Women do not gather by accident—something deeper always calls them into the same space. In shared conversations, quiet understanding, and truth spoken without performance, sisterhood is built. It is in the check-ins, the care, and the refusal to let one another carry life alone. This reflection honors the power of women who do not compete for space, but expand it—reminding each other of their strength until healing becomes collective.

I wasn't passed down riches, no gold, no silver spoon I was given something softer, A quiet knowing How to walk without slamming doors, How to leave with grace Understanding that peace moves smoother than pride How to stand alone without feeling lonely To learn wisdom from heart break and to choose softness even when the world is tough, To always protect yourself and love who you are... Now remembering her voice, When I speak upon self ... About the Writer Ena-Alese is

Braiding becomes more than beauty—it is resistance, memory, and survival woven strand by strand. Where history tried to divide, women created connection, turning hands into tools of preservation and power. Each braid carries legacy across generations, proving that what was meant to separate could never unravel what was built to endure.

Lift your eyes toward the sky and smile. Exhale. Tell yourself: I am worthy. I am holy. A being of light made whole.

Mother Africa is the heart and source of black rhythm. The way we tap and stomp our feet like our brothers and sisters from the Motherland, is unmistakable. We are one. There's a dance scene in the movie Sinners that influenced the following poem I'd like to share with you. This movie scene was supernatural, almost acting as a cultural seance while depicting generations of Black American and West African dance styles. It was powerful. A rhythm dialogue that reminded us of

I was born with rhythm in my hips and in my hands the means to create

Beneath a mango tree in Ghana, two women—one rooted in the Motherland, the other from the American South—discover their lives are more connected than distance suggests. Through laughter, food, healing traditions, and memory, they trace shared cultural threads that survived the Atlantic. In their exchange, the truth becomes clear: what was carried across the ocean was never lost—only waiting to be remembered.

Her origin is not marked by geography, but by a woman. Through quiet strength, sacrifice, and unwavering love, a mother becomes the first home—shaping identity long before the world defines it. In her presence, womanhood is learned as resilience, patience, and power, leaving a legacy that lives on in every step, every choice, and every becoming.

In The Drum Remembers, LaVianca Asante’ invites us into a visceral journey of ancestral memory, rhythm, and homecoming. Through spoken word and embodied movement, this piece explores the echoes of voices that live within our DNA, the resilience passed down through generations, and the sacred inheritance of identity that connects us to a homeland we may never have seen but always carry. Read it. Feel it. Move with it. Let the voices of our ancestors guide you.

Before she ever touched the soil, it already knew her—carrying the memory of generations who planted survival, not just food. Through rows of okra, beans, and sweet potatoes, the land holds stories of patience, faith, and resilience. Now, standing in that same sacred rhythm, she steps into her inheritance—where legacy is not told, but grown.

Black women rise, and the ground rises with us, remembering every step, every joy, every wound we carry.

What many reduce to pleasure alone is also the sacred source of life, power, and womanhood.

After seasons of giving, I finally tend to my own soul—and taste its sweetness.

The garden becomes a metaphor for self—sacred, delicate, and worthy of protection. Through vivid imagery of roots, petals, and soil, the poem warns against unseen harm while calling for intentional care and nurturing. It is a reminder that what we cultivate within determines what we bear—making preservation, awareness, and self-worth essential to sustaining life’s bloom.

What looks like failure may only be misplacement. The right soil reveals what the seed always carried within it.

I am a living force of spirit and resilience, existing far beyond what the eye can name or the world can claim.

They praised Phillis Wheatley's faith and ignored her fire, yet her words survived them all. We write louder now because she wrote first.

A faith-rooted poem reclaiming the erased legacy of Black women throughout history. Using Scripture and garden imagery, the piece exposes the roots of injustice while honoring the divine intention, resilience, and sacred calling placed on Black women whom history tried to bury.

Being last taught us discernment. It taught us that timing is sacred and that preparation is a form of love. So when we arrive, we arrive whole— with boundaries, with wisdom, with legacy in our hands. We are not late. We were being formed.

This piece is a declaration, not a whisper—an unapologetic return to self in a world that benefits from Black women shrinking. What follows is self-love as truth, resistance, and inheritance, spoken without permission.