There is something I must admit. 

Something that has been weighing on my heart. 

Something that I…fear I may have passed on to my daughter. Something negative. Like, maybe I’m not breaking generational patterns after all. And I’m fearful that it’s too late to rectify this.

I’m nervous to write this one. I can’t believe this is a topic that we are discussing during Black History Month in the year of our Lord, 2026—and on Beyoncé’s internet, no less—but here we are.For some reason, there is a new idea that has emerged this year that states that Black History Month is only for “Foundational Black Americans.”

Whatever that means.

Yesterday, I told my daughters: 

“My parents didn’t work their butts off to set me up to pursue a career beyond my wildest dreams just to be a grown woman whose entire life revolves around making lunches, chauffeuring my kids to all of their activities, and spending hours every day begging my kids to listen to me.”

At the beginning of every week, I somehow convince myself that this is the week I will not only operate at my highest self, but my most liberated self. THIS is the week that my jaw will unclench, my shoulders will drop, and my tension will ease. I will move through life filled with peace, patience for my children, and an immense amount confidence in where I am and where I’m going. I will be “that girl.”

Black folks, especially Black women, are exhausted. We have tried, and tried, and tried again to save this country from itself. And, we continue to be ignored, unheard, gaslit, and abused in the process. Many of us felt like we did our part in this fight by being the only group to show up in droves and vote for Kamala Harris in the last election while the rest of the nation, once again, let us down. With that defeat and grief came a clearer boundary from Black women: we will no longer carry a country that keeps choosing to abandon us:

Before I go any further, I need to say this plainly: this fascism is only new to white America. State-sanctioned violence, authoritarianism, and disposability, has been the reality of Black and brown Americans since this nation’s founding. Fascism is simply white supremacy fully realized.

While Minneapolis isn’t the first place federal agents have been deployed in ways that racially target communities, the murder of Renee Nicole Good — a 37-year-old mother of three killed by a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent during a federal immigration operation — was one of the first widely seen eyewitness accounts of how the militarization of our federal government to uphold systems of power and white supremacy has officially harmed someone who is white.

What we witnessed on Wednesday was tragic, infuriating, and confirmation of every warning Black and brown people have been issuing for generations.

I had my first eureka moment about society and the pressures of success about five years ago. I was fervently researching racism and white supremacy because I was fed up with living in a society that seemed so dedicated to hating Black bodies. My research existed to answer one question, and one question only: Why? As in, why do they hate us so much? The follow up question: and how did we end up here?

Last week, the president of the United States dangerously declared that Tylenol causes autism. Not only is this declaration scientifically untrue, it is a modern-day representation of eugenics, which is the belief that humanity must be controlled through reproduction by eliminating anyone deemed “unfit.” This rhetoric is beyond harmful—and should alarm every single one of us that this is how the leader of our nation thinks about humanity.

I can’t remember the first time I stepped onto a tennis court. I just remember always being there. A racquet has been in my hands for as long as I can recall. My father, an avid player himself, put one in my grip as soon as he could get away with it. My earliest memory is being pulled from a beginner group lesson and moved up to an advanced court because I could already hit a forehand. I must have been five, maybe six. What I do remember—more than my age—was the squeak of tennis shoes from the older kids, the rhythmic thwack of balls being hit, and the elation that bubbled up every time I set foot on the court. Tennis felt like home from the beginning.

I never knew a “Black elite” existed in the late 19th century.

I put Black elite in quotes because the Black elite would not have considered themselves the Black elite. Just as the robber barons of the time period of what we now know as the Gilded Age would not have referred to the era as the Gilded Age. We know these terms emerged decades later as authors and historians dissected the era in their research and work.

I’m coming straight out of the gate with some honesty for you today—every time a global crisis gains immediate urgent attention on social media, we enter into an unnecessary activism-Olympics that does nothing but fuel white supremacy culture’s goal of exhaustion, division, and never-enough-ism. The literal system of oppression that is the enemy wins every single time someone exerts more energy into finger-pointing someone else’s activism rather than focusing on collective and community service, care, and healing. I’m not saying there’s never a time for accountability when someone is actively causing harm that can’t be ignored. But more often than not, that’s not what I’m seeing. What I see are people hiding behind screens, quick to pounce on others in a rush to boost their own moral high ground, all while avoiding any real reflection on themselves.

I used to stare at my dad in awe, his eyes sparkling every time he talked about his career. I never fully understood what he was saying—I just knew that he was a genius chemist who adored his work. His passion never faded. No matter how many late nights were required of him, or how exhausted frequent travel made him, he was in his element, and he loved every minute of it. Every time I watched him come alive in his work, I knew I wanted a career that would do the same for me. I knew I wanted a career that made my eyes sparkle just like his.

I have yet to find that sparkle.

Today is my 35th birthday.

I think it’s finally safe to say that I’ve entered my mid-thirties. Or, perhaps I’ve been in my mid-thirties for a year now and now I’m in the middle of my mid thirties. That is still debatable.

Last night, Kendrick spoke loudly, reigniting the fire in my spirit that once burned bright but had been dimmed for too long: it’s time to televise the revolution.