Every morning my husband goes running.

On the same streets we’ve lived on for the last 4 years. In a neighborhood where we see familiar faces and in a city where he owns a business. And yet I always worry.

He tells me I shouldn’t worry and that we live in a “good part of town” and I tell him the “good part of town” doesn’t care that you live here because you’re still a black man running...

I will admit that I’ve thanked more pastors for speaking out than I ever have because for whatever reason the church goes missing in the face of (this type of) pain within the black community. But what I had to tell myself so many hashtags ago was that I’m thankful that God doesn’t go missing even in times when we don’t understand and are angry and tired...

Our voices have strength. There’s power in the movement. There’s beauty in the community to make it known that not now, not ever will we NOT matter. We matter. Our lives matter. And we will always stand for justice even in the face of silence + coverup + corruption.

I ran 2.26 miles because Ahmaud Arbery would’ve been 26 years old and completely broke down afterwards because all I could imagine was my boys running and then getting boxed in by complete strangers who felt they had the authority to take a life. Years ago, after the Trayvon Martin case I wrote a piece where I talked about having sons. The reality that they are cute now but will be seen as a threat as they grow older just for being black men. It’s painful to face that there are such evil people in the world and that one day you will release your child into a world where people don’t see them the way God sees them. I pray that God changes minds and hearts and circles…

Check on your brothers and the men in your life.

We need each other