December is a season rich with reflection across the African diaspora. It is a time when memory feels closer, when ancestors feel present, and when ritual helps us mark not only the end of a year, but the beginning of a new one—and the continuation of our people. While celebrations and holidays often come and go, Kwanzaa invites something deeper: a return to principles meant to guide our lives well beyond the season.
Created in 1966 by Maulana Karenga, Kwanzaa offers seven principles—Nguzo Saba—that center unity, self-determination, collective responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. For many Black families, these principles are not abstract ideals but lived practices that shape identity, belonging, and well-being across generations. In my own life, Kwanzaa has functioned not simply as a holiday, but as a healing practice—one rooted in reflection, affirmation, music, and communal care.
No Mirrors in Nana’s House: Ancestral Affirmation as Healing
In my family, affirmation did not come from mirrors. It came from the elders.
Years ago, while preparing to sing at a Kwanzaa celebration and thinking about my grandchildren, I wrote a poem titled “No Mirrors.” Inspired by the Sweet Honey in the Rock song “No Mirrors in My Nana’s House,” the poem reflects on my grandmother and the women in my family who saw something special in me long before I could see it in myself.
In the poem, there were no mirrors in my Nana’s house. And yet, I learned who I was. Beauty, worth, and confidence were reflected back through care, touch, and words. Sitting between my grandmother’s legs as she combed my hair, I absorbed more than grooming rituals—I absorbed her belief in me. She spoke life into my becoming: You are smart. You are wise. You are beautiful.
In that space, identity was shaped not by appearance but by relationship. This, I now understand, was Kujichagulia—self-determination—long before I had language for it: being named in love so that I could later name myself—defining oneself and speaking for oneself, rather than being defined by others. It was also healing. To be seen, affirmed, and named with love is a powerful intervention, especially in a world that often distorts Black self-perception. These early experiences taught me that reflection does not require a mirror; it requires witnesses.
The Nguzo Saba as Lived Practice
I have celebrated Kwanzaa for decades—first as a young adult, then as a mother, and now as a grandmother. My son has a kinara in his home, and together with my grandchildren, we continue the practice of lighting candles, naming the principle of the day, and talking about how it shows up in our lives. Over time, the Nguzo Saba have become less about observance and more about orientation—a way of facing the world, making decisions, and returning to what matters when life feels unsteady.
Umoja (Unity) shows up in how we strive to be in right relationship—with family, community, and ourselves.
Kujichagulia (Self-Determination) lives in the words we speak over our children and the stories we tell about who we are and why we are.
Ujima (Collective Work and Responsibility) and Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics) remind us that healing is communal—that our well-being is bound together as we design a future our ancestors will be proud of.
Nia (Purpose) grounds us in intention, especially during moments of uncertainty or transition.
Kuumba (Creativity) affirms imagination as sacred—a way to leave the community more beautiful than we inherited it.
Imani (Faith) offers trust, resilience, and hope, even when the path ahead is unclear.
These principles are not meant only for seven days, but as anchors for year-round reflection and sustained well-being.
Music, Ritual, and Communal Healing
One of the most profound ways I have witnessed Kwanzaa’s healing power is through music. As both a researcher and practitioner exploring music as a pathway to healing, I have seen how sound becomes a form of collective care. A vocalist once described attending a Kwanzaa celebration where she had prepared to sing one song, only to sense a deeper need in the room. In that moment, she changed course and offered a different song—one she described as “singing a prayer over the body.”
Afterward, audience members shared that they felt held, restored, and deeply moved. One person told her, “That was exactly what we needed.” This responsiveness—this listening—is at the heart of African-centered healing practices. Music becomes more than performance; it becomes medicine. In these moments, Kuumba and Imani converge: creativity guided by faith, offered in service of communal restoration.
Kwanzaa Beyond December
Kwanzaa does not end on January 1. The lighting of candles simply reminds us of practices meant to guide us all year long. It is no coincidence that Kwanzaa begins at the end of one year and concludes at the beginning of a new one—positioned as both reflection and renewal. Unity, self-definition, collective wealth building, collective care, purpose, creativity, and faith are not seasonal values; they are survival technologies and pathways toward healing and freedom.
Within Kwanzaa, wealth building is not about individual accumulation, but about Ujamaa—cooperative economics that ensure our children, grandchildren, and communities inherit not only stability, but possibility and choice. Healing, too, is not about avoiding pain or disappointment, but about cultivating ongoing care, intention, and practices that prevent suffering from becoming our only inheritance. As an educator, grandmother, and healing practitioner, I return to these principles again and again. They inform how I teach, how I listen, and how I respond to the needs of the moment. They remind me that healing is not only individual, but relational and intergenerational.
In my poem No Mirrors, I speak of learning my own identity in a house where there were no mirrors—and yet, we learned who we were. Through ritual, music, affirmation, and presence, Kwanzaa continues to offer that same possibility: a way of seeing ourselves clearly through the eyes of our ancestors and the care of our community. Lighting the kinara across generations is not just an act of remembrance. It is a commitment—to healing, to legacy, and to a future shaped by intention.
Lakiba Pittman
Photo by Ben Masora on Unsplash
Photo by Proper Quality Shandis on Unsplash
