it’s eruptive. it’s tender. it’s a flame that never goes out. i don’t adjust it for the room. i don’t dim it for comfort. i don’t translate it for convenience.

i am Black when i laugh with my whole body. Black when i hurt quietly. Black when i guide young people who don’t yet know their worth. Black when i create worlds from memory. Black when i rest. Black when i rage. Black when i love without apology. Black always.

and if the world can’t keep up

that’s its own limitation

not mine

i am Black in every breath

every gesture

every version of myself

and that alone

is a miracle that cannot be undone.