BLOG: Black Life, Black Heart 🖤

It’s taken me a while to even begin to write this. I honestly didn’t know if I could or if I had anything to say. I’ve been speechless.

In fact, this writing feels a bit forced. I’m writing it in the name of consistency. I promised my supporters that I would write a blog every month. But honestly, today I don’t feel like writing. I don’t feel like conversation.

My heart is heavy and the appropriate words to communicate all that I am feeling escape me. I just want to sit and rest and try to muster up the strength to face another day as a Black woman in America.

In years past, I have protested. I’ve marched with my community and neighbors. I’ve voted. I’ve called local official offices. I’ve donated to organizations and victim’s families.


But today. Now. This week. For now. I am tired.

I feel so much and almost nothing at all. I’m overwhelmed and numb.

How much longer? How may more years of fighting and tarrying?


My people are tired. Exhausted in fact.

There is so much to feel and process. The historical implication of everything that has happened. My personal experiences. The experiences of all of us across the diaspora.

So much more work that needs to be done.

I’m thankful for the energy of younger and recently awakened souls. Those who have been demonstrating despite the health risks of the pandemic.

I think my place in this race, as of now, is a quieter one. Conversations with non-poc. Voting. Donations. Social awareness.


My spirit. My body. My mind. Is tired.

I am fighting to keep hope alive in a way that is necessary to move forward with fervency. I admire the strength of my ancestors and pull on their example.

I need rest. I need laughter. Family. Warmth. Softness and kindness.

Self-care has become my act of resistance. 

In due time, I hope to regain enough strength to scream, march, and chant. But for now, I will make my claim at the polls, in board meetings, and the bank.


Ms. Melody Monroe

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