Let me back up for anybody who needs the context. Waterloo, Iowa is home ground, born there in 1976, and the decades since have gone to reporting on how race decides who gets a strong education and who gets handed the scraps. These days the work runs deep: a teaching post at Howard, a Pulitzer on the shelf, and a steady habit of building institutions. The newest venture, a bookstore and bar called North Star, is set to open in Brooklyn this fall. So we are not talking about somebody who wandered into this subject by accident. This is a life’s work, a whole heartbeat.

Around 2015, the journalist and her husband set something in motion. Living in Brooklyn, the couple enrolled their only child, Najya, in prekindergarten at P.S. 307, a predominantly Black, high-poverty public school that many wealthier families had avoided. Private tuition sat well within their budget. Other public school options were available, too. Both got waved off, on purpose, the hope being that their presence and their pull might lift the place for everybody’s babies and not only their own. The reasoning was rooted in belief. Our people deserve better than what the system usually hands out, and putting skin in the game felt like one way to say so.

Plenty of us feel that ache in the chest already. You reach a crossroads with your kid and both directions look like a gamble. Down one path sits the neighborhood spot where a baby lands among faces that look familiar, where the auntie on the corner knows the name, where nobody makes a young one feel like a guest in her own skin. Down the other path sits a place with newer books, more offerings, teachers who actually stick around, and results that shine on paper. Both roads cost something dear. Neither one comes free.

Najya, by her mama’s own telling, gained something precious on that block. The girl grew up rooted, secure about who she was, never fretting over whether the room had space for one more. That is not a small thing. Plenty of our young ones move through fancy academies feeling like the only raisin in a bowl of oatmeal, and it wears a hole in the spirit over time. Yet the tougher high school told a different tale. An assessment turned up real holes in the math, gaps in algebra and the basics that should have been locked down years before. Tutoring helped the climb, and by the end of her first semester, she was bringing home mostly A’s and B’s. She also passed her state algebra examination by the end of the school year. Still, the girl put it plain. The schooling she wanted never showed up when she needed it most.

Before anybody piles on this mother, let me say something clear. Every one of us weighing these same options is guessing. Nobody hands you a crystal ball at the hospital. Ask the Sistas doing this right now, up past midnight at the kitchen table with enrollment forms everywhere, trying to guess what a child will need five years out. Do you send your baby where the heart feels held, or where the mind gets pushed? Where the spirit is safe, or where the transcript shines? Anybody who calls that arithmetic simple has never sat down and done it. So let me put it straight to my fellow Sistas. Standing at that same fork, would you make the call this mother made for your own kids?

There is a genuine cost to being the one forever explaining yourself. Black women who came up as the only face in the room remember that particular loneliness, the constant code switching, the teacher who assumed the worst before the first bell. A neighborhood campus can spare a kid every bit of that. It can hand over friendships that feel like kin, a lunchroom where the jokes land just right, a mirror wherever the eyes land. Belonging is not some luxury item. For a heart still forming, it is oxygen.

And yet. Friendships and comfort do not teach fractions. Roots, deep as they run, do not cover the science a university will one day expect a student to know cold. That is the whole bind, laid bare. A child can be happy and still get shortchanged, both at once, and a good parent misses it because those smiles at dinner are not fake. Black women have carried this exact math for generations. Do you choose the place that keeps her safe, or the one that pushes her harder? Most make that call with nobody clapping.

Here is what the whole saga reminds me. Our young ones are not props for our beliefs, however righteous those beliefs may be. Najya did her own homework, literally. A closer look at how her school measured up, and the cold numbers landed in her mama’s lap. That young lady held an opinion and deserved a real hearing long before the fallout ever showed up on a placement test. For anybody still weighing it, start asking sooner than feels comfortable. What do you actually want? Which building makes you feel most like yourself? What lights you up? A ten year old cannot run the entire household, of course, but a growing heart carries clues a grown woman should never wave off.

I don’t have a clean answer, and I won’t fake one, because what works in my house might flop in yours. Some children thrive right on their own block, held up by folks who love them. Others need the harder class and the bigger door even if it pulls them away from home for a while. What matters is watching close and being ready to reconsider the day your child tells you the truth. Nikole got there. Once her daughter made it clear that she wanted something different, this mother gave the teenager the freedom to choose her own public high school. The transition was not easy, and Najya soon discovered that a more demanding classroom brought challenges of its own. She even considered transferring to another school shortly after arriving. Yet her mother listened, found her the academic support she needed, and helped her work through those difficult first months. That took love.

What sits heaviest with me is the willingness to stand up and say, in front of God and everybody, that a big thing got done wrong. Sistas, how many of us can hold our own mess up to the light like that, let alone share it with the entire country? Staying quiet and guarding the legacy like a jewel was an option, and it got skipped. Choosing her daughter and the plain truth instead, this writer handed the rest of us permission to carry both grief and grace about the calls we have made for our families.

As of this week, the calendar stays full: teaching, building, catching heat and applause in nearly equal measure. The bookstore is on the way. The 1619 work rolls forward. And somewhere in Brooklyn, a teenager is continuing her education with a stronger academic foundation and a mother who has learned to listen more closely to what her daughter needs.

So here is my closing word to the Sistas reading this with a form to fill out and a knot sitting low in the stomach. Trust your gut, but check it against theirs. Weigh the ranking, and then refuse to bow to it. Grown Black women already know community holds a growing girl up, a good teacher does the stretching, and most children need both to grow into who they are becoming. Nobody gets it perfect. That is fine. The main thing a young one needs is a parent who keeps listening and will change her mind when the facts change. That beats any ranking on a chart, and it is the part of an education that sticks.

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.

A quiet thread runs through that whole catalog, though, and it has nothing to do with trophies. Sit with what those songs are actually saying and a pattern rises up. Courage keeps getting handed to people who are worn slap out. That is its own kind of ministry. And the ones who need that courage most, who almost never receive it back, are the sisters holding everybody else together while nobody bothers to check the weight resting on their shoulders.

Picture an ordinary Sunday. A woman gets there early, sets out the programs, looks in on the mothers board, texts the young mama whose baby cried through the night. Before service even starts, there she is interceding for a husband who will not darken the door. Each child gets called up by name. The needs of half the block ride along too. By benediction everything she walked in carrying has been poured out, and Monday means rising to start the round all over again.

Now who is holding that sister up. The question tends to make a room go quiet.

We built a whole theology around unbreakable Black women. One of them prays a family through the eviction notice. Another whispers to her man that a layoff does not define him, then braids hair, packs lunches, and shows up to the school meeting on four hours of sleep. Culture hands that picture over like a compliment. Half the time it works more like a trap, because a person praised only for what gets carried rarely hears anyone ask what is quietly breaking her back.

Adams understood all this long before anybody turned it into a hashtag. On “Open My Heart,” there is no performance of invincibility. Out loud, without flinching, comes a plea for the Lord to guide a weary soul that has run out of answers. That is not the anthem of somebody with it all figured out. That is the sound of a soul at the end of itself, reaching. Millions reached along in cars and kitchens, because the song confessed the very thing so many were too proud to say in Bible study.

Then there is “The Battle Is the Lord’s.” On the surface it hands the fight up to heaven. Underneath, it grants permission. Permission to set something down. For a sister told her entire life that laying anything down proves weakness, hearing that the load was never hers to carry alone can crack open a door in the spirit that got painted shut decades back.

“In the Midst of It All” belongs in this same sanctuary. Trouble does not vanish in that song. Peace simply moves in and sits down right beside it. That is a word for every tired soul who learned to worship while the storm was blowing. Praise, yes. Even so, the strongest worshiper needs somebody to rise up and praise over her too.

Here is what I wish the church would catch. Intercession is meant to travel both directions. We rush the seasoned sister to a hospital bedside, dial her up when a marriage starts shaking, lean on that wisdom in the ministry meeting. Yet when did a circle last gather round, lay hands, and lift one of these women up with no task attached. Nothing asked. Just her, because she is tired and beloved and worthy of being carried, all at once.

Emotional care belongs in this conversation as much as the spiritual kind. A woman can be wrapped head to toe in Scripture and still starve for one person to ask how things really are, then stay long enough to sit inside the honest answer. Black women often reach middle age with private storms layered under duties nobody around them even sees. Aging parents. A body that shifts over time. Grown kids who worry from three states away. Dreams shelved thirty years back that knock around two in the morning. None of that heals with a rushed word at the door and a vow to keep somebody in mind.

What Adams gives, song after song, is a faith roomy enough for the singer to stay human inside it. Her music has spoken to loss and rebuilding, to the responsibilities of family, and to the difficult work of pressing forward when life takes an unexpected turn. The mountain and the valley never got sold as the same view. That honesty is the gift. It tells whoever is sitting in the pew that faking the summit is not the price of being loved by God.

So take this as a gentle nudge. To every tireless Sista, every pillar the whole family leans on, hear this plain. Needing help does not cancel a woman’s strength. Go on and slide into a front seat, let the service wash clean over a heart with no duty left in its hands. Text a friend and say, I am not okay, come sit with me, and mean every syllable of it.

And to those on the other side of that love, the ones who know a Sista pouring out for everyone in sight, move this week. Make the call first. Speak that name to the Lord on purpose. Bring the food, mind the kids, sit close in the stillness. Be the church family that shows up for the very person forever showing up.

Yolanda Adams built a whole career reminding us that grace reaches the weary. Sixty-five, still recording, climbing onto stages, singing rest into folks who forgot rest was ever theirs to claim. Black women have carried gospel music on their backs for generations, and the most faithful answer we could offer back is to turn that same song toward the strongest Sistas among us. Cover them. Carry them. Let the one who is always somebody’s answer finally become the name somebody else lifts up in prayer.

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.

Ask most of us what a college degree is for, and the answer arrives on reflex. It secures a good position. Land the role, keep the role, retire from the same desk with a small pension and a nice card signed by the office. That reflex, handed down with love, quietly undersells what an education truly grants. Michelle Obama has spent a lifetime illustrating the difference, and what her journey offers Black women is worth far more than any line on a business card.

I still tear up watching a young sister cross the stage in her cap and gown, and the reason has little to do with the ceremony. What moves me is the door swinging open behind her, the kind no one can lock again.

Consider where Michelle Obama began. A girl from the South Side of Chicago, raised in a cramped apartment upstairs from her great aunt, told by a college counselor that Princeton might be aiming a touch high. Michelle enrolled anyway. Sociology, with a minor in African American studies, then off to Harvard Law. By every yardstick our grandmothers would honor, the young lawyer had made it. Big firm downtown. Fancy office. A paycheck that could finally take care of her people.

Now here comes the part folks love to skip. Walked away from all of it.

The law is where she met a young man named Barack, so nobody’s mad at how that chapter went. Trouble was, the work itself never fit right. She has spoken about the dissatisfaction she felt practicing corporate law and the desire to find work that gave her a greater sense of purpose. So the woman left. City government came first. Then came a stretch pouring into young people through a nonprofit, Public Allies. Leadership positions at the University of Chicago and its medical center followed. Look at the whole run. One woman every step, carrying the same education into a new chapter whenever she decided it was time to turn the page.

Right there sits the whole lesson I want my sisters to hold.

We came up being taught that schooling was a ticket to one particular seat. Earn the diploma, land the position, cling to that position until they hand you a cheap watch and a grocery store sheet cake in the break room. Our mothers meant every word of it. They survived stretches where holding onto anything steady counted as a victory, so bless them for the wisdom that fit their season. Still, the world our daughters step into rewards the woman who bends without snapping, and real education can give you the tools to make that adjustment.

Here is how I put it to the young sistas I mentor. Your diploma is not a cage. It is a passport.

A passport does not name the single country where you must spend your days. It simply gives you the opportunity to cross into places you might never have imagined visiting. What you build on the other side belongs to you. You can practice medicine at 30 and open a bakery by 40. Teach reading for a decade, go back for that master’s, then run the entire district. Nobody has the standing to tell an educated woman her season has closed.

Look at what the former First Lady is doing this very fall of 2026. Back in June, the Obama Presidential Center opened in Chicago, and before that crowd she spoke about the importance of hope and our responsibility to act on it. Earlier this month she turned up at the US Open glowing in a bold Chanel piece, watching Coco Gauff compete in the semifinals like the royalty she is. Her production company even stepped onto Broadway this year, helping bring a revival of Proof to the stage with Ayo Edebiri and Don Cheadle. A whole book on her personal style landed in 2025, arriving after her memoir, Becoming, sold more than 18 million copies around the globe.

Add all that up. Author. Producer. Speaker who commands a room on two continents. Style icon well into her 60s. A former corporate attorney whose legal education opened doors far beyond the courtroom. Which of those counts as the real career? All of them at once, and no single one. Point is, a single job description was never going to hold her, and it will not hold you either. The schooling gave her room to keep changing her mind about who she wanted to be. She kept shedding the old version and building a new one, and I never heard her say sorry for it.

So hear me, because this matters. The label on your business card is temporary. The mind you sharpened earning that credential is yours for good. Layoffs come. Whole industries fold overnight. The company you gave 15 faithful years will replace you in a Tuesday meeting and cater the lunch while they do it. Yet nobody can repossess what you learned. Nobody can garnish your capacity to think, to write, to steady a room, to crack a hard problem after everyone else has quit.

Sit with this for a second. Not so long ago in this country’s history, there were states where teaching an enslaved Black person to read could land somebody in a world of trouble. Black women were denied opportunities to learn, and many risked punishment for pursuing an education. We carry that history. It is in us. So when you walk that credential across the stage, understand you are not just decorating a job application. You are finishing what your great grandmother may never have been given the opportunity to start. Being two, three, four different women in one life is not you being flighty. It is the whole prize. Your people were told they could only ever be one thing, if that.

Now if you are reading this stuck in some job that quit fitting you seasons ago, listen, I am not saying quit on Monday morning. Bills are real, and I respect them. What I am telling you is that the same brain which earned the paper can earn a fresh direction. You are not stuck for life. You never were. You simply lost track of what that diploma actually purchased for you.

To the sistas still deep in it, buried under loans and midterms and quietly wondering whether any of this pays off, let me speak straight. It can, though not always the way the brochure promised, and hardly ever on the timeline you prayed for. Keep going if that degree still serves the future you want to build. Black women have carried this country on tired backs while collecting less credit than they deserved, and each of us who crosses that stage can smooth the road a little for the girl coming up next.

Now I want to hear from you, sistas, because this was never meant to be a lecture I deliver alone.

Which school claimed you? Tell me. Drop the name of your university, your community college, the HBCU that raised you right, or whatever hall of learning shaped who you are today. Some of us bleed our school colors clear to the grave, and honestly, I love that about us.

And here is my real request. If you crossed that stage decades back, or you are dragging yourself through midterms right now, what would you tell a younger sister still working up the nerve to enroll? What is the thing you wish an older woman had pulled you aside and said? Talk to her like she is sitting across from you. She really is out there reading. Your voice will do more for her than one more polished speech from somebody who never walked the road she is traveling.

Here is what Michelle has taught us. The education was never the ending. It is the launchpad. Black women have every right to remake themselves as often as they please, and that paper you earned is simply the receipt proving you have already done something worth celebrating. So go on and use it, sis. Not a piece of it. All of it.

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.

Megan Thee Stallion got honest about all this in a recent sit-down with InStyle. Going back over her breakup with Klay Thompson, she said something I keep turning over. The relationship had started eating away at her. “I was losing myself a little bit,” she said. “I am now in the space of finding me again.”

Read that twice. It carries something most of us have lived and few of us say aloud.

Megan and Thompson went public in the summer of 2025, making their red-carpet debut at the Pete & Thomas Foundation gala with matching looks and easy grins. By April of this year, it was finished. The Houston native confirmed the breakup herself, naming trust and respect as things she will not bend on, later accusing him of stepping out. Headlines chewed the gossip for weeks. What lingered with me, though, sat quieter than any cheating rumor.

In that same conversation, the artist described trying to make pieces fit that never belonged, squeezing herself into somebody else’s world. Sistas, if that does not describe half the heartbreak we carry around, I truly do not know what does.

Let us sit here a minute, because the takeaway floating around online is lazy. People keep flattening those words into a slogan about never bending for anybody. That misses it. Compromise is not the villain. Any grown person who has built something real with another soul knows that you give, you adjust, you meet a partner halfway on a Tuesday when you would rather not. That is partnership. That is maturity.

Vanishing is a whole different animal.

The line between the two blurs while you are standing inside it. Compromise sounds like, “You choose the restaurant tonight, I got us next time.” Vanishing sounds like you have stopped naming a favorite restaurant at all, because his taste quietly became the only taste in the room. One means your schedule flexes. The other means, as the Hot Girl put it, you stop showing up for your calling, the very thing that made you you.

“I cannot not go to work,” the rapper insisted. “I’m going to be Megan Thee Stallion.” Say that with your chest.

Here is the cruel part nobody prepares you for. You rarely notice the adjusting while it is happening. It arrives in increments so small they feel like kindness. You skip the girls’ trip because he had a rough week. You mute your opinions at dinner to dodge a mood. You reroute your calendar around his, once, then twice, then as a standing rule. Only after you walk out do you turn around and see the full inventory of everything you quietly set down. Distance hands you the clarity that closeness kept hiding.

Money, fame, magazine covers, none of it kept her from bending herself out of shape. And there was that uneasy feeling she pushed down for too long. “God will always make you uncomfortable when something is not meant for you,” she said. My grandmother had her own version of that line, a little less pretty. When your gut keeps nagging at you, that is the point. Quit calling it nerves and pay attention.

A lot of sistas grew up being told to hold it all down, be the strong one, the ride or die, right up until our knees give out. What nobody mentioned is that pouring everything into a man can leave you with nothing for you. We got taught that our worth was however much we could carry. Then we lie awake sore, wondering when it was that we stopped laughing. Black women get handed that script early, and the crowd applauds while we fade.

The mercy in her reflection is the timing; she caught it before it swallowed her whole. Not everybody does. Some sistas open their eyes at 50 and grieve the years spent circling another’s ambitions, mourning dreams left on a shelf to gather dust. The Houston native likened the split to being tumbled through a washing machine and dryer alongside, of all things, a cactus. You laugh and wince at the same time. What I respect is that, publicly, she has not framed another relationship as the answer. She has talked instead about sitting with herself and rediscovering what she wants out of life.

Look at what Meg has made of the months since. A getaway with Solange. A guest spot on Love Island. Fresh music teased around the corners of her socials, a hint that the studio keeps calling her back. The rapper recently tied up with Interscope for distribution while retaining complete ownership of her masters and publishing, which tells you plenty about a woman who has decided nobody, in romance or in business, gets to grip the pen on her story. The labor of returning to yourself rarely looks dramatic. Sometimes it looks like rest. Sometimes it is simply remembering that you enjoy your company.

That detail runs deeper than folks notice. Owning your masters tells you something about a person. She runs her own career and she is done handing that kind of control to anybody in her personal life either. She has spelled out what she needs going forward. Whoever wants a real shot has to accept that she answers to herself first. “I cannot be minimized. I will not be behind any man.” She is not sliding into the background, not at the office and not at home.

Somebody’s auntie is reading this and shaking her head, certain this is why young women cannot hold onto a man anymore. I hear her, and she is wrong. There is no pride in scrubbing yourself out of your own life. Real love does not ask you to vanish as the price of admission. A man who cannot handle you wide awake, working, loud in your gift, was never yours to begin with. He was a lesson wearing cologne.

The finest unions I have watched up close, the marriages that stretched forty years and still held laughter, were never built on one person going ghost. They stood on two complete people picking each other daily, each one tending a private garden. Her friendships stayed intact. So did his weekends on the water. They bent on the small stuff and stood firm on the sacred stuff, which was their grip on who they had been long before they ever met.

So let this be what we pocket from a woman barely past 30 who understands something plenty of people twice her age still miss. Give, yes. Bend, sometimes. Sacrifice a little for somebody genuinely worth it. But keep a palm pressed to your heartbeat. The day the mirror stops showing you a face you recognize, the day your worth and your wonder have all hushed to keep the peace, that is not devotion. That is a slow farewell to the person you were placed here to be.

Megan is finding her road back. May every sista reading this know home when it rises on the horizon, and may not one of us stall as long as we fear before we walk toward it.

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.

Anybody who watched her handle the president on Meet the Press understands what I mean. The exchange turned combative fast. Trump talked over her, went after her on air, and called the program crooked. Then, back in June, came an exit for the ages: an abrupt end to the interview and a walk right off the set rather than continuing to answer for his claims about California elections and January 6th.

Watch that clip again and notice Welker. Her tone stayed measured even as the interview fell apart around her.

Now here is the part that hits close to home for a lot of us. We were taught, from girlhood, that we get two scripts and only two. Swallow the insult and stay pleasant, or answer back and get labeled. There is no in between offered to us. Speak up with any heat and suddenly you are difficult, aggressive, “too much.” Stay quiet and you get read as a pushover, the kind who lets folks run all over her. That squeeze is old news to a lot of Sistas. Black women get handed that same impossible choice early, and it follows us into the office and the church vestibule alike.

Here is where Welker refused both of those tired options. There was no performing the meek, agreeable version of herself that would have made the encounter comfortable for her guest. Nor did the moderator give anybody an easy clip of her losing control on camera. Her strategy was steadiness. Every dodge got left hanging in the air. The same even register, repeated, until the swerve became obvious to anyone paying attention. That is not weakness dressed up as manners. That is control. That kind of discipline can look like nothing much on a screen. Anybody who has had to keep it together while somebody works overtime to rattle them knows exactly what it costs.

A low voice can sit on top of a whole lot of steel. The toughest folks I have known barely raised their volume, ever. An editor I answered to years back could shut down a room with one look and a few words she never bothered to say loudly. That came from being sure of her own mind. Welker came to ask real questions of the most powerful person in the country, and she kept asking them even when the interview grew tense.

The president made his displeasure with her public.

By late August the Truth Social posts arrived, with Trump saying Welker would be reported to the Federal Communications Commission for “rebuke or punishment.” His complaint followed a live NBC Washington appearance in which she said his endorsed candidates had produced “some mixed results” and that he would loom large over the coming midterms. Whatever anyone thinks of her analysis, the response was extraordinary: the sitting president was publicly calling for federal punishment of a journalist over comments made while doing her job.

That reaction is worth paying attention to. Welker did not need a screaming match to make the disagreement visible. She stayed in the same measured lane, while the conflict surrounding her became louder.

Sit with that for a moment. Every woman reading can take something from it, Black women most of all. We get told, over and over, that strength has to announce itself. Not true. Half the time the gutsiest move in a room full of hostility is to plant your feet and keep saying what you came to say. Raise your voice and somebody gets to call you emotional and slide right past the point. Steady is much harder to wave away. Sistas have always understood the difference.

None of this means our anger is illegitimate, and I would never tell a sister to bottle herself up for anybody’s comfort. Righteous fury has its place, and history moved because people got loud at exactly the right moment. But there is strategy in knowing which tool a moment calls for. Welker chose composure. Whatever Trump wanted from the exchange, she did not allow its temperature to determine hers.

What the host is doing these days makes the point even better. Still in that chair. Meet the Press finished the 2024–25 broadcast season number one among adults ages 25 to 54, the demographic television news advertisers chase hardest, and the program continued ranking number one in that key demographic season to date during 2026. Welker remains the first Black woman and first journalist of color to regularly moderate a Sunday network public affairs program. She is doing that job while a sitting president has publicly called for the FCC to punish her. That threat surfaced in late August, and here we are in September with the broadcast still going out on schedule. Sunday morning after Sunday morning, the work continues.

Let that settle for a second. The pressure did not push her out of the chair. She kept doing the job.

For the Sistas watching from their couches, from break rooms, from the middle seat on the bus scrolling the clip on their phones, there is a mirror in this. Nobody has to turn into a cartoon to be taken seriously, and nobody has to shrink down to nothing just to keep things pleasant. You can stand firm and stay graceful in the same breath. Folks who mistake that grace for surrender may discover there is a difference. That, right there, is what strength can look like when the cameras are rolling.

None of this was news to us. The women who raised us were teaching it before most of us could talk. What Welker added was the stage, a live one, with a president across the table and millions of people able to watch every interruption, every follow up and every uncomfortable moment. She kept her nerve. The question simply came one more time.

So let me ask you straight. When you watched that exchange and then saw the president publicly go after Welker afterward, what stood out to you most? I have my read on it. I suspect you have yours too.

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.

This week the crowd is thinking about the show, not the ledger. The group is swinging through Virginia on the “It’s Iconic” run beside Salt-N-Pepa and En Vogue, fresh off Bristow on the sixteenth, with Virginia Beach cued up for the eighteenth. Grown folks who wore their cassettes down to nothing will crowd the lawn, catching each riff. And they should. That catalog earned the love. Earlier this year the story even reached the stage as a musical in Washington. Yet behind the choreography sits a truth worth more than any encore.

Here comes the part that ought to freeze every last soul among us. Back in 1995, sitting at the summit of their fame, T-Boz, Chilli, and Left Eye filed Chapter 11. Not a slow season. Actual bankruptcy. “CrazySexyCool” was already one of the biggest albums in the country and would go Diamond the following year, reaching numbers most acts only dream about. Trophies on the mantel. Roughly three and a half million dollars owed on paper. Go on and read that twice.

How does a group perched at the top of the charts end up that far underwater? The answer lives in fine print nobody made them study closely enough. Their business was tied into a closely connected arrangement involving LaFace Records and Pebbitone, the management and production company run by Perri “Pebbles” Reid. Pebbitone handled management and production matters while LaFace controlled the recording side of the relationship. Expenses tied to making and promoting the music could be charged back against the group’s earnings. Videos, wardrobe, travel, promotion, all of it could eat into whatever royalties were coming their way. The bigger the hit became, the more those numbers mattered.

Do the arithmetic and your stomach drops. Left Eye told the Los Angeles Times in 1996 that TLC had received less than one percent of an estimated one hundred seventy five million dollars in worldwide revenue generated by their music. Industry analysis at the time showed how quickly recording costs, advances, videos, promotion, management fees, and other expenses could swallow an artist’s royalties before the money ever reached the group. Left Eye also owed insurance payments tied to a painful chapter in her private life. Tionne was quietly battling sickle cell, and hospital stays never come cheap. None of that made headlines the way the videos did.

Then arrived the moment that made the whole industry flinch. At a Grammy press conference in 1996, after TLC had taken home major awards, Chilli said plainly that the group had sold ten million records around the globe and was as broke as broke could be. Left Eye explained how artists could move millions of records and still find themselves struggling financially. She would later say she hoped TLC would be remembered as something beyond another act that got ripped off by the business. Cameras rolling. Truth spoken aloud on one of the biggest nights the industry offers.

So why drag all this up while everybody is dressed cute and ready to dance in the parking lot? Because sistas, this is our conversation, and it was never really about a pop act from Atlanta. Black women in particular have carried this exact bruise for generations. A fat check means almost nothing if you do not grasp what you signed, who holds the paper, and where each dollar actually travels once it leaves your hands.

We are raised to chase the number. Land the job, book the gig, grab the bag. Nobody sits us down to explain the bag can have a hole in the bottom. Plenty of Black women out here earn strong salaries and still lie awake at night, because the income shows up and disappears before a soul explains recoupment, equity, taxes, or ownership. These artists learned it under stadium lights. Most of us learn it alone with a spreadsheet and a knot in the chest.

Read what you sign, all of it, even the dull clauses, especially the dull clauses. Bring your own attorney, never one whose loyalties might be divided between you and somebody sitting on the other side of the deal. TLC entered the business young, and their story shows why independent legal advice matters before a complicated contract gets your signature. Nobody guards your interest better than someone whose job is to represent your interest alone.

Understand where the coins go. There is gross and there is net, and the canyon between them is where dreams quietly bleed out. Ask about fees before you sign, not after. Ask who holds the name, the masters, the brand, your likeness. T-Boz later said the group paid one million dollars per letter, three million altogether, to reclaim the rights to the TLC name. That tells you plenty about the cost of not holding something valuable from the start. Owning what you build is the whole ballgame, sistas. A paycheck rents you a pleasant weekend. What belongs to you outright feeds your grandchildren.

Keep your eyes on debt, because a loan dressed up as opportunity is still a loan. That shiny advance? Money you owe your future self, plain and simple. The card that funded the flyest fit will trail you long after the outfit falls out of style. And taxes are no shock party, though we sure treat them like a shock every spring. Set it aside, sistas, before it burns a hole through your good sense.

Here sits the beautiful twist. The artists behind those hits did not stay flat on the floor. They fought through bankruptcy, renegotiated their business arrangements, rebuilt piece by piece, and decades later their music still fills venues. When you watch them command a Virginia stage this week, absolutely see the resilience. But also let it land as a warning wrapped in rhinestones.

Being famous and being financially secure were never the same thing, and getting paid is not the same as staying protected. That gap swallowed much of the money surrounding one of the biggest groups of a generation while they wore designer everything. My hope for us, for the Black women reading this, is that we get educated before the applause, not after the collapse. Study the paper. Guard the coin. Hold tight to the thing that carries your name. The concert ends. The lesson should not.

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.

She mothered Tupac. Whitney Houston got that same fierce fuss in another film. Taraji came up under her wing in one story, a whole household under it in the next. Somewhere along the way, Hollywood handed her a title that stuck like honey: the Mother of Black Hollywood. Say it out loud and it feels like a hug. It is meant as one.

But sit with me a minute, because there is a splinter tucked inside that sweetness.

When a performer gets that good at cradling everyone else, a strange thing starts to happen. The public begins to see only the cradle. We forget the arms belong to a person carrying private hungers, private grief, and gifts nobody else could copy. Lewis was a Broadway force long before she turned into anybody’s screen mama. Carnegie Hall knew that voice. She racked up more than 200 concerts across a map running several continents deep, a touring life most folks would need two careers to match. Her memoir did not flinch. Bipolar disorder and sex addiction both get named straight out. So does the quiet toll of forever playing the strong one. Webster University, her alma mater, later handed her an honorary doctorate. None of that fits neatly on an apron.

Here is where the tale stops being only about the actress and starts being about a lot of us.

Ask around any family, any congregation, any office break room, and you will find her everywhere. Not the celebrity. The pattern. So many Black women spend their lives cast as the one who holds it down. We are the auntie with the guest room always made up. The church mother who counts the offering and counsels the crying. The coworker who trains every new hire and remembers each birthday. We get so skilled at nurturing that folks quietly decide nurturing is the whole of who we are. The praise sounds lovely. Underneath it sits a quiet demotion.

Sistas know this arithmetic without anyone teaching it. You give and give until giving becomes your name. People stop asking what you dream about, because they assume your dream is simply them. That flattening does not always come from cruelty. Often it arrives dressed as a compliment. So strong. Never complains. Takes care of everybody. Each of those little medals can be a cage with a bow on it.

Which is exactly why watching the diva from Kinloch, Missouri right now feels like scripture.

At 69, Jenifer is not fading into anybody’s rocking chair. This September finds her deep in the next act. Netflix has brought A Different World back with a sequel series, and there she is again as Professor Davenport for a fresh crowd of Hillman students. Production wrapped in Atlanta earlier this year, the first looks and trailer are already out, and the series premieres September 24. Coming too is a fearless one-woman show carrying her life story to the stage with comedy, honesty and hard-won peace braided into a single evening. This is not a farewell tour. The building continues.

On the wider world, her voice stays loud. When this year’s Met Gala rolled out its glitter with Jeff Bezos and Lauren Sánchez Bezos as lead sponsors and honorary chairs, Lewis questioned why celebrities showed up amid economic and political controversies surrounding Bezos. Taraji P. Henson had separately raised similar concerns before the gala. Neither woman seemed interested in clapping politely while working people were hurting.

Barbados offered a quieter picture of the same woman. Late this summer the actress sat with young people during the island’s emancipation season celebrations and gave them something that lands harder the older you get. Chase what actually makes you smile, came the message. Do not measure your worth by applause or a paycheck. And the line that ought to hang on every weary mirror: each morning she asks herself how she means to take care of herself first, and how she can help someone else.

Read that again, sis. The Mother of an entire industry, the woman who spent decades tending everybody within reach, now opens the day by tending her own heart without forgetting what she can offer somebody else. Two years of stillness came first, of rest and reckoning, before that clarity arrived. Nobody granted permission. She took it.

This is the gift hiding inside her entire arc, and Sistas, it belongs to us.

Being somebody’s rock is beautiful. Feeding people, guiding them, showing up when everything is falling apart, that work is holy and I would never wave it off. The problem is never the caretaking itself. The problem comes when the caretaking swallows the caretaker until nothing is left over for her, until the person vanishes behind the service performed.

Black women were never meant to be reduced to what we hand out. We are not the place setting on somebody else’s table. We are the guest of honor too, with appetites and ambitions and afternoons that answer to nobody. One of us can run the whole church supper and still deserve a plate carried over, still deserve someone to ask, with no favor attached, how she is really doing.

So take the lesson from a queen teaching it out loud in her seventh decade. Sistas, put your own name somewhere on your list, and never at the very bottom in pencil. The role of everybody’s mama can be a joy you choose. It should never be the only room you are allowed to live in. The most loving thing many of us could do this season is exactly what this queen is modeling. Rest. Create something that is only yours. Speak up when the world turns ugly. Then wake up tomorrow and ask that same holy question.

How do I take care of me?

Answer it like your one wild and precious life depends on it. Because, sis, it always did.

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.

And a whole lot of grown Sistas watching at home went quiet.

Not because the tour lacks meaning. It carries plenty. Two of the biggest names in the genre share one stage, pack a football stadium, and give folks their money’s worth. I understand the pull. Those songs have soundtracked cookouts, weddings, and more than a few evenings in my own kitchen with the windows thrown open. Nobody is pretending the catalog fails to move a room.

The trouble sits somewhere else entirely.

Chris Brown pleaded guilty in 2009 to felony assault involving his girlfriend at the time, Rihanna, and photographs showing her injuries became part of the public memory surrounding the case. He was young, true. People do grow, also true. Yet his legal history did not end there. In 2017, Karrueche Tran obtained a restraining order after accusing Brown of threatening and physically abusing her. Those claims were allegations contained in her court filing. More recently, in July 2026, Brown pleaded guilty in London to affray stemming from a 2023 nightclub confrontation. Prosecutors dropped more serious assault charges as part of the resolution, and sentencing is scheduled for October.

So here is the knot I keep tugging, and I doubt I am alone in it. Can we love somebody’s music yet decline to publicly celebrate the person behind it? Do we get to sing every lyric and still question whether formal recognition from an elected official should follow?

Those strike me as two separate acts.

Nobody with good sense is begging radio stations to bury his hits or ordering you to wipe your playlist. That remains your business, your car, your speaker. The songs already exist. They will keep existing whether any of us approve of the singer or not. Streaming a track is a private choice, and private choices belong to you alone.

A Congressional Record recognition is a different animal. No playlist here. This is an elected member of Congress using the official federal legislative record to recognize an individual publicly. It does not mean Congress as a whole voted to honor that person, nor does it amount to an endorsement by the entire federal government. Still, an entry made by a member of Congress carries a different kind of public significance than one fan deciding what to play through her speakers. Crockett’s recognition of Brown and Usher was entered into that official record as a celebration of their artistic contributions.

Right there is where some Sistas felt the floor shift.

Because the larger conversation reaches beyond one concert. Black women have long debated how communities respond when famous men are accused or convicted of harming women, and how much weight should be given to talent, rehabilitation, accountability and time. Some people believe artistic achievement can be recognized separately from a person’s misconduct. Others believe a formal public honor inevitably says something about the person receiving it. Those positions collide hard in a case involving somebody whose music has remained enormously popular despite a documented criminal history.

That tension helps explain why Crockett’s appearance generated such a strong reaction.

Let me be fair to her for a beat, because fairness counts. Jasmine Crockett did not organize the tour, and she was not the only elected official involved in the recognition. Texas state Rep. Venton Jones appeared onstage as well, and Brown received a State of Texas legislative recognition alongside Crockett’s Congressional Record acknowledgment. Producer RoccStar was also involved in coordinating the moment. In front of a roaring stadium crowd celebrating two successful R&B careers, the presentation was framed as a celebration of music and Black cultural achievement.

Intent matters. Impact matters too. Both can exist at once.

The question sitting squarely in front of us is whether celebrating the music became tangled with publicly celebrating the person. Critics of Crockett’s appearance have argued that Brown’s documented history made the honor inappropriate, while others have defended the ability to recognize his artistic impact separately from his past conduct. That disagreement is really the heart of this entire conversation.

Reasonable folks can land on different sides of that line. Holding public office adds another layer because an elected official’s ceremonial actions receive scrutiny that an ordinary fan’s choices never will. Every public appearance can be interpreted not merely as personal enthusiasm but as a statement about what deserves recognition.

One more layer deserves a seat at this table, and it involves timing.

Crockett is approaching the end of her current House tenure after losing the Democratic primary for U.S. Senate to James Talarico in March. Her House term ends in January 2027, but she has made clear that disappearing from politics is not the plan. After the primary, Crockett created the Fueling Individual Rights Everywhere, or FIRE, PAC and has traveled around the country supporting candidates through it, with particular attention lately to down-ballot races.

Which means this is also a chapter about what Crockett does after Congress. Her public appearances, endorsements and political organizing are helping define what that next chapter looks like. That does not automatically make one concert appearance more important than it was, but it does explain why people who follow her career are paying attention to the choices she makes outside the halls of Congress.

None of this requires tearing a Sister down. Black women in public life already receive enormous scrutiny, and disagreement with one decision does not require dismissing an entire career. What happened in Arlington instead opens a broader conversation about celebrity, accountability, forgiveness and the difference between enjoying somebody’s work and formally recognizing the person who created it.

So I will hand it to you, because this conversation belongs to us. Will you dance to the record and still keep your hands in your pockets when an elected official invites you to clap for the person? Where does that line fall for you? And did Jasmine Crockett’s recognition of Chris Brown cross that line for you, or did she simply separate the artist’s accomplishments from the man’s history in the same way millions of listeners already do?

Talk to me. I am listening.

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.

News broke on September 14. A new memoir, “You Better Love What You See,” lands April 6, 2027. That title did not come from nowhere. Ralph pulled it straight out of her 2023 Critics Choice Awards acceptance speech, the speech folks were still quoting weeks later, the night she leaned into the camera and told everybody watching that people do not have to like you, love you, or even respect you. The face in the mirror is the one you answer to. That belief runs all through the new book, and across two hundred and forty pages come the receipts. Growing up as the only girl of color at a Catholic school. Joining Rutgers College’s first class of undergraduate women. And the one detail in the announcement that stopped me cold. Once, a television role got snatched away because somebody in charge decided she was not “Black enough.”

Sit with that for a second.

Not that the acting fell short. Not that a mark got missed or a scene got fumbled. Somebody with a clipboard and a budget measured the skin, the speech, the whole woman against a rule nobody bothered to write down, then stamped the file lacking. The original Deena Jones. A Dreamgirl. A Tony nominee before half of these executives could tie their shoes. Told, flat out, she wasn’t the right shade of us.

Here is the part that landed square in my chest, because I have lived a smaller version of it, and so has nearly every sister I love. A sister can step into one space and register as too much. Too loud, too dark, too country, too churchy, too sure of the ground under her feet. Then that same sister pivots, walks into the very next room, and somehow arrives as not enough. Not urban, not gritty, hair too soft, speech too polished, pick your poison. Same person. Same beautiful skin. Two opposite verdicts, and neither one was ever hers to hand down.

We know this dance. Sistas have been doing it since grade school, when one crowd said we talked white and another swore we were ghetto, and both little jabs stung the exact same way. It trails us into the office, where we soften a laugh so nobody reads us as a threat, then get passed over for seeming timid. It shows up in the group chat, in the salon chair, at the family cookout where somebody’s cousin has plenty to say about your locs or your man or the way you pronounce the word “ask.” And the sharpest cuts do not always come from white folks. Some of them arrive from our own people, which carries its own private grief.

What I respect about Ralph naming this now, at this stage, is the flat refusal to pretend it healed clean. Plenty of successful Black women reach a certain altitude and start selling the tidy version, the one where every wound became a blessing and every rejection was really a redirect in disguise. Ralph is doing something braver, laying out the scar and the origin story together. A young performer, gifted past any argument, handed a report card on her own color by people who had no business grading it.

And notice none of this comes drifting off a quiet retirement porch. The woman is fully in her season. Abbott Elementary returns for its sixth run on October 7, and the actress has been out here teasing what Barbara Howard gets up to next, treating that kindergarten classroom like sacred ground. The series will also celebrate its hundredth episode this season, another quiet number that says plenty about a show and a career people once tried their best to shrink. On Monday night, Ralph walked the Emmy red carpet while Abbott competed again for Outstanding Comedy Series. Book news by day. Emmy gown by night. That is not a woman waiting on anybody’s permission.

Which drags me back to the ugly little word sitting at the center of her story. Enough.

For a long stretch I believed the fix was to satisfy every single person in the building. Be enough for this crowd, composed for the next, palatable for the ones signing the checks. You learn to code switch so smoothly that one day you cannot remember which voice was yours to begin with. Black women get worn down this way, running an audition that never actually closes, because the panel keeps rotating and the standard keeps sliding and the callback simply never comes. At some point, and Ralph clearly hit hers, you set the sides down and walk off the stage.

There sits the quiet power in her book title. Not “you better make them love what they see.” Not “you better perform until they finally clap.” You better love what you see. The only verdict Ralph chases anymore is her own. That is the sole jury with any real standing over a life.

I keep thinking about the young Sistas coming up right now, scrolling feeds that rank and rate and sort us into tidy boxes before we have even had our coffee. Somebody will tell them they are too much. Somebody else, that very same week, will inform them they are not the right kind of us. Both messages are the same lie wearing two outfits. So many Black women learn young that our color was never up for a vote, and the girl who grasps that early stops bleeding out trying to win an election that does not exist.

Ralph took the scenic route to that truth. Decades of yeses and cruel small nos, of being seen and then unseen, of a business that rarely knew what on earth to do with a dark woman who could sing the paint off the walls and act circles around the whole room. Now she hands us the map, scar tissue included, so a few of us might arrive quicker than the last generation did.

So when the memoir drops next spring, count me first in line. Not because I need another famous face urging me to love myself from a platform I will never stand on. Because this one is naming the true cost, and doing it while still in the fight, still starring on an Emmy-nominated series, still teasing next season, still refusing to sit down and be quiet. The rest of us, the Sistas grown weary of auditioning for our own reflections, could use a witness cut exactly like that.

Look in the mirror, she keeps saying. You better love what you see.

Turns out that line was never a poster for the wall. It is a whole strategy for staying alive.

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.

Lately folks love to file the icon under one address. Daytime television. The panel. Those morning arguments about politics that get clipped and shared before lunch. Fair enough, since Goldberg has anchored that famous couch for nearly twenty years. Reducing a whole career to one chair, though, cheats a woman who built entire rooms before most of us knew her face.

Think about the range for a moment. Long before the talk show, there was a solo act that traveled from tiny theaters straight to Broadway in 1984, announcing a voice unlike anything the industry had bothered to imagine. Film came next. A haunting turn in Ghost brought home the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress, and just like that, a comedian from the projects held the same prize Hollywood had guarded like a private club. Sister Act made Whoopi a household name. Drama, comedy, animation, Goldberg moved through every genre without waiting for a hall pass.

That rare EGOT sits on the shelf, the Emmy and Grammy beside the Oscar and Tony, a club so exclusive its whole membership could share a single booth. The producing credits piled up, and so did the books. Four separate times the comedian hosted the ceremony that Tinseltown treats as its holiest night. Understanding the assignment came naturally, long before anybody thought to hand it over.

Here sits the part the recaps keep skipping. Each of those firsts widened the frame for the Sistas coming up behind her. A young Black woman who auditions today and declines to swap her hair, her cadence, or her birth name for some studio mold is standing on ground this veteran already cleared. Legacy in its purest form looks less like trophies and more like who gets to stroll through after you have gone.

The proof showed up plainly this past June. Seated across from Keke Palmer at the Tribeca Festival for a talk billed as Storytellers, the elder listened as the younger star, an Emmy holder herself and nobody’s idea of lazy, spoke about what it means to become so distinct that nobody else can occupy your lane. Palmer made clear that Whoopi is one of one, and that she hopes to build the kind of career people will someday describe the same way. Two eras of Black women in a single frame, each claiming a lane, both stubborn about their names.

Honesty is what she offered up, the sort only mileage can buy. Every award imaginable, and the phone still does not just ring, Whoopi confessed. Casting still means asking to be considered. Supporting herself never stopped being the job. More than four decades after her landmark solo show helped introduce her to Broadway, Goldberg watched those characters bloom again at Lincoln Center through a new generation of Black women, with Kerry Washington taking the stage before Jurnee Smollett later stepped into the production. What the actress cut open did not seal shut behind her.

Holding a door rather than letting it slam defines how this icon has carried herself through a brutal business. Consider Sherri Shepherd. Returning to that celebrated couch only days ago, Shepherd reflected on guidance a former colleague handed over ages back, a message that has trailed her ever since. It is never about you, came the counsel. Someone else is the reason. Set the pressure down and grasp that you are ferrying people along on a trip.

The fuller version of that story deserves a frame on the wall. Broke and mid divorce during those early days at the panel, Shepherd slipped on pricey clothes she could not begin to afford, quietly scheming to return them for the cash. At the register the bill had already vanished. Goldberg had covered it. The instruction arrived wrapped in a hug as the tears fell. Pay it forward. Three words hold the entire philosophy, and you can trace their fingerprints across a whole generation of Black women handed a lift instead of a locked gate.

So what keeps this seventy year old dynamo busy right now, as autumn arrives in 2026? Quite a lot. That morning couch never lost the moderator, and Season 30 kicked off this month with the veteran still steering the conversation. Away from the studio, her plate runs fuller than performers half her age can juggle.

Warm months found the EGOT winner circling back to where the whole ride started, reinventing her landmark solo work as The Whoopi Monologues for Lincoln Center. A new documentary about her life is also in production, guided by Oscar nominated director Geeta Gandbhir and drawing from the family history Goldberg explored in her memoir about her mother and brother. The actress rolled out a publishing imprint, offering other authors the chance that long felt sealed off. Netflix has a comedy on deck too, reading like a family cookout, teaming the legend with Jenifer Lewis, Vanessa Williams, and Vivica A. Fox under a production team that includes the Obamas’ Higher Ground. Earlier this year she even turned up in Italy’s longest running television series, Un posto al sole, playing American businesswoman Eleanor Price during a guest arc. Rest, it seems, belongs to people with less on their minds.

Let it land. At the exact age when society expects Black women to drift quietly into the wallpaper, this one is founding imprints, mounting productions, and pouring into whoever comes next, all in one breath. Chasing relevance is beneath a talent like this. Relevance keeps doing the chasing instead.

Why should any of it stir us, the Sistas reading on lunch breaks and at kitchen tables across the map? Representation with no staying power amounts to a photo op, nothing more. A sturdier lesson lives here. Proof that one of us can be prickly, hilarious, political, tender, and utterly unbothered by a tense room, yet still assemble something that outlasts the moment. Approval was never the ask. Being seen was, and the elder made certain the Sistas trailing behind would be seen right along with her.

Palmer captured the spirit of it without trying to sound deep. One lane, entirely your own. There sits the inheritance. Not a photocopy of anybody, just permission to stay wholly yourself and thrive regardless.

We toss the word icon around until it means next to nothing. Clear away the noise, and the genuine article stands before you. Meet the performer who declined the box. Watch the star who shattered the glass, then swept the shards so nobody behind would bleed. Thank the mentor who paid for the outfit and dried the tears. Well before the daytime debates and the viral clips, the quiet labor of making space was already underway.

Those coming up owe Whoopi Goldberg far more than a nod. They owe the promise drawn out of Sherri all that time back. Accept what landed in your hands, and pass it along. Doors stay open exactly that way. A hallway thousands walk through, that is what one woman can become.

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.