Yesterday began as one of those days that fills a mother’s heart with hope.
I attended a volunteer appreciation event at my son’s school recognizing parents who supported students and school activities throughout the year. I was invited for supporting the club my son founded, the Black Boys Excellence Collective (BBEC), which quickly became very active and a meaningful space for connection, leadership and support among Black male students this school year.
While there, I learned something that moved me. Their vice principal told me that the day before, club members had written letters to incoming Black male high school freshmen —simple but powerful messages of encouragement, belonging and brotherhood. She showed me the pictures.
I left feeling happy and hopeful about the future.
Hopeful about the leadership I see emerging in these young Black men.
Hopeful that perhaps this next generation will inherit a world that sees them differently.
Then I turned on the news.
And the weight returned.
Maybe I am simply trying to put into words what I think so many Black mothers are feeling right now.
The news has been a lot lately.
The verdict in the shooting death of 14-year-old Cyrus Carmack-Belton, a Black teenager whose life ended after being accused of taking a bottle of water that he didn’t take.
The Karmelo Anthony case and the intense public scrutiny surrounding a young Black teenager.
Reports of young Black lives lost or missing under strange circumstances that leave families and communities searching for answers.
Another headline.
Another Black boy.
Another family.
And I found myself asking a question that too many Black mothers have asked before me:
Who will protect our Black boys in a society that so often seems determined to see them fail?
Some days, if I am honest, it gets to the point where I do not even want my sons to leave the house.
Not because I do not trust them.
Not because they are doing anything wrong.
But because I know that ordinary moments can become life-altering situations for Black boys.
A bottle of water.
A track meet.
A traffic stop.
A jog.
A wrong place at the wrong time.
As the mother of two Black sons, what I am feeling is bigger than concern about any single case or instance.
It is vigilance.
The exhausting awareness that I must constantly think about risks that other parents never have to consider.
It is grief before loss.
Not because something has happened to me personally, but because I have seen too many families forced to navigate consequences and tragedy that seem disproportionate to the circumstances.
It is protectiveness mixed with powerlessness.
I have spent years pouring into my sons. Education. Leadership. Faith. Community. Values that I hope will prepare them to thrive in this challenging world.
Yet stories like these make even the most dedicated mother wonder whether all of that is enough to shield them from forces beyond their control.
It is fear.
Not the simple kind.
The fear that they will be judged before they are understood.
The fear that they will have less room to make mistakes than other children.
The fear that they will be viewed as older, more threatening, or less innocent than they actually are.
It is anger.
Anger at narratives and stereotypes that too often position Black boys as problems to be managed instead of young people to be nurtured.
But beneath all of that is something even stronger.
Love.
The kind of love that hurts.
Because when I look at the members of BBEC, I do not see headlines.
I see young men who are trying every day to become the best versions of themselves.
I see their vulnerability.
I see their limitless potential.
And I think about those letters the members wrote to the younger incoming students earlier this week.
They were trying to tell the next generation something important:
You are welcomed.
You matter.
You belong.
We see you.
The question is whether the rest of society is willing to say the same.
Because our Black boys deserve more than survival.
They deserve protection.
