Sometimes I sit back and think about the weight Black women carry and the way we still rise. Despite the stereotypes, the misrepresentations, the expectations—we show up, speak up, and take up space like no one else. That’s not just resilience. That’s legacy. That’s knowing who you are, even when the world tries to tell you otherwise.
There’s something powerful about watching Black women who refuse to shrink. Women like Queen Latifah, who’s been showing us for decades that you don’t have to fit into anybody’s mold to be respected. She once said, “I don’t want to be a supermodel. I want to be a role model.” That stuck with me. She’s always been about dignity, strength, and showing up in full form—whether it’s through music, acting, or business. She held space for women like me to be confident, capable, and visible in a world that often tries to make us invisible.
And then there’s Viola Davis. Every time she speaks, it feels like she’s speaking to something deep in my soul. When she accepted her Emmy, she said, “The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity.” She was telling the truth. Viola gives voice to the pain and the beauty we carry. She doesn’t run from it—she brings it to the forefront, so we can all see the full picture. That’s what power looks like to me: truth, layered with elegance and honesty.
In politics, we’re seeing that same energy—that same refusal to be boxed in or talked over. Jasmine Crockett? Oh, she’s a force. Sharp as a tack and never the one to underestimate. People love to paint us as “angry” the minute we speak with conviction, but Jasmine set the record straight: “I’m not angry. I’m informed, and that’s threatening.” Whew. That’s the kind of clarity we need more of—Black women who aren’t here to play nice just to be accepted. We’re here to lead.
Cori Bush moves me differently. She’s got this quiet fire, this steady commitment to the people she serves. She said, “I’m here because someone like me was never supposed to make it.” And yet, there she is—in Congress, with her head high and her heart wide open. She’s not ashamed of where she came from—she honors it. That’s how you turn pain into purpose.
Ayanna Pressley? That woman walks with truth in every step. She’s not just polished—she’s principled. She once said, “My Blackness is beautiful. And so is yours.” She took her alopecia diagnosis and turned it into a lesson on self-acceptance and visibility. She reminds me that our power isn’t in hiding who we are—it’s in showing up, exactly as we are.
And right here in New Orleans, Charrise Gibson is doing something sacred. She showed us—without needing to say a word—that you can wear your natural hair, your truth, your culture, and still be every bit the professional. She’s polished, poised, and proudly herself. You don’t see that every day in media, especially in a city like ours. But she made it plain: you can be excellent and be authentic at the same time. She’s more than a journalist—she’s a blessing, especially for young women growing up in New Orleans who need to see what that kind of integrity and grace looks like up close. She taught us that professionalism doesn’t mean assimilation. It means walking boldly in your purpose—twist-out, TWA, curls, coils and all.
All of these women—every single one—show us what it looks like to lead with purpose. They challenge the caricatures. They make us proud. And they remind me that our image isn’t just something to protect—it’s something to reclaim, redefine, and project boldly into the world.
We’re not waiting to be invited to the table. We’re building new ones. We’re not begging for visibility—we are the moment. These women? They don’t just represent us. They expand the vision of who we can be.
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