As I sit here at the close of 2025, wrapped in the energy of the winter solstice—that sacred moment when darkness yields to returning light—I find myself thinking about the challenges Black women have faced this year. Recent data shows our unemployment rate increased from 6.7% to 7.5% between August and September, with over 304,000 jobs lost since February 2025 (U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, 2025).
But as I’ve sat with this reality in the tradition of Sankofa—that Akan principle of reaching back to retrieve what we need moving forward—I’ve come to see something our ancestors always knew: endings are also beginnings, and what appears as loss often holds the seeds of liberation.
For too long, we have been the backbone of institutions that barely acknowledge our presence. Black women have the highest labor force participation rate among women at 61%, yet we consistently face higher unemployment rates than other demographics (Eye on Housing, 2025). We embody the spirit of Ujima—collective work and responsibility.
We carry the weight, rise again and again, turning determination into degrees and resilience into achievement. Yet despite this educational achievement, we remain underpaid and undervalued (Lean In & McKinsey & Company, 2024). But this year, practicing the principle of Kujichagulia—self-determination—many of us shifted.
We did not just leave jobs. We performed a ritual of release, shedding what no longer served our spirits.
We left behind the exhaustion of being the only one, the burden of code-switching that fractures the soul, the invisible labor of mentoring everyone else while our own waited at home. In the tradition of our ancestors who practiced libation—pouring out the old to make space for the new—we poured out toxic work environments to make space for our own flourishing.
We did not leave from a place of defeat. Black women have never operated from a place of defeat. Our ancestors survived the Middle Passage by holding onto songs that sustained their spirits, built communities through Harambee—collective pulling together—and transformed this nation with our brilliance. Resilience is encoded in our DNA, passed down through generations who understood Nommo—the generative power of the word—and used it to speak life into impossible situations. Their spirits live in us today.
When we walk away from spaces that diminish us, we are practicing Nia—purpose—and redirecting our power toward something worthy of it.
This moment feels like a collective Kawaida—a cultural awakening to our authentic selves. We are reconnecting with gifts that got shelved. We are remembering that our grandmothers built businesses from their kitchens, practiced Kuumba—creativity—in every meal, and stretched to feed the neighborhood. Our great-aunts ran underground economies with the wisdom of traditional African market women (Gill, 2010).
There is something profoundly spiritual happening here, reminiscent of how our ancestors practiced divination—listening for messages from the spirit realm. I believe the ancestors whispered through that still, small voice: “Remember who you are.” This is the power of Nommo—the word that creates reality—speaking to us across generations.
We are remembering that we are natural community builders, practicing Umoja—unity. Black women have always created spaces of refuge and resistance (Collins, 2000).
From churches established as sanctuaries to salons that doubled as organizing hubs during the Civil Rights Movement, from sister circles under Jim Crow to online communities today—we transform connection into power through Ubuntu: I am because we are. We honor each other through Sawubona—the Zulu greeting meaning “I see you.”
We are remembering that we are natural encouragers, embodying the spirit of Sankofa—lifting as we climb. That gift of encouragement gets redirected toward lifting our own sisters, toward building tables where we all have seats, toward creating opportunities that reflect our values of collective uplift—this is the essence of Imani—faith in our people, in ourselves, and in the righteousness of our victory.
We are remembering that we are fierce caretakers, rooted in the tradition of African women as healers and life-givers, and we are learning to include ourselves in that circle of care (hooks, 1993).
Our ancestors also knew the importance of sacred rest—the restorative practices that sustained them. This moment is forcing us to ask: What if we directed caretaking energy toward ourselves? The courage to walk away from toxic stability cannot be understated. Our ancestors stared down lynch mobs and integrated schools under armed guard (Giddings, 1984). This courage flows through our bloodlines. That’s Roho Safi—pure spirit—in action.
What excites me most is that we are not just leaving—we are building, practicing Kuumba at its highest level. Between 2007 and 2018, businesses owned by Black women grew by 164% (American Express, 2018). As of 2023, Black women own 2,079,000 businesses, representing 14.8% of all women-owned enterprises and 52.1% of all Black-owned businesses (National Women’s Business Council, 2023). We are the only racial or ethnic group with more business ownership than our male peers (Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City, 2017).
This is our opportunity to reconnect with ancestral wisdom.
Our foremothers created beauty parlors that became economic engines—spaces where Nommo was practiced through storytelling. They sold food reminiscent of African market women, who were the backbone of West African economies. They practiced Ujamaa—cooperative economics—building underground economies through reciprocity (Walker, 1998). Women reshaping their professional lives are reshaping possibilities for the next generation through Sankofa (Temple, 2010). Our daughters are watching. They are learning that our talents are sacred gifts to be invested wisely, not squandered in environments that drain our Ashe—our life force (Parham et al., 2011). We are showing them what it looks like to live in alignment with Maat—the ancient Egyptian principle of truth, justice, harmony, and balance (Karenga, 2004).
As this year closes during the season when our ancestors honored the turning of the year, I am holding space for joy—that deep, ancestral joy our people have always claimed. Hope that this moment becomes a homecoming—to ourselves, to each other, to the legacy we inherited and are duty-bound to pass forward through Sankofa (Temple, 2010).
We are powerful beyond measure. Our power is Ashe—the spiritual force our ancestors knew could move mountains (Parham et al., 2011).
More of us are refusing to dim that power. We are building, connecting, creating, thriving—with a clear-eyed understanding rooted in Sankofa wisdom that obstacles have never stopped us (Temple, 2010). We are practicing Ujima and Umoja—collective work and unity (Karenga, 1997)—as we build new economic systems and definitions of success that honor our whole selves.
This is not an ending. It is a resurrection, like the daily resurrection of the sun, our ancestors honored in ancient Kemet (Asante, 2000). It is the return of the light after the longest night. Resurrection has always been our specialty—from the ash heaps of slavery, from the ruins of Jim Crow, from every attempt to break our spirits, we have risen. This is Sankofa in its purest form—reaching back to retrieve the strength of those who came before, standing firm in the power of this present moment, and building a future worthy of those who will come after (Temple, 2010). We are the answer to our ancestors’ prayers, and we are praying a path forward for our children. Ashe (Parham et al., 2011).
Lavitia Brunson
Lavitia helps individuals shift perspectives, refocus energy, and move toward their aspirations. Drawing on three decades of corporate leadership and deep academic training, she empowers growth and intentional decision-making. A summa cum laude graduate, PhD candidate, and author, she inspires purposeful, forward-focused living in every interaction.
References
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Photo by Johnathan Kaufman on Unsplash
Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash
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