black spirituality & the audacity of white interpretation
At some point during the unraveling of a relationship with a well-intentioned white woman, she told me I used spirituality as a bandaid.
I damn near choked.
Not because she was wrong about me being in pain … I was. But because the words oozed a cheap, unearned certainty. The kind brewed in the sterile comfort of distance. As if her commentary on my survival were anything more than voyeurism dressed up as wisdom. I didn’t find spirituality. I didn’t discover it like some hidden gem in a self-help book. It didn’t show up during a rebrand or a neatly packaged healing journey.
I was raised in it.
I was prayed over before I knew what prayer was. My grandmother wiped down door frames with Florida Water like it was holy work … because it was. My mother spoke in tongues at night and didn’t always remember it in the morning. I had dreams that came to fruition before I even understood what they meant. This is the lineage I carry in my mouth, my bones, my blood. This is how I survived when therapy wasn’t accessible, when grief was too loud, when I didn’t want to be alive & no one picked up the phone. This is what held me when the world didn’t.
And it’s what’s held so many of us.
Because let’s be so fuckin real … Black folks haven’t always had the privilege of professional help. Therapy wasn’t offered, encouraged, or even safe for many of our elders. Sometimes it still isn’t. But we had something else. We had altars in the kitchen. Midnight prayers that shook the walls. Psalms tucked into wallets like tiny shields. Chants passed down like heirlooms. Baths that weren’t just about getting clean … but about staying whole.
This isn’t a replacement for healing. It is healing.
So let me be very clear for anyone who thinks they have the language or license to critique how Black people cope, connect, or call on the divine:
Don’t you ever — in your life — look at a Black person and call their spirituality a “bandaid.”
Not when it’s the very thing that’s kept us breathing.
Not when mental health care is still a luxury.
Not when our great-grandmothers healed whole families with nothing but scripture, herbs, and pure, unrelenting instinct.
What we practice comes from necessity. From genius. From communion. And if you’ve only known spirituality as an accessory, you don’t get to critique the ways we survive. This is for the ones who light incense and pray with their whole chest. Who throw water on the ground before they leave the house. Who know spiritual hygiene is just as vital as the body’s. Who feel their way through the dark because someone on the other side whispered, “Keep going.”
If you’re Black and spiritual, know this:
You don’t need anyone’s permission to stand in that power.
It belongs to you.
And it always has.Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.
The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.
You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.