It’s Women’s History Month. And all I can think about are all the women who’ve been carrying me on their backs lately. And for a long time. Formerly and presently. Subtly. Without trying. Without prompting or pressure. Organically. Just lifting me up with their presence. Texts that make me smile. Musings that make ponder. Moves that inspire and motivate me. Examples of grace, strength, resilience, class, dignity, wisdom, faith, kindness, courage, and love. Reminding me of my purpose, my worth, who I am. Not overtly. Gently, but firmly. Insights and anecdotes giving glimpses of who I can be. Who we all can be.

A shoulder to lean on – or cry on. A listening ear free of judgment or reservation. Riders. Down for whatever. Standing in the gap, filling in the blanks. Showing me that no matter where I’m at, better days await. No matter how low I get, I’ll rise again more triumphantly than before. Keeping me (mostly) level-headed and sane. Adding a dash of perspective or a point-of-view my vantage point doesn’t allow me to be privy to. Prayer warriors. Just checking in. Freedom fighters. Just following up. Emancipators. Of heart, mind, and spirit. Rooting me on. Blood. Kin. Family. Assigned and chosen. I’m mindful. I’m aware. I’m hip. I see it. I see you. I lift you up and honor you with gratitude. Thanks, friends. May I serve you the same. May I show up for you the same. Mutual accountability. Reciprocal love.

And to my men friends. I thank you just the same. Dying to my own ego has allowed me to recognize your words as anointed. Your compassion just as precious. Your perspectives paramount. I appreciate you. Salute.


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