Several months have passed now. The headlines have moved on, the pundits have stopped asking why you lost, and the Democrats are back to their hand-wringing while Trump and his cabinet picks sharpen their knives for what’s left of this country. I can’t shake the weight of it. So as this terrible cloud of darkness begins to loom over us, I want to reflect on the rare hope that once radiated throughout our nation—among women, in the hearts of our mothers and grandmothers, and in the dreams of little Black girls everywhere.
When you were confirmed as the democratic nominee, I felt a pride in my chest so fierce it was almost painful. For the first time, I saw someone who looked like us, who carried our struggles, standing at the very center of American power.
For this brief moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, this country could hold space for us, not in its margins but in its heart. And so I allowed myself the tender, vulnerable space to believe, to dare to believe that one of us, one of me, could rise and be respected at the highest level. It stung to see the skepticism and the scrutiny that never seems to fade. Watching you navigate that reality has been both inspiring and heartbreaking because I know, in so many ways, what it cost you.
You didn’t lose, you were never set up to win. But nevertheless, because excellence is in your DNA, you rose to the challenge with the precision, strength, and grace only Black women possess. There will never be another campaign like yours. It was a master class. You called their bluff. Now we know without a shadow of a doubt what the country values.
Only WE could run a legendary campaign in less than 90 days, while they enjoyed a 18-month head start. The grace to take on man’s hopeless campaign and put it on your back to outperform, outwit, outqualify, and outwork the other man’s trainwreck the way you did. It should’ve been a sweep. You proved to us, once and for all, what our mothers and grandmothers have been telling us: When people show you who they are, believe them.
Now we know, thanks to your sacrifice, that a leopard never changes its spots—but it may, every few generations, change its mask and get close enough to eat your face.
Well done Kamala. Thank you for giving us hope that we could be better regarded, considered, and respected for the value we add. Thank you for believing America could be better than what it has been. The shame is not yours.
We hoped we would finally be able to move forward, but reconciliation follows accountability, and accountability must start with acknowledgement. We’re still pretending this has been about the cost of bread.
Seeing you up there, even for this short time, mattered so much. You gave us a glimpse of what could be possible for us in this country. You gave us a piece of our dreams back, and my god, did you make us stand a bit taller and smile a bit wider and believe if only for a while, that being ten-times as good would be enough. But we know now, to stop being so naive.
They didn’t deserve you. Hell, they don’t deserve us. And I believe you know this. They never have. From Black women everywhere. Thank you, Kamala Harris. Forever.
This article also appears in our February 2025 print edition.
