Her Juneteenth
Juneteenth is more than a date. It’s a vibration. A pulse of freedom that still beats through our bloodline. It marks the delayed—but divine—news that our ancestors were no longer bound by law. But let’s be clear: Black women didn’t just wait on liberation. We were the liberation.
While history books may focus on generals and proclamations, we know the real backbone of every freedom fight was a Black woman—braiding resistance into her hair, hiding messages in quilts, raising children who would one day raise hell in the name of justice.
Before freedom had a flag.
Before the Union marched and the generals declared—she was already moving like liberation.
She moved through backwoods with babies on her hip and messages in her spirit.
She hid fugitives in fields and faith in her cooking pot.
She whispered scripture into bruised ears and brewed courage with river water and rebellion.
Black women didn’t wait for permission to be free.
They made a way out of no way and dared to call it destiny.
In hush arbors tucked behind plantations, she preached freedom wrapped in gospel, wrapped in coded verses.
She held space for the weary.
She braided escape routes into cornrows.
She sang truth in a language only the oppressed could hear.
They thought she was powerless because she didn’t carry a rifle.
But baby, she was the strategy.
She planned the flight. She gathered the children.
She buried her fears under the moonlight and still found the strength to sing.
Her womb was both battlefield and birthplace.
Her prayers were both protest and protection.
She was Harriet’s footsteps. Sojourner’s sermon. Ida’s pen.
Before the bells of Galveston rang, Black women had already been ringing alarms with their very lives.
Sounding out freedom in lullabies.
Outwitting their captors with holy defiance.
Turning plantations into pulpits of resistance.
She wasn’t just waiting for freedom, she was the one writing the map.
After the Chains Fell,
She Still Carried the Weight
Juneteenth didn’t come with a roadmap.
No reparations. No welcome party. Just the echo of a delayed freedom and the weight of “Now what?”
And still—she rose.
She took that fractured promise and stitched it into possibility.
With calloused hands and a holy kind of hustle, she built what they said she never could.
She opened schools in dirt-floor churches.
Taught her babies to read when reading was once a crime.
Taught herself to dream again—out loud, in color, without asking permission.
Freedom wasn’t free—it was heavy.
It meant working sunrise to bone-tired dusk for pennies and respect she still had to demand.
It meant being the maid in a house she could’ve run better.
It meant caring for white children while her own were left home hungry.
It meant building businesses from scraps, communities from nothing, and families that could withstand anything.
She didn’t just survive emancipation—she mothered it.
When the government turned its back, she turned her front porch into a clinic, a classroom, a sanctuary.
When the laws were unjust, she became the law inside her household.
When Black men were hunted and broken, she became their healer and their hiding place.
She ran newspapers.
She organized unions.
She sold pies, pressed hair, cleaned floors, and raised hell when she had to.
She did the labor of two nations—and still found time to love.
Because for her, freedom was never just about papers.
It was about legacy.
She understood that what wasn’t handed to her, she’d build with bare hands and boundless faith.
Not for herself alone, but for the babies she’d never live to meet.
The Modern Emancipation Movement Wears Lip Gloss and Locs
Let them tell it—we’re just pretty faces with attitudes.
But baby, we are blueprints in braids. Vision in Versace. Protest signs in pink gloss.
Don’t get it twisted—just because the chains ain’t iron don’t mean they’re gone.
They still try to bind us with policies, pay gaps, and microaggressions wrapped in corporate emails.
But we’ve learned how to navigate the boardroom and the block.
We are soft and strategic. Divine and data-driven.
We run Fortune 500s by day and run healing circles by night. We launch campaigns, mentor the next generation, and still remember to hydrate and mind our edges.
From Stacey Abrams flipping states, to Tarana Burke giving voice to silence, to your cousin Lola starting that pop-up shop from her trunk—this is what modern freedom looks like:
Black women creating space where there was none.
We are founders of startups and protectors of culture.
We code. We counsel. We create. We correct.
We’re not waiting to be let in—we’re building our own doors and signing our own checks.
But we’re also the woman in the breakroom coaching another sister through her first big salary negotiation.
The big cousin giving rides to job interviews.
The mama who stretches one check and five prayers into a miracle.
We wear locs, lace fronts, kinks, and confidence.
And we do it with a holy kind of swagger.
We are not just participating in history,
we’re rewriting it.
Because Juneteenth wasn’t just about freedom.
It was about what we do with it.
And every time a Black woman shows up and shows out—fully herself, fully awake, fully in charge—she makes good on the promise our ancestors died for.
Our Rest is Also a Revolution
Let’s get this straight—we weren’t built just to survive.
We were built to breathe.
To exhale without watching our backs.
To rest without guilt.
To take up space in joy, not just in struggle.
Because while our ancestors fought for freedom with blood and brilliance, they also dreamed of a day we could just be.
Not fighting.
Not explaining.
Not fixing.
Just being. Whole. Soft. Unbothered.
Rest is resistance.
In a world that measures your worth by productivity, your rest is a refusal to be a machine.
Every nap is a “no” to capitalism’s chokehold.
Every vacation day you actually use is a slap in the face to generational burnout.
We don’t have to earn rest through suffering.
We don’t have to hustle to deserve softness.
We are allowed to heal slow.
To say “not today.”
To let the phone ring and the inbox pile up while we refill what the world tried to drain.
Because a well-rested Black woman is a dangerous thing.
She dreams clearer.
She laughs louder.
She leads better.
She don’t flinch. She don’t fold. She don’t faint.
She remembers that her joy is sacred. Her peace is holy. Her stillness is power.
So this Juneteenth, while we honor the blood and the bravery that got us here—
Let us also honor the rest they never had.
The hammock they couldn’t lie in.
The quiet mornings they prayed for.
Lay down, sis. Stretch out. Exhale.
Not because you’re weak—but because you’re finally free.
Reflection: Free & Becoming
Let it be deep. Let it be yours. Let it carry every name, every prayer, every promise you came from.
Because this Juneteenth, we don’t just remember what was lost—we celebrate what lives on through you.
You are the afterglow of a freedom that took too long to reach us.
But baby, now that it’s here—we’re not asking. We’re claiming.
✨ Reflect:
What does freedom look like in your life today—beyond survival?
What would it mean to choose softness, joy, or peace as your next form of protest?
Write it down. Speak it out loud. Live it like it’s gospel.
📣 Call to Action:
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Honor a Black woman who paved the way for your freedom—drop her name, tell her story, say her name out loud.
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Take one act of rest this week in her honor. Guilt-free. Sacred. Non-negotiable.
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Share this message with another Queen who needs to hear it. Let’s remind each other—we are the legacy.
Because you, sis—yes you—are Juneteenth in motion.
The revolution in heels, headwraps, hoodies, or however you choose to show up.
You are the freedom they dreamed of.
Now dream louder. Live softer. Shine harder.
Happy Juneteenth. 🖤✨
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