The part that stays with me is simpler than the tennis. This kid grew up on camera, all of us watching. Fifteen at Wimbledon, beads clicking on the ends of her braids, she knocked out Venus in the first round, and just like that the crowd claimed her as its own. We stuck a crown on a girl barely old enough to drive. Then we acted shocked when the weight had her wobbling.

Something particular happens to our girls who shine early. We love on them hard enough to smother, and we nitpick them twice as hard, and the whole thing tangles up until she can barely tell a compliment from a swipe. The kid has been untangling that mess in public, millions of strangers squinting at her every move.

I think about the version of her from a year ago, standing in a parking lot in tears after her serve fell apart in this very city. Sixteen double faults in a quarterfinal loss to Jasmine Paolini, a game unraveling, and a barely grown athlete having to feel all of that in the open. No hiding inside a journal. A quiet cry in the car that nobody sees was never on the table. Her collapse became content, clipped and shared and dissected by folks who never held a racket under that kind of glare.

What did Coco do with the wreckage? She went and got help. Brought in a biomechanics specialist named Gavin MacMillan, leaned on her coach, rebuilt the motion from the ground up. Rewired her thinking too. Coco has talked lately about learning to tune out the criticism, focus on herself, and trust the work. Then she chose to quit feeding on that poison, certain the results would come if she kept laboring.

That right there is the lesson I wish somebody had handed me at her age. Noise will always drown the truth if you let it. Sistas, you know exactly the chorus I mean, that background hum telling you that you are too much and not enough inside the very same breath. Coco is teaching herself to turn the volume down. In real time. On the grandest stages our sport can offer.

And can we sit a minute with her joy? Because that piece refuses to stay small. She dances between points. That grin says the game is still the thing she loved as a little girl, chasing yellow fuzz across a Delray Beach court while her daddy fed balls over the net. Somewhere along the climb, plenty of gifted athletes lose that light and harden into machines. This one guards her delight like treasure, and I respect the discipline it takes to protect softness within a savage profession.

Black women rarely get room to feel happy in public without a caption questioning it. Beam too wide and you are unserious. Show heat and you are difficult. Weep and you are fragile. Coco keeps doing all three anyway, now and then within a single afternoon, and the doing itself becomes a quiet act of defiance. She lets us witness the full range of a human, not some flattened highlight reel.

Her mouth is another gift. When Coco has something to say about the world, out it comes, whether the subject is voting, racial injustice or the way this country treats people who resemble her family. Some folks want their athletes muted, decorative, useful only between the white lines. She declined that arrangement early. A young woman holding a platform and a conscience makes for a powerful pairing, and she wields hers without apology.

That same nerve carries onto the court. Right now she stands ranked number four, walking into the US Open with fresh belief and that Rookwood Cup barely settled on her mantle. First trophy of a season that tested her patience, arriving after finals slipped away in Miami and Rome. The draw landed Thursday, placing Turkey’s Zeynep Sonmez across from her in the opening round. Main draw play begins Sunday. Coco spoke about the gap between the competitor she was last year and the woman she has grown into, calling it night and day. Growth you can read on a scoreboard, sure. Also the kind you can only feel in your gut.

I keep circling back to one word, becoming. None of us arrive finished. Culture craves a tidy story, wants its stars fully formed and permanently flawless, then punishes them the instant they reveal a seam. Real life refuses to cooperate. A person at twenty two is a draft, gorgeous and unfinished, revising out in the open air.

What this young champion shows every little Sista watching from the couch is permission. Mess up loud and come back louder. You can ask for help, lose ugly, cry where people see it, then go swing again next week. She wants the title and she wants to stay soft, both at once, and she will not say sorry for either.

Our daughters need that picture badly. They need to spot somebody who resembles them fumble and rise, over and over, and remain worthy of love through the whole messy arc. Too many Black women absorbed the opposite as children, absorbed the notion that mistakes were final verdicts, that a single stumble meant we never belonged anywhere important to begin with. What a lie. Heavy and generational and cruel.

Nobody knows how the coming fortnight in New York will unfold for her. Perhaps she lifts more silver. Maybe she falls in an early round and weeps in some tunnel where the cameras find her yet again. Either path, she is nowhere near done. The draft keeps getting revised, and the fuller person waiting somewhere deep in her creeps a little closer. That liberty belongs to her by birthright, and watching her seize it makes me hungry to seize my own, middle age and every gray hair included.

So I root for this girl the way I root for my own nieces. The trophies are gravy. Sistas, I am in her corner because she keeps being herself, loud and whole and hers, no matter how hard the world leans on her to shrink. Let Coco keep running. May she laugh often and mean it. And whatever she becomes next, let it be on her own terms.

Staff Writer; Raven Jones

Raven writes about music, relationships, and the everyday ups and downs of Black women… She keeps it honest, encourages other sistas, and can be reached at RavenJ@ThySistas.com.

So when Naomi Osaka did what she did in 2021, it hit a nerve that still has not gone quiet.

By then she was sitting near the peak of the game. Four major titles. A former world No. 1. Sponsorship checks most of us could never picture in a lifetime. Before the French Open began, she announced that she would skip its mandatory press conferences to protect her mental health. After winning her opening match, missing the required media session, and receiving a $15,000 fine, she withdrew from the tournament. In the statement announcing her departure, she revealed that she had endured long bouts of depression since the 2018 US Open and waves of anxiety before speaking to the media.

The backlash arrived fast and cruel. Some commentators dismissed her as petulant and accused her of diva behavior. How dare a gifted young athlete walk away from a microphone. Underneath all that noise sat a demand older than any of us, one every Sista recognizes deep in the bones. You owe the public. They expect your labor, your grace, your bottomless patience, particularly when your insides happen to be on fire. Ache if you must, but do not dare stop delivering.

I have watched that identical demand hunt down women across a lifetime. My mother worked two jobs and still cooked Sunday dinner for anybody who wandered in hungry. The aunties in my family nursed dying parents while raising other people’s babies, and not a soul asked whether they were tired. Rest looked lazy. Softness got read as weakness. Requesting help counted as betrayal of some sacred code none of us ever signed yet all of us somehow inherited. We learned to swallow the hurt and keep the engine running, because a running engine was understood to be the entire point of us. Or so we were raised to believe.

What Osaka refused to do was feed that lie with her own body.

Sit with the courage buried in that choice. Young, with plenty to lose financially and reputationally. The simpler road, the one nearly all of us take, involved pasting on the smile, answering the required questions, then quietly falling apart later in a hotel bathroom where no lens could reach. Instead she picked the harder honesty. She named the truth of what she was carrying while the entire planet sat watching, knowing full well that parts of the crowd would make her pay for it.

Here comes the part that ought to land close to home. Few people get punished more quickly for that brand of candor than a woman with brown skin. The culture often rushes to protect a white starlet in pain, calling her sensitive, delicate, and deserving of shelter. Let one of us admit the identical fracture and suddenly we are difficult, dramatic, unstable. The margin for our ache has always run thinner. Black women are expected to be assembled out of something sturdier than flesh, some unbreakable material that never chips no matter how hard the pounding falls. Osaka took a hammer to that fantasy on a global stage.

What that stand handed a lot of Sistas was permission we did not realize we were allowed to claim. Room to say the frightening thing aloud. My spirit is heavy. I need a minute. This cup cannot pour when it has run bone dry for years. None of that is weakness talking. That is a person choosing to survive, and our grandmothers were rarely handed the space to make that choice out loud.

The expectation she challenged reaches well past tennis. Walk into any office and you will spot a sister praised for being dependable right up until the afternoon her body finally gives out. Sit in the pews of a struggling ministry and watch the same faithful few get leaned on until nothing remains. Look around your own kitchen table and notice how the person holding everybody together is usually the last soul anybody thinks to hold in return. None of that grinding is noble, no matter how many people clap for it. Wearing yourself down to nothing while the world praises your reliability is just a socially approved way to disappear. Plenty of us have done it so long we forgot there was another option.

So where is she now, here in the late summer of 2026? Very much in the fight. After taking maternity leave and giving birth to her daughter, Shai, in July 2023, she returned to the tour in January 2024 with a ranking of No. 833. She has since climbed all the way to No. 13. As of August 28, she is in New York preparing for the US Open after reaching her first Wimbledon quarterfinal in July. The break did not shrink her. She is still striking the ball with authority and pairing her tennis with the bold fashion statements that have become part of her identity across several tournaments.

There is something worth sitting with in all of that. Walking away in 2021 did not end her career, but the road back was not one long and uninterrupted break. She returned later that season, competed again in 2022, then took a separate maternity absence before Shai’s birth. That fuller timeline makes the lesson stronger, not weaker. A career can bend around a woman’s needs without breaking. Stepping back did not wreck Osaka’s future. It preserved the possibility of more years and gave her room to decide what the next chapter would look like.

I keep thinking about the young girls watching us right now, taking notes on how the grown ones around them cope when they are worn out. Kids learn the most from what we never actually say. If all they ever see is us running ourselves into the ground and calling that devotion, that is exactly what they will grow up to repeat. Show them a woman who knows when to put the bag down, who says out loud that she has had enough for one day, and maybe they get to build a life that was never priced by how much pain they could carry quietly.

You do not owe this world your slow destruction. That was never the arrangement, whatever they told you. Black women have carried more than their share for generations, and that history was never a bill coming due inside your body. Naomi reminded a generation of exactly that, and the reminder cost her plenty. The least anybody else can offer in return is to truly listen. Set the armor down sometimes. That fable about the unbreakable Sista got authored by folks who profited each time she shattered. High time we started writing a gentler one, for ourselves and for the daughters already watching close to see whether we mean a word of it.

Staff Writer; Raven Jones

Raven writes about music, relationships, and the everyday ups and downs of Black women… She keeps it honest, encourages other sistas, and can be reached at RavenJ@ThySistas.com.

Understand what happened here. Jones did not petition the league for a courtesy chair at the far end of the room. She and Feliciano jointly lead the ownership group that acquired control of the club, along with the leverage stitched to it. That distinction matters more than any headline can hold, because there is a wide gulf between being welcomed as a guest and holding the keys to the building.

For generations, the relationship between us and pro sports ran one direction. We filled the stands. Caps went on our heads, rosters memorized cold, lineups argued over at the barbershop, paychecks vanished into jerseys and playoff seats. Our labor built these leagues too, our athletes carrying entire franchises on their backs while somebody else counted the receipts upstairs. Loyalty flowed up. The profit drifted elsewhere.

Kwanza reversed the direction of that flow.

Consider the road for a second. Back at Princeton she entered Amateur Night at the Apollo and took the top prize, which says plenty about her nerve long before any of the rest showed up. Music came next. Nine appearances on the Billboard charts followed, including a Top 10 dance hit, with records that moved bodies in clubs across the country. Track and field ran right beside it, with the 800 meters as her specialty at the NCAA Division I level, legs and lungs tested against the best. Law school followed, then work as a mediator in the New York City court system and as an adjunct professor teaching negotiation at New York University. A Miss Baltimore crown got picked up somewhere along the way. None of it arrived by accident or by anyone’s charity. A woman assembles a life this full only by refusing, again and again, to shrink, and every piece of it walked into a boardroom that rarely hears a voice pitched this loud.

Money has flowed out of those hands as freely as it flowed in. The couple’s initiative says it has committed more than $250 million toward education, entrepreneurship, equity and empowerment, including a $20 million gift to Princeton that stood as the largest ever given to that school by Black and Latino donors. A person built that way does not walk into a franchise hunting for a photo opportunity. She walks in with a plan.

My mind keeps drifting to the little girls who will grow up treating this story as ordinary fact. Some kid flipping past the sports page, barely paying attention, glances up and sees a woman who could pass for somebody in her own household running the top of a multibillion dollar operation. Such an image settles in deep. The ceiling a young mind quietly draws for itself shifts a few feet higher. You cannot slap a price on it, though the deal behind it still carried one.

Some folks will want to file this under magic and keep it moving. I understand the impulse, and the phrase carries real affection. Still, magic undersells the truth of what took place. Magic sounds like something that simply appears, sparkles, then vanishes. What she pulled off was strategy, patience, capital and plain nerve. Sistas have always possessed those qualities. We rarely got handed the room where they could compound into this species of power.

Here sits the deeper shift worth chewing on. Cheering and controlling are not cousins. They live on separate streets entirely. When you cheer, you hope the people in charge share your values and spend wisely and treat your city with care. You hold opinions and zero leverage. When you control, your values can shape policy. You help choose the people who run the operation, set spending priorities and influence how the surrounding community gets treated on a random Tuesday when no cameras are rolling. Influence stops being a feeling and hardens into a name written on a document.

That very gap is where so many of us have been stuck for such a long stretch. We supplied the heart of American culture, the taste, the rhythm, the reason a thing catches fire, while the paperwork of holding stayed in other hands. Musicians know this ache intimately. Ballplayers know it. Anybody who has watched their contribution generate a fortune they never got to touch knows it down in the marrow.

Now let me be fair about the full picture. Feliciano was named the control person under league rules, giving him the club’s formal voice in MLB matters. Cynics will wave that around like it erases the moment. It does not. Major League Baseball says Jones and Feliciano jointly lead the ownership group, and the Padres officially list Jones as a principal owner. The pair built this whole life as partners in business and at home. Watching two people pool their brilliance and buy their way into a room that never expected either of them is its own quiet testimony.

Something else I love. A refusal to dim her shine for the occasion. At the introductory press conference she entered to an upbeat Padres song she had written and performed herself, hollered that the squad was going to win it all, then stood up and snapped a photo of the reporters gathered to cover the moment. No shrinking into some muted, apologetic version of herself to seem palatable to the old guard. A grown woman strolled into the most exclusive fraternity in American sports and stayed fully who she is, thank you very much. Such freedom is the reward for every year spent earning the right to be present.

Black women have carried this country’s cultural weight without the deed to the house for a very long time. We styled the hair, wrote the hooks, coined the slang, set trends the entire planet later copied and watched the proprietor class collect the checks. So when one of us crosses from the bleachers to the boardroom, from admirer to owner, that is no small human interest item to skim past over coffee. That marks a structural crack in a very old wall, and Black women everywhere felt it.

The Padres themselves deserve a mention, still chasing a championship they have never claimed. As of August 25, they had 71-61 record, holding the final National League Wild Card spot with an edge of two games over Arizona as the handoff unfolded. Should the ring finally reach San Diego under this new leadership, the picture turns even sweeter. Picture the trophy hoisted while a sister stands among the people who control the franchise’s future.

Money is the tongue power speaks, and too often we were asked to whisper it. Kwanza did not whisper. She helped assemble the capital, signed the papers and settled into her seat as somebody who belongs there, not somebody granted temporary access that evaporates when the mood shifts.

My prayer is that the young ones treat her not as an exception but as a template. The point underneath all the celebration reads plain enough. Applause feels nice, and applause is cheap. Control is the piece that endures. Every sister reading this deserves to know that the table was never truly meant to stay closed to her, and that a few Sistas have already proven the chairs can be bought outright.

Kwanza Jones understood the assignment. Nothing at all got asked of baseball. She arrived with her partner, the capital and a winning ownership group, and made herself an owner.

Staff Writer; Jada Williams

This sister writes about politics, money, family, and the issues that shape everyday life… Her work looks at how decisions made in government, changes in the economy, and challenges within our communities affect Black women and their families…

Feel free to email her at: JadaW@ThySistas.com.

Her path ran through the University of Oklahoma law program, degree in hand by 2015. Early on, security guards at team hotels mistook her for somebody’s girlfriend and asked her to leave. Think about that. A trained attorney, sharp enough to read the fine print buried in these agreements, and grown men treated her like a lost fan. Returning anyway became the whole answer.

The year 2019 brought a milestone, as Lynn became the first Black woman to represent a top-three NFL draft pick when Quinnen Williams went third overall to the New York Jets. Four years after that came a $255 million extension for Jalen Hurts that briefly made him the highest-paid player in NFL history by average annual value. Lynn later became the first Black woman to represent a quarterback in the Super Bowl, and Hurts eventually went on to win a championship and Super Bowl MVP honors. Now look at 2026. Across one offseason she stacked up 4 major agreements worth nearly $377 million in reported contract value for her clients. Bijan Robinson briefly reset the running back market as the highest-paid player at his position. Quinnen Williams pulled down roughly $106 million from Dallas. After each victory the same grinning note lands online, asking whether anybody happens to have a Brinks truck handy.

Here is the part I want us to actually chew on.

Lynn does not succeed by asking nicely. Victory comes because she enters the room already certain of what her client is owed, homework finished, proof in the folder. Market comparisons. Timing. Leverage nobody else bothered to notice. Hoping the other side feels generous is not the strategy. Building a case they cannot easily refuse is.

Now let me talk to my Sistas for a second.

How many of us were raised on the gospel of keep your head down and grind? Do the job, do it twice as well as everybody else, and eventually somebody up top will see you and reward you. Our mothers meant well. Their world sometimes ran that way, or at least they needed it to. That quiet approach has cost too many of us real income, real promotions, real years we will never get back.

I have watched brilliant women accept the first figure thrown at them because pushing felt rude. I have watched them thank a boss for a 2% bump while a less qualified coworker cleared 15% by simply opening his mouth. Nobody hands you your value on a silver tray. You have to name it, out loud, in a space where the temperature might drop the second you do.

That is the lesson sitting inside her climb. Study the market thoroughly enough and confidence stops being a performance. Hers rested on facts. When the claim was 9 figures, the receipts behind every dollar were already lined up.

Most of us are not haggling over football salaries. We are teachers, nurses, analysts, shop owners, managers, freelancers trying to raise a rate we set 3 years ago and never touched since. The scale differs. The principle does not.

Begin with knowing what you bring. Really knowing it. Sit down and list every skill you carry, every problem you solve that would cost the company dearly if you walked out tomorrow. Put it on paper. Read it back to yourself until you stop flinching.

Then go find out what that talent actually pays. Ask around. Comb the salary sites. Reach out to a former colleague who left for greener grass and ask, gently, what greener looked like on the paycheck. Information is the whole ballgame here. You cannot bargain for a number you never learned existed.

And when the moment arrives, resist the urge to soften yourself into nothing. So many of us apologize before the request even leaves our mouths. The ask shrinks. A nervous laugh sneaks in. We hand them an exit before anybody thought to say no. Lynn refuses that reflex. Silence does the labor. The figure gets named, and then comes the wait.

I am not pretending any of this feels natural. For women who look like we do, assertiveness gets read differently, and we all know it. Confident becomes difficult. Direct becomes cold. That double standard is real, and I will not insult anyone by acting like it isn’t. But letting it mute you only guarantees the outcome you already feared. You end up underpaid and still misjudged. So you might as well be paid correctly and let them adjust their assumptions on their own time.

There is something else worth sitting with. Nicole built her reputation representing men, operating in spaces where nobody expected her to hold the pen. Permission to belong was never something she waited on. Acting as though it already existed did the work, and eventually the room caught up to reality.

Black women have been the safety net of families, churches, and jobs forever. Showing up early is the norm. Staying late comes standard too. We repair what other people broke and rarely send an invoice for it. Somewhere along the line, a lot of us learned to measure ourselves by how much we could haul for free. Nicole reverses that arrangement completely. Her entire livelihood is making sure talent gets compensated fully, and her own fee carries the exact same seriousness.

So what does knowing your value look like on an ordinary Tuesday, for a sister who will never sit across from a team owner?

On an ordinary Tuesday it might mean sending the full bill instead of the discounted friend price. Maybe the moment calls for telling a client, I can start that project once we settle my rate. Sometimes the move is declining a promotion that piles on responsibility while the pay stays frozen. Other times the answer is walking out on an employer who keeps promising to appreciate you next quarter, next year, next never.

None of that is ego. Ego is claiming what you did not earn. What I am describing is accuracy. You are allowed to be accurate about your own price.

My beautiful Sistas, hear me clearly. The professional who negotiated all those millions was once escorted out of a hotel because a stranger could not picture her power. Convincing him was never where her energy went. Becoming undeniable is what got the investment instead.

Do the homework. Learn the market. Rehearse the ask until your voice quits shaking. Then walk in like the figure you deserve is already yours, because on paper, if you truly did the work, it is.

Somebody out there needs your particular brilliance badly enough to pay for it. Go and make them.

Staff Writer; Jada Williams

This sister writes about politics, money, family, and the issues that shape everyday life… Her work looks at how decisions made in government, changes in the economy, and challenges within our communities affect Black women and their families…

Feel free to email her at: JadaW@ThySistas.com.

The woman says she is the greatest, and the hardware backs the claim. Flint raised her, she owns two Olympic gold medals, and undisputed status has been hers across three weight classes. Still, the reaction from certain corners is not applause. It is a raised eyebrow paired with a quiet wish that she would please tone it down. The skill draws no real argument. What bothers people is her mouth, her strut, her flat refusal to shrink so the rest of the room can breathe a little easier.

Sit with that a second.

I have watched this same movie play out my entire life. A sister accomplishes something rare, and almost on cue the talk drifts off her achievement and onto her manner. Too aggressive, they say. A little too much. Could have phrased it nicer. Where is the humility. Why won’t she carry herself like the athlete who smiles sweet, thanks the Lord, and never lets you catch her wanting it. That comparison gives the whole thing away. The demand was never really about greatness. It was about obedience.

We hand our daughters a script before they can spell. Be excellent, but never brag on it. Win, and then apologize for having wanted the win so badly. Take up space, then quickly make yourself small enough that nobody in the room feels the least bit threatened. A grown professional who has bled for every belt gets treated like a girl who forgot her manners at Sunday dinner. And the folks doing the correcting rarely notice they are begging her to be worse at the very confidence that turned her into a champion.

Here is what I keep circling back to. A whole spectrum of human personality exists, yet we behave as though our Sistas only get to live on the sweet, soft, agreeable end of it. A man can be cocky and we call it charisma. He talks reckless and we praise him as a competitor with fire in his belly. Let a woman do the identical thing and suddenly she needs a talking to about class. That double standard is old, it is exhausting, and Claressa did not invent it. Playing along simply is not in her, and the refusal makes certain folks itch.

Let me be honest now. Everything Claressa says does not get a co-sign from me. A few of her interviews had me shaking my head at the television, muttering baby, why. Some of it lands messy. A couple of those beefs, I would have walked a different road entirely. She has growing left. Join the club. Not one of us out here has arrived.

Watch this next part closely, because this is where plenty of us lose the plot.

Disagreeing with a Sista is not the same as degrading her. I can side eye a comment and still refuse to drag anybody’s upbringing into the conversation. I can wish a different word had been picked without ever questioning whether the woman is feminine enough or ladylike enough for somebody’s approval. Her flaws do not make her smaller. They make her human, same as the rest of us who stumbled and kept moving anyway. A woman who laced up gloves, or picked up a pen, or stretched a thin check across a long month, she carries dents. Everybody worth anything does.

Here is where it goes wrong. Somebody says she needs to act right, harmless enough on its face. But wait a beat. Soon that same person is throwing Flint in her face, snickering at her voice, floating the idea that no real lady would carry on this way. That is not feedback anymore. That is disrespect wearing a nicer coat. And our Black women eat it first, on account of us always ending up at the bottom whenever the ugliness starts sliding down.

Flint made her. That city keeps getting used as an insult in these conversations, as though a hard place cannot produce a queen. I reject that notion clean and simple. The grit some people criticize is the identical grit that carried her off those streets and onto an Olympic podium not once but twice. You cannot cherish the medals while despising the hunger that won them. Choose one.

This is the beating heart of the entire matter, so hear me plainly. Sistas do not have to be perfect before we decide they are worth defending. Nobody waits until a sister has scrubbed herself into somebody’s tidy fantasy of grace before saying let her be. We stand up for her messy, mid growth, still learning, still loud. And we do it precisely because the world has never once demanded perfection from the men it showers with love, and we are finished accepting a harsher rule for our own.

Consider who actually profits when we pour our energy into policing each other. Not us. It is never us. While we bicker over whether Claressa came off too brash in a post fight interview, the systems that have historically undervalued women’s boxing and underpaid many of its stars keep humming along, untouched. The respectability trap works exactly like this by design. It keeps us busy grading one another on manners while the real fight goes unfought.

I am not asking anybody to worship her. Worship belongs somewhere higher. What I am asking for is something smaller and far harder, which is the plain decency of letting a person be fully human without making her audition for her own dignity. A woman can be brilliant and abrasive in a single afternoon, then dead right about her talent and flat wrong about her tone inside the very same breath. Both truths fit within one body, because that is simply how anybody actually moves through a life.

Next time you catch yourself about to correct a sister into somebody’s picture of a proper lady, pause and ask who painted that picture, and who it was ever meant to serve. I promise you it was not drawn with her in view. It was not drawn with any of us in view.

Let the champion talk her talk. That microphone got paid for in sweat and busted knuckles. Brash is her right, earned in full. Flawed too, if that is who she happens to be on a given day. And gloriously, unapologetically herself, without some committee signing off first. When the pile on begins, and it always begins, plant your feet on her side. Not because she is spotless. Because she is ours.

So the question is not really about Claressa at all. It is about whether we protect our own before the world says they have earned it. I already know where I stand. The only thing left is where you land.

Staff Writer: Brenda Poole

BP writes about entertainment, relationships, faith, and life in general… She enjoys speaking on things Black women can relate to and hopefully giving a sista something useful along the way…

Feel free to email her at BrendaP@ThySistas.com.

Different games offer different lessons, depending on what you are looking for. I found that failing was something that has been very difficult for me to deal with, and that goes back to my childhood. Though I’ve gotten better, there was a point when I’d doubt myself so much that I would not be able to begin a task that I didn’t believe I could accomplish. The fear was absolutely arresting…and stifling. If you add to that a difficulty with repetition, you can see the vast limitations lying ahead.

When I started my gaming journey, I found that it did not come easy. From navigating the controller, to being able to see and navigate my surrounding…I found that I was constantly frustrated; more importantly I was afraid I would always lose so I began backing away from gaming. When I couldn’t get past a certain point, I wanted someone to get me past it, or I’d abandon the game. Though we’re talking about a game this behave can be seen in other areas of life.

I decided one night while battling with Smite that it was time to put this game to good use. You see, this wasn’t a life event…it’s game and it should be fun. With that fun, I had to learn to have the patience to learn. I needed to allow myself to lose and play again as many times as it took for me to no longer feel anxious. I realized it was okay to play in front of my friends and lose a match or die multiple times in an RPG. I learned to value the story in some of my games, value the process, and take the time to get better if I wanted to win. Okay, so navigating the controller didn’t come naturally to me…no problem. I needed to work with it until it became natural. If I was stuck on the tutorial for a week…so be it. As I continued to play I began to find my rhythm, and I no longer got that bad feeling in my stomach when I lost a match.

This might sound trivial, but the fear of failure is a real issue for many. How we navigate that fear is different for each individual. I found that gaming was a good platform for me to begin to work through those issues as it was a safe space. I wasn’t learning on something that could seriously affect my finances for career. However, the principles of working through a matter…or a battle until I was comfortable became universal. I began to slow down and allow myself the opportunity to practice, try, fail, and do everything over again. The challenge was to not put the controller down and walk away when I got frustrated. I realized that was the issue in principle in every other area of life. I needed to face my fear and work through my frustration. Gaming has its benefits. It helped me work through my fear of failure…it can still be a challenge, but I can et through it.

Staff Writer; Christian Starr

May connect with this sister over at Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/christian.pierre.9809 and also Twitter; http://twitter.com/MrzZeta.

Let me start off by saying, if you are sharing a console with someone it is very easy to create a gamer account on that console. This allows each individual to play under their gamer tag and progress in various games at their pace. There are a few friends of mind that created or add their gamer tag to my account so they can play the game under their name and not mine. Furthermore, in online party chat they can converse as themselves as they are known in the gaming community. Also, this alleviates confusion of various different kinds.

When playing games such as Apex Legends, Call of Duty, Warframe, Smite, and many other players will often want to play with gamers that have leveled up closed to where they are so that there is an even understanding of the game functionality. This might also be the case if you are say catching a game before work, or just want a quick match…you’d definitely play on your level or with people whom you have a rapport. It’s easier to get though a match when those in game chat know the style of play of all present when on a particular game.

The chemistry goes to trash quickly when you are playing with a high leveled player that you’ve been playing with for some time, or so you thought, and all of a sudden, they are playing as a complete stranger. You later find out that your gaming buddy is at work, or unavailable, and their boyfriend, spouse, significant other has jumped on the console as them. You might blow it off at first, but if it continues to happen you begin to question who’s on the controller every time they are online and invite you to the party. This is only made worse when this person is not a team player, can’t be taught anything, and constantly wrecks your stats. This might seem like a random gaming rant, but if you’ve put the time and effort into the game it will matter to you.

Furthermore, it is uncomfortable when you are in chat, verses on the headset, and you get the feeling you are being filled out. In that moment there seems to be a breech in your gaming community and it’s just not okay. If you have a gaming console and a tight knit gaming community, we don’t mind getting to know your significant other. Even if they are new to the game the more the merrier, however we want to know who we are actually in game play with. Your stats create the expectation of level of play; let’s not be rude. The people you play with deserve to decide if they want to party up with you, or have time to do so with your partner. Tell him to get an account on your console…gamer tags please. When I’m trying to reach a certain objective, or I’m short on time I need the gamer tag to match the person behind the controller.

Staff Writer; Chelle’ St James

May also connect with this sister via Twitter; ChelleStJames.

Boxing

You might not think it’s for you, but boxing is a proven way to burn the calories with a high-intensity workout whilst staying motivated and excited. With a boxing workout, you’ll be learning new skills, as well as working off any built-up aggression from other areas of your life! It can be surprisingly cathartic. Don’t worry if you don’t feel ready for a public boxing class – there are plenty of online sessions you can complete in your own home, and still feel the burn.

Yard Games

If you have any outdoor space or even a nearby park, yard games are an amazing way to exercise. You can play with your friends, partner or children, and find different ways to work up a sweat whilst socializing and having fun. There are plenty of options, but one sport growing in popularity is Pickleball – it’s sort of a cross between tennis, badminton and ping pong. You don’t need much equipment to get started, just the best pickleball paddles and a net! If you enjoy active games like this, you’ll forget that it counts as exercising in the first place. Check here latest and best pickleball paddles.

Dancing

Along the same lines, dancing can be one of the best ways to trick yourself into exercising even if you hate the thought of it! You don’t need to be a pro, or even the slightest bit co-ordinated. All you need is enthusiasm, and to be prepared to never want to stop. There are loads of dance classes on youtube if you’d rather start at home, or you’ll easily be able to find a local dance or Zumba class to suit your needs, even if you’ve never danced before in your life.

Running Aids

It might be that you prefer to stick with traditional workout methods such as running, but you still struggle to find the motivation for a regular routine. If this is the case, apps like Zombies, Run! could be the solution you’re looking for. They use audio narratives and instructions to keep your run interesting, mixing it up with different paces, so you can run around your neighborhood whilst imagining you’re being chased by zombies, or on another planet, or a whole host of fun scenarios!

If that isn’t up to your liking, one can always try something new. Pickleball is becoming more popular day by day.

Check latest Pickleball Paddles Here: https://www.pickypaddle.com/

Staff Writer; Susan Brown

Wrong. You can get told about yourself, as long as you are not disrespected, it doesn’t mean you should respond throwing the hate you claim to receive. We want children to understand accountability, and to know their actions can invoke negative response when they hurt people. We want them to learn to own that so that they can be better human beings…well grown folks should do the same.

Far too often people get caught up in their feelings and needing those feelings to be validated that they aren’t listening when someone tells them what you’ve done isn’t okay. Look, not everyone that is upset with Gayle King hates her, and many people don’t wish harm upon her. However, people that find her actions regarding the Kobe Bryant interview offensive, if they are respectful, should be heard. The anger many men and women are feeling is based on their disappointment of her timing and pressing of a matter. They are tired of seeing situations re-surface once a black man has died. They don’t understand why issues can’t be settled why they are alive. They wonder why the after-death issues look one sided. Whatever their finding offense may be that doesn’t equate to hate. Gayle King isn’t the victim in this situation.

The same argument can be made when men are addressed about behavior in relationships…that isn’t the hatred of black men. When men address issues with women this isn’t the hatred of black women. We can’t grow if we are unwilling to hear and understand the correction of people we have hurt. It’s time we take a serious look at what we are becoming on social media and in other areas. We have to be accountable to our behavior without trying to excuse self then create a narrative whereby we are now the victim too. This is happening far too often, and it’s time we seriously take account while we can.

There is a whole generation of youth watching our interactions and they are being taught how to govern themselves by our actions. When we can’t take correction, we are creating a generation that will behave in the same manner. Disrespect is never acceptable. It isn’t acceptable when a woman (or man) is called out of their name; it is not acceptable when the wrong party tries to shun responsibility and cry hatred. All disrespect is wrong…not just the version that applies to you.

Staff Writer; Christian Starr

May connect with this sister over at Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/christian.pierre.9809 and also Twitter; http://twitter.com/MrzZeta.

When I heard Kobe Bryant passed, his daughter passed with him, and seven other people I was sick inside. I remember vomiting as waves of sick grief washed over me like a cruel storm. All I could do was turn everything off and lay down. I didn’t want to see the TV, social media, or talk to a single soul. I needed to understand why I was so hurt and angry at the same time. My first thought was “gone too soon”. I love football; basketball was okay and was something to watch to pass the time. Kobe Bryant was an amazing player, and his presence on the court was predatory anytime I found myself watching. In many ways that did remind me of Michael Jordan. Honestly, Kobe Bryant has my attention when he injured his achilles as I was watching that game. I remember thinking his career was over. However, he chronical his journey to social media, and during this time I would be battling with my own health. I finally saw “Mamba Mentality” off the court. He had become someone whose life I was learning from, and even after retirement I was still learning.

His passing hurt deeply as I feel there was so much more to learn. The suddenness of his passing sent shocks through my soul, and many others. In this space the argument of why we cry for celebrities would begin. I was told by a sister friend directly that I was being dramatic and needed to cut out the foolishness. I heard of others being ridiculed for crying…and I realized this is not okay. No one has the right to tell us what another human being, or that persons life, should mean to us. No one has the right to regulate who we should grieve over, and how much. This is inhumane, and ugly! I wish I could say I expect more from my community. However, this is the same space that weighs the life of parents differently. If mom passes we allow the highest grief regardless of her life, however if dad passed the same degree of grief is not allowed. There is an expectation to quickly get over the death of anyone that isn’t mom, grandmother, or a child.

I will take a stand for my own emotional space. No one will make me feel ashamed for grieving the loss of life no matter how it hits me. There will be no explanations given about why someone impacted my life enough to bring my day (or week) to a screeching halt for grieves sake. Kobe Bryant has transitioned, and I won’t be getting over it quickly. I’m hurting inside, many people are hurting inside, and there is nothing to be ashamed about.

Staff Writer; Chelle’ St James

May also connect with this sister via Twitter; ChelleStJames.