Sister…

 

Gather yourself for this.

 

Because I’m not calling the quiet angels today.
I’m calling the ones who run through heaven barefoot.
The ones who stomp through time.
The ones who shout your name in ancestral frequency.

 

Come. In. Closer.

 

Daughter of power,

child of breath,

bearer of brilliance,

you who were dreamed into existence by women who held hope until their throats trembled…

 

Hear. This. Word.

 

Your life is not small.

Your becoming is not fragile.

Your spirit is not some halfway thing stumbling toward its destiny.

You are summoned.
You are called forth.
You are raised up in this hour... in the very place you stand.

 

You are a continuation of every Black woman who refused to break.

And you are the testimony of every Black woman who did break…
but still reached for tomorrow with shaking hands.

 

And right now the world is finally catching up to the truth of who you are.

 

So let me say it clear:

 

You are the answered prayer of somebody who never got to sit at the table.

You are the fulfilled prophecy of a grandmother who swallowed her brilliance to keep the peace.

You are the sound Maya dreamed at night.

You are the march Fannie Lou carried in her bones.

You are the righteous thunder Ida swung like a sword.

You are the hidden code Zora wove into folklore for the daughters who would come after.

You are the map Harriet carved into the darkness.

 

And this moment right here... this is a return.

 

A remembering.

A reclamation.

A gathering of scattered spirits who have carried whole worlds without applause.

 

You deserved to hear this long ago:

 

You are not behind.

You are not late.

You are not less.

You are not a mistake.

You are not the wound you survived.

 

You are the fire your lineage trusted would one day ignite.

You are the rhythm older than the land beneath your feet.

You are the praise break that kept somebody alive.

You are the thunder in Nina Simone’s throat.

You are the sermon Mahalia Jackson pushed into glory.

You are the prophecy Audre Lorde could barely catch before it outgrew the page.

 

Now hear this:

There is nothing small about you.

There is nothing ordinary about your becoming.

There is nothing modest about your calling.

 

This year is not ending.

This year is opening.

 

Splitting itself like a seed under heat.

 

Making room for the woman you have always been...
The one you kept placing on layaway.

 

So take this into your bones:

You are allowed to rise without apology.

You are allowed to want without explanation.

You are allowed to create without permission.

You are allowed to take up the space your ancestors paid for.

Your life is shifting.

 

Your table is blessed.

Your kitchen is consecrated ground.

Your voice is coming back in its true frequency.

 

And when 2026 arrives, it won't find you waiting.

It'll find you READY.

 

Anointed.

Anchored.

Unveiled.

 

A woman who KNOWS.

The ancestors are circling.

The pot is singing.

The ring shout is gathering itself.

 

And Monday…

 

Sister… We. Eat.

 

We. Eat.