Flashback to being 9, getting sent off to a church convention with my great aunts and cousins like it was summer camp. We arrive at the hotel and begin to make our way to the pool. Long story short, I’m playing in the pool, and overhear my family talking about my bikini. They emphasize their concerns regarding said bikini and how prominent it makes my breasts. I’m obviously visibly uncomfortable with their discussions because why are you talking about my body and concerning yourself with something that is out of my control? All this to say, Black girls’ agency and autonomy tend to be policed and shamed from a young age due to the adultification bias of being “more mature” and “less innocent” than their white peers. I remember hearing adults calling Black girls “fast” all because they were wearing shorts and a tank top. This often led to Black girls being perceived as “sexually precocious,” reinforcing harmful stereotypes and further stripping them of their childhood. I beared the brunt of this adultification that still follows me into my adulthood.

Black femmes and women deserve safety and comfort in all aspects of their lives, and I hate how Black women are unjustly criticized for speaking their truth and reclaiming their power and rights to their bodies. So much of these perpetuated narratives are being seen in my own dating life. It’s like, do you want to get to know me or my body? Because oftentimes, Black women are fetishized for their size and shape, especially racial fetishization with white supremacy being applied to the navigation of Black bodies. I deserve to be present in my body, and the love it carries, instead of hyper-vigilant; I shouldn’t associate attraction with danger or performance when someone is interested in me.

My journey of healing my relationship with my body and image has been powerful and beautiful, to say the least. I acknowledge that the people who were over-sexualizing me as a child were the very people that should have been protecting my childhood—making sure my childlike wonder and curiosity wasn’t taking a backseat to their adultification bias. So, on this journey, I remind myself that I do not need permission to be soft and acknowledge the love expressed through my body; the reclaiming of my sexuality and sensuality do not negate MY RIGHT to receive love, respect and empathy. Being secure and confident in my body is NO THREAT to you, and it sure as hell does not give you the right to abuse my bodily autonomy. I finally feel safe in myself—mentally, physically, and spiritually. One day, I hope I can share that kind of safety with someone else.

<3

(Source: Ritual in Transfigured Time, 1946)

I reflect on a time when freedom didn’t feel so scarce—when it was a close confidant, sharing my most intense moments of happiness. Now, I search for freedom, finding it coiled up in the crevices of my fears. Freedom has become the dusty furniture that has accumulated in my mind. Freedom wants to be invited in, so I can cross the threshold of meaning regarding my life. I do not need permission to live unconditionally, for it cannot be withheld by external assurances. Freedom is an inherent necessity, like oxygen that fuels the body. I’m drowning in familiarity, causing me to become complacent in my own sovereignty for freedom. I’ve intentionally placed limitations on myself for fear of failing or changing my mind. But there’s profoundness in taking risks and trying, rather than harping on distant allusions that will remain stagnant in time. Freedom was never scarce; I was just operating from a scarcity mindset. Freedom has been within me since my first breath—the gasp that unveiled a world so new, much like spiritual hymns chanted aloud before escaping to freedom.

The Woman with the Knife (1969)

(Source: What Happened, Miss Simone, 2015)