Freedom Must Be Material

If someone is talking about freedom and it isn’t material, they’re playing in your face. Freedom is not a feeling. It is not something you march for and wait to be handed back to you.

Freedom is autonomy.

Autonomy over what feeds you. Autonomy over what heals you. Autonomy over what educates you. Autonomy over what employs you. Autonomy over what informs you. Autonomy over what governs you. Freedom is the ability to shape your lived experience without begging broken systems to behave.

This was made plain in 1984 when Neely Fuller Jr. laid out the blueprint: oppression operates as a system — coordinated, structured, maintained. Not random. Not accidental. And an uncomfortable part of his analysis was our participation in perpetuating it.

If the architecture of domination is systemic, our counter must be structural.

Progress is not enough. Symbolism will not save us. Infrastructure built by a radical Black imagination just might.

The Institutions Are Exhausted

We were handed a dream we have never actually seen. The America our grandparents believed in — stable, upward, secure — is not the one we inherited.

This is not random chaos. It is structural transition — what we explored in our Fourth Turning piece — a cyclical moment when old institutions strain, legitimacy erodes and new systems are forced into being.

The institutions we were told would carry us are visibly buckling:

• Education no longer guarantees mobility — it guarantees debt
• Medical systems do not produce equal outcomes — especially for us
• Food is engineered for profit, not nourishment
• Media manipulates attention more than it informs
• Labor has historically been leverage and now automation and AI are rewriting that leverage in real time.

These systems are not simply corrupted. They are exhausted.

Exhaustion at scale creates rupture.
Rupture is dangerous.
Rupture is also an opening.

When institutions weaken, the possibility and necessity of autonomy expands.

Systems Survive on Our Participation

Here is the uncomfortable truth.

Systems do not float above us. They are fed by us.

And here is where the cognitive dissonance lives.

We will say without hesitation that the criminal justice system does not serve us. We will critique policing. We will critique sentencing. We will critique incarceration.

But then we walk into hospitals almost reflexively — compliant, uncritical, conditioned by fear and unfamiliarity. We fill our carts without questioning whether the “food” is even food. We deposit money assuming protection. We send our children into school systems assuming they are being educated, not conditioned.

We recognize bias in one arm of the machine and suspend that recognition in the others. Our conditioning makes it difficult to accept that the same machinery that glamorizes criminality could profit from mass incarceration. That a system could engineer sickness and then monetize the cure.

We were trained to compartmentalize the harm — to believe corruption is isolated instead of systemic.

But a machine does not grow a conscience just because we move to a different department.

Every structure we complain about runs on four inputs:

• Our labor
• Our consumption
• Our belief
• Our permission

Without those, they stall.

Many of the systems that disadvantage us require our participation to survive. They need our bodies, our dollars, our attention, our compliance.

We participate not because we are foolish, but because we were trained to.

We were taught how to navigate systems. How to outperform inside them. How to survive them. We were taught to be patient inside them.

And when patience failed, we were taught to fight them.

Navigate or resist. Endure or protest.

Both responses keep the system at the center.

What we were rarely taught is that participation itself is leverage.

Labor has always been leverage. Boycotts, strikes, work stoppages — history proves that when labor withdraws, systems feel it.

Consumption is leverage. Attention is leverage. Belief is leverage.

And leverage means choice.

No one told us that we could opt out. That we could withhold our labor. Redirect our dollars. Refuse to legitimize what exploits us. Build parallel structures and slowly starve what does not serve us.

Withdrawal is not weakness.

Withdrawal is strategy.

And strategy begins with imagination.

Radical Imagination Is a Design Discipline

Freedom in this era requires radical imagination.

Not reforming what is collapsing.
Not nostalgically patching what was extractive from the start.
But re‑designing each domain of life around values that actually sustain us.

That begins with interrogation.

Who told us success meant proximity to institutions that barely tolerate us? Who sold us hyper‑individualism as strength while we forgot we are a communal people? Why did we trade wellbeing for productivity, ownership for consumption, stability for prestige?

Institutions are fracturing because they were built on extraction — growth without reciprocity, scale without soul. When the values rot, the structure cracks. Leaving failing systems becomes easier the moment we stop revering the values that built them.

That is fundamental divestment.

To be real, divestment costs and freedom ain’t free. The price is comfort, convenience and proximity to prestige. It may cost income, approval, even belonging. Not everyone is willing to pay that price.

Some prefer the predictability of captivity to the responsibility of autonomy. Some are comfortable being fed by the system — even if it means, eventually, being food for it.

Radical imagination is not for the passive. It is for those willing to endure temporary instability in exchange for long‑term sovereignty.

If that feels heavy, it’s because it is. Freedom is not a theory to debate. It is a line you either cross or you don’t.

Crossing that line forces us to examine the defaults we treat as non‑negotiable.

If public schools are graduating children who cannot read fluently and preparing them for a labor market automation is already dismantling, why are we pretending that model is viable? Radical imagination means training our children to build the world we want to inhabit.

If a staggering percentage of women end up with unplanned C‑sections, and Black women continue to face disproportionate maternal mortality, why is the hospital (where 98% of us give birth) the unquestioned default for low risk births? Radical imagination resets our standards for maternal care.

If the highest office in the land is occupied by a convicted felon, why are we still treating legislation as our primary path to remedy?

Radical imagination asks a dangerous question: what if the default is not destiny? What if we are allowed to replace what does not love us back?

Everything — Including Borders — Is on the Table

Vote with your time. Vote with your attention. Vote with your dollar. Vote with your feet — and your passport.

Borders are political decisions, not destiny.

Where you live determines what you can access, what you must endure and how hard you have to fight for baseline dignity.

Geography shapes legal protections, capital access, safety, mobility.

In moments of structural fracture, relocation is not betrayal. It is leverage.

Radical imagination refuses inherited limits.

Everything — including borders — is on the table.

Autonomy Requires Cooperation

Individualism will not carry us through structural collapse. Autonomy at scale requires cooperation.

Group economics is not a slogan — it is survival math.

When institutions wobble, collective infrastructure becomes the stabilizer: cooperative ownership, pooled capital, shared land, community governance. Not charity. Not vibes. Structure.

And now labor — the engine that powered capitalism for centuries — is being destabilized in real time by automation and AI.

If labor is entering crisis and the dollar itself feels unstable, wages can no longer be our primary strategy for security.

Mass uprisings are not the strategy. This moment does not require millions moving in perfect sync. It requires small, high‑trust groups working with clarity, discipline and repeatable frameworks.

Where We Have Leverage Now

This post opens a series.

Over the next installments, we move from rhetoric to construction — focusing on the systems where we actually have leverage.

Not the ones that require permission from the state.
Not the ones that demand mass mobilization.
The ones where small, disciplined groups can withdraw and build immediately.

We begin with five pressure points.

1. Media & Information
Easiest to exit. Highest psychological leverage. We can redirect attention today. Own platforms. Control narrative. Starve distortion.

2. Education
The credential monopoly is weakening. Pods, apprenticeships, skill networks — we can redesign how we prepare the next generation without waiting for institutional reform.

3. Food & Health (Preventative)
Daily consumption is a vote. Buying clubs, local sourcing, maternal autonomy, preventative care — partial sovereignty is available now.

4. Labor & Ownership
Labor has always been leverage. Now that automation is destabilizing wages, equity, cooperatives and shared enterprise become non‑negotiable.

5. Housing & Geography
Harder, but transformative. Land, co‑living, strategic relocation. Where you live determines how much you must struggle for baseline dignity.

These are not theoretical domains. They are leverage points.

In each piece, we will ask:

Where are we captured?
Where is our leverage?
What can we withdraw from?
What can we build instead?

Freedom will not be solved in theory.

It will be constructed — system by system.

This is the Work Ahead

We do not need permission to reimagine our lives. We need alignment, leverage and the courage to withdraw where necessary.

The systems are shifting. The only question is whether we will drift with them — or build something sturdier while they do.

Freedom belongs to the builders.

Wait—what?

On Christmas Day, the White House announced that the United States had carried out missile strikes in Nigeria.

Nigeria.

Not Gaza. Not Yemen. Not Syria. Not the Red Sea. Not Ukraine.

Nigeria — a country most Americans could not place on a map beyond “somewhere in Africa” — became the site of a U.S. military flex, wrapped in moral language and delivered during the quietest news week of the year.

That’s the kind of headline that should stop you mid-scroll.

Not because violence in Nigeria is new — it isn’t — but because U.S. missiles in Nigeria are not normal, and the explanation we were given didn’t quite line up with the action taken.

So let’s slow this down.

What the White House said

Publicly, the administration emphasized the killing of Christians by extremist groups in northern Nigeria.

The framing was simple and emotionally legible:

• Innocent civilians

• Religious persecution

• Moral urgency

This was not presented as a new theater in the War on Terror, nor as a strategic recalibration in West Africa. There was no talk of counterterrorism doctrine, no discussion of regional basing losses, no explanation of why this conflict crossed a threshold others have not.

The message was moral shorthand:

We acted because people were being slaughtered.

That explanation travels well. It fits in a press briefing. It avoids follow‑up questions.

It also obscures more than it reveals.

Why they said it that way

Because the White House was not trying to explain strategy. It was trying to contain narrative risk.

Talking openly about:

• Islamic State network expansion

• Partner-requested kinetic action

• Preemptive sanctuary disruption

raises uncomfortable questions:

• Which legal authority applies?

• Is this a new battlefield?

• Why Nigeria and not elsewhere?

By contrast, religious violence framing offers:

• Moral clarity

• Domestic political legibility

• Minimal legal exposure

It’s not that the killings weren’t real. It’s that they weren’t sufficient on their own to explain missiles.

This was a story simplified on purpose.

What actually happened

Behind the scenes, reporting indicates:

• Quiet coordination with Abuja

• Intelligence sharing

• A single, precision action — not a campaign

Nigeria publicly pushed back on the sectarian framing while affirming cooperation against terrorism. That tension matters.

Because it tells us this wasn’t about saving Christians.

It was about something colder.

The real motives at play

Strip away the moral varnish and a different logic emerges.

Africa is no longer a peripheral concern in U.S. strategy — it is the fastest‑growing geopolitical theater of the next half‑century, a convergence point for security competition, resource access, demographics, and great‑power alignment.

The United States has been losing ground in the Sahel.

• Expelled from Niger

• Cut off from key ISR basing

• Watching former partners realign away from the West

Nigeria is the last heavyweight left.

A strike in Nigeria does several things at once:

• Signals that U.S. reach still exists post‑Sahel

• Keeps Nigeria inside the U.S. security architecture

• Raises the cost of Nigeria drifting toward rival powers

• Prevents militant consolidation without committing to long‑term outcomes

This is not about fixing Nigeria.

It’s about maintaining a strategic floor under West Africa.

Why this venue. Why this moment.

Nigeria is uniquely useful for a credibility action.

It offers:

• Consent without spectacle

• No escalation ladder

• No patron state that must respond

• A civilian government that won’t rupture over one strike

Christmas matters too.

Low attention. Low scrutiny. Congress out. Newsrooms thin. A perfect moment to demonstrate capability without inviting debate.

This was not the boldest place to act.

It was the cheapest.

What this says about the United States

For decades, U.S. power rested on hegemony — others accepted the system because it produced growth, stability, and upside.

What we’re seeing now is something different: dominance maintenance.

When legitimacy declines, power has to prove itself.

That’s why credibility actions increase as confidence erodes.

This is where geopolitics and “late‑stage capitalism” converge.

Late‑stage systems don’t export prosperity.
They export risk management.

They intervene not to build futures, but to delay collapse.

More effort. Less return.

Same curve. Different domain.

The deeper pattern

Nigeria wasn’t chosen because it’s the most important battlefield.

It was chosen because it was:

• Permissive

• Legible

• Low‑risk

• High‑signal

• Non‑committal

This is what late‑empire power projection looks like:
Selective. Episodic. Symbol‑heavy. Outcome‑light.

Wait—what should we actually be asking?

Not whether the strike was justified.

But what it means when a superpower has to remind the world it can still act — and chooses a place like Nigeria, at Christmas, to do it.

That’s not confidence.

That’s maintenance.

And maintenance is what power looks like when belief is no longer automatic.

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There is a lot going on right now. Absurdist political theatre. Money games that only work for the few. And yes — slave patrols, badges polished. To follow the mainstream media timeline is to be angry and afraid. To follow the Black timeline is to miss the point entirely. We scroll, we sigh and we tap out to protect our peace. But here we are — ten thousand serious minds working to make sense of it all. Historical context is the only way to keep the tail from wagging the dog.

Why We Need a Framework for This Moment

“People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.” — James Baldwin

History doesn’t march forward; it breathes — expanding and contracting, building and breaking, collapsing and renewing. Among the frameworks that try to decode these rhythms, few have aged as eerily well as The Fourth Turning. Written in 1997 by historians William Strauss and Neil Howe — the same duo who coined the term Millennial — the book proposes that American life unfolds in repeating 80- to 100-year cycles, each made up of four “turnings.” The High. The Awakening. The Unraveling. The Crisis. When the cycle ends, it begins again. Their work isn’t prophecy; it’s pattern recognition. History as rhythm: birth, decay, rebirth.

And right now, we’re deep in winter: the Fourth Turning, when old systems die so new ones can take root. This is what collapse feels like before clarity. Frameworks like this aren’t perfect or singular, but they’re powerful — they help us locate ourselves in time. Because when you know the season, you can sense what kind of work the moment demands. Knowing the time of day makes it easier to know what action is called for.

The Four Seasons of History

Each saeculum — a long human lifetime — follows a sequence of moods and social orders:

• The High: Society emerges from crisis into renewed confidence and unity. Institutions are strong. People believe in the system. (Think post–World War II America.)

• The Awakening: The next generation rebels against that order, demanding authenticity, freedom and meaning. (The civil rights movement, counterculture and consciousness revolution of the 1960s–70s.)

• The Unraveling: Institutions weaken; individualism reigns. Cynicism becomes culture. (The polarized 1980s–2000s — the “me-first” era of markets and media.)

• The Crisis — the Fourth Turning: A reckoning. Systems collapse. Wars, pandemics, economic meltdowns. Out of the wreckage, society redefines itself.

We’re living through that Fourth Turning now: the winter of the cycle, where the old order gives way to the new.

The Evidence Is All Around Us

You don’t need a historian to tell you something has shifted. The pattern is visible in our lifetimes: 9/11 shattered the illusion of safety. The 2008 crash broke our faith in the economy. The pandemic exposed the fragility of our institutions and the limits of our individualism. Political polarization, rising authoritarianism, climate collapse — these aren’t isolated storms. They’re converging fronts in the same season.

Every generation plays a role in this drama. The Boomers (Prophets) champion moral visions that divide the nation. Gen X (Nomads) lead with cynicism and survival instinct. Millennials (Heroes) are called to rebuild amid chaos. And Gen Z (Artists) are coming of age in the shadow of it all — sensitive, adaptive, already preparing to heal.

The Black American Clock: Out of Phase, Still in Motion

“The function of freedom is to free someone else.” — Toni Morrison

For Black Americans, history has always moved slightly out of sync with the national cycle. Emancipation, Reconstruction, the Civil Rights Movement — each a Fourth Turning in miniature, nested within America’s broader rhythm. While the nation now struggles to restore institutional legitimacy, Black America’s work has long been to build autonomous ones — to imagine freedom on our own terms, not the system’s.

If America’s Fourth Turning is about restoring legitimacy to collapsing institutions, ours is about building sovereignty: creating institutions that can survive without theirs. It’s the difference between reforming broken systems and replacing them entirely. The stakes are existential — but so is the opportunity.

Millennials as the Hero Generation

“We are responsible for the world, because we are the world.” — Nikki Giovanni

In Strauss and Howe’s model, Millennials are the Hero archetype — the generation born to rebuild after the storm. Our grandparents’ version of this was the G.I. Generation, who fought the Depression and World War II, then built the institutions that defined the 20th century. Ours will be the generation that rebuilds digital, cultural and civic infrastructure for the 21st.

Heroism today doesn’t look like marching armies; it looks like building durable communities, ethical companies, regenerative systems and media that deepen rather than divide. It’s the slow, collective work of renewal. We don’t have to save the world alone — but we do need to start laying its foundation.

Mothering the Children of the Fourth Turning

“Love is an action, never simply a feeling.” — bell hooks

Our children — Gen Z and Gen Alpha — are the Artists of the next cycle. Born amid chaos, they’ll grow up craving safety, fairness and stability. Our job is to give them what we didn’t have: calm. To teach them empathy as survival, creativity as resistance and collaboration as power — and to help them master the human soft skills that will matter most in an age ruled by algorithms and AI. The future they inherit will depend less on our rhetoric than on the institutions we rebuild now — in our neighborhoods, our schools, our homes.

Reading the Map

The Fourth Turning reminds us that chaos has a pattern — and in the pattern we find peace through understanding. For every winter gives way to spring. The question is not whether the cycle will end — it will — but what kind of world will bloom after the thaw.

History will record how we responded to the breaking. Whether we panicked or prepared. Whether we clung to the ruins or built something worth surviving.

Every winter ends. Ours will too — but what comes next depends on what we build now.

CRWNMAG Note:

This isn’t just about predicting cycles — it’s about preparing our people. The work of this decade is to turn cultural capital into durable infrastructure: schools, cooperatives, media, businesses and families that can outlast this storm. That’s how we honor our ancestors and protect our descendants. That’s how we win the next turning.

Over the years, Robeson Parks has been one of our most trusted creative partners — which is why we’re especially proud to share the Arch Program with our community. This six‑week mentorship is built for emerging creative professionals who want real, hands‑on experience on meaningful client projects, with guidance from some of the best in the business.

Learn More

The program is designed for rising creative professionals — anyone at the beginning or midpoint of their journey who could benefit from the guidance of someone who’s already been there. It pairs participants with experienced mentors not just to talk about careers, but to share wisdom, tools, and perspective. It’s about grounding ourselves in community while charting new paths forward.

If you’ve been looking for guidance, or simply a reminder that you’re not in this alone, this program offers the chance to gain mentorship, practical tools, and a community that wants to see you win — learn more here.

What we believe, how we govern, how we work — the values and conduct shaping tomorrow. First published in the Money & Power issue, this piece lays down a blueprint for building with purpose and integrity.

1. Know Thyself

Everything starts here. You have to make an honest assessment of who you are to plot your course in business. Where are you going? What do you have? What do you want? Take stock of your strengths and weaknesses so that you can be secure in the value that you bring to your working relationships.

If you don’t like people, don’t force yourself into a management role. If you don’t have a crystal ball, don’t start a company — consider joining one of your friends who has a clear vision for the future and bring your skills to the service of that vision. You will have a shorter path to success if you can position yourself based on your true strengths.

2. Humble Yourself

Rice, Beans, Ramen, and Greens. A startup is about staying alive long enough to figure it out. If you can live humbly, you can extend your runway and give yourself time to manifest your dream. Cook dinner at home, bring your lunch into the city with you… Do that — preferably before you quit your 9 to 5 — so you can afford to take a flight for a pitch meeting, or so that you can increase your production volume to bring unit cost down.

3. Invest in Yourself

Unless you are starting a cash-intensive business, avoid taking on debt before you have proof of concept. Put skin in the game: invest of yourself — sacrifice, pay up front with your time.

This magazine has been revenue-funded since the beginning. We had customers on the day we launched, which made committing to the business full-time a safer bet. The market validated our assumptions and gave us confidence to make the leap. The market is alive: you don’t know what you have until you’ve found a customer and set out your offering.

4. Act Accordingly

Be driven by purpose and guided by values. Govern your activities by your brand pillars (what you believe). Ours are Sisterhood, Knowledge of Self, Self-Love, Authenticity and Ownership; and they guide every decision we make.

5. Love Over Money

If it’s just about getting money, you’d likely be better off adding value to someone else's vision. When you start a company, there has to be a greater motivation than getting rich. Love of craft. Love for team. Love for community. Gratification is often delayed, and gratitude will get you through the times when the valleys outnumber the peaks.

6. Work Together

Know the difference between who to get money from and to get money with. Business owners, find partnerships and collaborations where each party is creating value for the other.

If you’re a gatekeeper for corporate, make sure you advocate for Black-owned vendors and pay them their full rate. After all, they’ve created the companies that will house your talents should you decide you’ve had your fill of microaggressions and free snacks.

7. First Things First

There are an endless amount of problems to solve for your business and likewise, for our people. Learn to prioritize according to what moves the needle for revenue and overall impact.

8. Bust Moves

The market is alive. The game is about how you adapt and adjust around how the market responds to your assumptions.

9. Mind Your Business

We live in a comparison culture, which makes it hard not to notice your sister’s glow up. You don’t know what she had to overcome to get where she is. You don’t know what obstacles she still faces. Celebrate her. See her and know it’s possible for you to win, too. Most High is the giver of gifts and talents. To envy another person is to find fault with God.

10. Build Tomorrow

It would be unfair to our children to raise them in a world where they are a permanent underclass due to broad-sweeping inequalities. We’re not working this hard to look good; we work this way because we want our children to be free. My great-grandchildren will speak my name and celebrate me because they’ll be certain that I was thinking about them when I decided to take the long route.

Build something to flip, but by all means, build something to hold that your children’s children can use as a springboard. Protect your IP, buy some land and build — or invest in — an institution that will outlive you.

Add the Money & Power Issue to your coffee table!

The Origins

I created BLK + GRN in 2017 out of pure necessity. I was a public health professor when I came across an article that changed everything for me. It stated that the products marketed to Black women are more toxic than those marketed to any other demographic.

At that very moment, I decided to commit to conscientious consumerism. So, true to my organized nature, I looked up product ingredients to see if they were on toxic watch lists from the Environmental Working Group. The research was laborious, so I found natural and sustainable marketplaces that did some of the work for me.

About six months into that journey, I read Our Black Year: ​​One Family's Quest to Buy Black in America's Racially Divided Economy by Maggie Anderson and started to think not only about what I was buying but who I was buying from. Anderson laid out the case that if we're conscientious consumers and we purchase Black-owned products, we’re voting with our dollars.

I never saw my purchasing habits that way before, as power in my hand that I wasn't using. So, I returned to my lists and took everything out that wasn’t all natural and Black-owned. Throughout testing, sorting and researching the products, I really needed one place to pull everything together — so I created BLK + GRN.

Overcoming Criticism

At its inception, the idea faced a lot of criticism. Mainly because there's a negative assumption that Black-owned things are not “as good as.” I wanted to change the narrative and prove that we can have Black, high-end, all-natural products.

People told me Black people would not spend money to buy clean and sustainable products. That if they could get one deodorant for a few dollars, why would they pay ten dollars for another one, even if it’s healthier? And the reality is that clean products do cost more to make and package.

But, when we have information about harm, we are empowered to make different decisions. We invest in things that support our minds and bodies.

My doctorate dissertation was on health disparities and understanding that Black people have worse outcomes than everyone else. I wanted people to know why their health is worth those extra nine dollars on deodorant. I knew that Black women are conscientious, and once we have the information, we make different choices.

Another critique that I fought against in the beginning was whether I wanted my marketplace to include businesses owned by all people of color. But my intention is to exclusively amplify products made for and by Black women, and I was very intentional about protecting and providing that space. I knew what work I was being drawn to do.

After George Floyd’s murder, there was this big collective push for supporting Black-owned brands. Whenever the police do something awful, the mass response is to give back and support Black brands. So in 2020, my sales quadrupled — and then went back down. The surge in sales was a moment, not a movement, that provided sustainable change for us. I want to see Black businesses thrive consistently, not just when Blackness is trending.

The Art of Adaptation

Since the launch of my business, a lot about my life has changed. For example, back in 2017, I didn’t have kids or a husband. So, navigating a business along with a marriage and two toddlers has been an interesting learning experience, especially around my own conditioned work habits.

When I first started BLK + GRN, my warehouse was in my closet. Every order that came through was packed and shipped out by me — and I just don't have the time to do that anymore.

So, I’ve learned to lean into my magic; the things that are worth spending my time and energy on. Now I have a fulfillment center that does it for me. And, of course, it’s a Black-woman-owned fulfillment center.

The Strong Black Woman

Learning to hire a team and ask for help was another hard-learned lesson for me; I think it’s difficult for a lot of Black women founders. American society has taught us to take everything upon ourselves. We don't know how to ask for help because, historically, we’ve had to do it ourselves.

Being so independent sounds appealing, but it's a gift and a curse. Once, an investor told me they love investing in Black women-owned businesses because “Black women are scrappy,” he said, “They’ll get it done no matter what.”

It’s a loaded compliment because, yes, they were right, Black women get it done. But what kind of trauma do we endure because of it? We get it done even if we kill ourselves, even if it affects our families, and even if we run ourselves into the ground. This investor was right, but it hurt.

The truth of the matter is we need help and we need support, which is why it’s imperative to have a strong circle. You'll have hard days and you’ll need someone to talk to, someone to unload what you’re feeling. Pursue your grind and hustle, but don’t do it alone.

I think we also feel the pressure to be perfect. Then when we aren't, we feel our worth diminish instead of remembering our humanity. We have to treat ourselves with better care. And we also have to make peace with our mistakes. Mistakes don’t make you dumb, they make you better.

Life After a Coma

Then, July 1, 2019, happened, and everything changed. I struggle now with memory, but that's one memory I haven’t lost.

That day, as my husband drove us home from my parents’ house with our four-month-old son in the back, a car hit us. When my airbag didn't deploy, I was immediately knocked into a coma and our baby boy was injured. The police came and my husband jumped in the ambulance with my son while I was airlifted to a different hospital.

My son, who was being treated an hour away, had a broken rib and a hematoma so my husband had to run back and forth to see both of us. I suffered a traumatic brain injury and a part of my skull had to be removed. For about six months, I had to wear a helmet until my skull could be restored.

After being in a coma for two weeks, all I wanted to do was get out of the hospital. When it was time to transfer to a rehab center, they pushed a wheelchair to the door of my room to roll me to my car. I refused. They insisted and told me it was hospital policy. I said, “No, I'm just not doing it.” They had to leave and find someone in management to talk to me, and as soon as they did, I walked out.

Now I live with a disability, and I’m still trying to adjust to what that means. I had to learn everything all over again — how to bathe, how to eat, how to walk and how to talk. In the beginning, my husband even had to wipe me because I didn’t know how to do it myself. During that time, it was really hard to see myself on the other side of my injury. I felt like everything was over and that I would essentially be a vegetable and remain dependent for the rest of my life.

My neurosurgeon, who told my family that while my body would come back, my mind would be much harder to recover, also said something that changed everything for me. He pulled me aside and said, “I usually don't tell people this, but I also had a brain injury.” He explained that something told him to tell me that after his injury, he went on to attend medical school and became a surgeon.

I’m so thankful that he shared his story with me because his words woke something up inside. It gave me more grit to keep fighting the same way I fought to walk out of that hospital on my own feet.

On the other side of my injury is a lesson in slowing down. I process things slower and it takes me longer to get things done. My memory is also challenged, so I developed new ways of operating in the world. For example, now I write everything down and ask people to send me emails summarizing our calls so I don’t forget anything. Before bed, I do something I call “the brain dump,” and write down everything I want to do the next day so I can't forget.

Rebirth

But living with a new disability hasn’t only been about restrictions; I’ve also gained a new superpower. My husband, who was by my side the entire time, described what happened during my coma in this beautiful way. He said, “You were kind like a child. You were reborn again.” Being so close to death has given me an entirely new perspective on life and on the things that used to bother me. Now, I say, “Kristian, that shit doesn’t matter.” If it’s not life or death, it’s not worth losing my peace over.

I’m more patient and understanding; I take things less personally. I find that it’s easier to jump to empathy instead of defensiveness because I relate to people differently now.

Partnership in Practice

My husband and I make this joke with each other all the time about how we got about a decade's worth of marriage within a couple of years. It’s been incredibly hard, but it’s also been beautiful. We’ve learned a lot about partnership and marriage.

And we've learned how to communicate with each other better. We've learned to express our needs instead of expecting the other person to read our minds. As a Black woman who never asks for help, I learned to ask my partner for what I need. But first, you have to know what you need, then you can articulate it. I think many people want a relationship where someone understands them intrinsically when they don't understand themselves. How can someone else know more about you than you know about yourself?

I feel like this trickles down into parenthood as well. Kids force you to be the best version of yourself because now you have little mirrors. Everything you say, everything you do, they're going to absorb and embody. We're not going to do it all perfectly, but we try to do it consciously and thoughtfully because we’re trying to raise thoughtful kids, and raising thoughtful kids is challenging. A thoughtful child will ask you “why” even when you're not in the mood, and that’s okay. I don’t want to have to appear perfect to my kids. Some days I have to be patient and answer a million questions; other days, I can’t do that. I can tell my child that I’m not in the mood, and he’ll accept that mommy is human.

Superpower

Whether I’m building a business to solve a problem or building myself back up after an enormous setback, I have proven that determination is my superpower. My determination is why I stay so curious, always looking for a solution to the things that perplex me. I know that even when we find solutions to problems, those problems can change. BLK + GRN solved the challenge of finding Black women creators in beauty and wellness, but what else can we do? What other problems need to be addressed?

In slowing down and realizing what matters most to me, I know it’s my family and the legacy of joy I want to create. If BLK + GRN were a multimillion-dollar company and I had to choose between my company and the happiness of my boys and my husband, I would choose my family every day of the week.

I can’t do it all overnight, but I can do my best every day. I always say that my daily goal is being one percent better than I was yesterday. I’m constantly growing. If I can be a little better each day, I think that’s an enormous victory.

Get one for your coffee table!

The CRWNMAG Beauty Bible isn’t just a magazine — it’s a collectible artifact of our beauty, wisdom, and wellness. Featuring Tracee Ellis Ross and a chorus of voices reimagining what it means to care for ourselves, deeply.

Let’s keep it a stack: Diaspora Wars are exhausting.

What started as valid critiques and cultural clarifications have spiraled into a never-ending cycle of callouts, clapbacks, and bad-faith discourse that too often misses the deeper point. The constant back-and-forth between African Americans, African immigrants, and Caribbean folks on social media can feel like a fight for who gets to be "the realest," but more often than not, it ends in fracture.

Let’s make something clear: making distinctions is not inherently divisive.

When Black Americans draw lines around lineage—particularly in movements like ADOS and FBA—it is not always about superiority. Often, it’s about political precision. If reparations are ever to be a real conversation in this country, specificity matters. Just like Native nations delineate tribal membership for sovereignty and redress, Black Americans have the right to define what has been inherited: both the trauma and the cultural brilliance born of U.S. chattel slavery.

It’s also about identity. For a people who had language, lineage, and location stolen, the search for clarity is a form of resistance. It’s not anti-African or anti-Caribbean to say: this is ours. This blues. This vernacular. This protest tradition. This joy in the face of terror.

That said—and here’s where we need to speak plain but stay grounded—some of y’all are doing too much.

Weaponizing lineage to delegitimize or demean others in the diaspora isn’t strategy; it’s ego in liberation drag. It mimics the same exclusion we claim to be fighting. And it ignores how the system loves to reward those divisions.

We have to remember: African and Caribbean immigrants didn’t position themselves as "model minorities." That was structural. They were often granted entry to the U.S. because they were seen as different from, and less threatening than, Black Americans who had a centuries-long legacy of resistance. They were offered a deal many didn't realize they were signing: acceptance in exchange for silence about racism—or worse, complicity.

Meanwhile, Black American culture—our music, our slang, our aesthetic, our labor—has been exported, monetized, and rebranded by everyone but us. So when people from across the diaspora show up inside that culture without context or respect, yes, tensions will rise. But let’s be clear: the real theft is coming from the top.

The stakes are too high to keep swinging at each other while the system eats our inheritance.

The fight is not your cousin from Ghana, or your friend whose family came from Trinidad. The fight is the system that taught you to see them as a threat. The fight is the platform that boosts drama over dialogue. The fight is the industry that uses our pain as profit.

So yes, let’s keep making distinctions. Let’s be rigorous in our history and rooted in our specificity. But let’s also aim our fire outward, not inward.

Solidarity is not always kumbaya. Sometimes it looks like disagreement with discipline. But if we want power—not just representation, not just vibes, but power that lasts—we can’t afford to mistake our reflections for our enemies.

The clean beauty space is full of buzzwords like carbon-neutral and zero-waste, but Hanahana Beauty Founder Abena Boamah- Acheampong says the word no one wants to say is money. Instead of fluffy unicorn marketing, Abena says the key to her sustainable skincare brand’s success is confidence, a solid team and her undying determination to secure the bag — for everyone.

Hanahana means free-flowing. It’s a name that founder Abena Boemah-Acheampong’s father came up with after she announced that instead of pursuing a career in psychology, she was starting her own skincare business.  While many parents from a certain generation would be troubled by such a pivot — from the beaten path of a traditional career to the unpredictable journey of business ownership — Abena got nothing but support. “I come from a house of independent, very confident people, and that has really pushed me throughout my entire life [in terms of] just doing things that I'm good at and getting better at it.”

Abena, who was born in DC to native Ghanaian parents, remained tethered to her roots thanks to dual citizenship. “I've actually had the opportunity to live in Ghana as a kid as well as learn our dialect, which is Twi. I came back and [got] all my schooling here in the States.” Being steeped in her Ghanaian heritage, she says, is why she felt insulated from the stereotypically American construct of beauty for most of her childhood. You know, the one that tells the most beautiful woman in the room that she’s “pretty for a Black girl” and thinks they paid her a compliment.

“As a kid, I thought I was beautiful until I heard from others that all these things that were me were not beautiful. I was really not trusting of society’s depiction of beauty,” said Abena. Then the natural hair movement era of YouTube helped reignite the notion within her that we each define beauty simply by existing. “I feel more beautiful just by being and feeling confident. So beauty to me is very simplistic. Just people feeling confident in themselves.”

How Hanahana Was Born

In 2013, after completing her undergrad at Wooster, Abena moved to Chicago and worked as a middle school math teacher. It was during her time teaching that the seeds for Hanahana were planted. Abena commented on her students eating Cheetos and asked if they understood what they were putting into their bodies. The students asked Abena if she considered what she put on her body as well, which got her thinking about the Ghanaian shea butter that was commonplace in her childhood home.

Growing up, Abena and her family regularly used shea butter (which is called Nkuto in Twi) but she didn’t always enjoy using it. So, she took what she knew and started to improve upon it. “I just didn’t like the application of it, so that was me starting to make products from shea and learning about all these different oils and different types of ingredients and butters.” Abena’s curiosity led to her developing products that she, initially, exclusively shared with her inner circle. By the time Abena finished her master's degree in counseling, she had two choices: go on a job hunt or start a skincare company.

Abena attributes her initial success to the support her venture was met with. “My parents have always been supportive. Their support has come in different waves. At first, it's like, ‘why are you doing it this way?’ But now it's just like, ‘This is your thing. It makes sense.’” Outside of her family, Abena also credits her inner circle of friends for providing additional layers of support. “I have a group of really strong core friends who, during that time, I had just met. They're still my friends today, so they’ve seen the growth of Hanahana and what it has become.”

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What you’ve heard is true.

They love us out there.
The quality of life is higher.
The soil is richer.
And the possibilities? So much greater.

More and more of us are feeling the call — not just to visit, but to invest, to build, to root. Because Africa isn’t just our past… it’s the future.

From the coast of Senegal to the mountains of Rwanda, we’re exploring what it looks like to live, grow and own on the continent. And yes, we’re looking at land too — just like Kelis. 👀

If you're curious or planning your own move, join our list to stay in the loop.

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What does it mean to be engaged in politics without choosing a political theory to guide your tactics and strategy? How can we change the world without an accurate understanding of history?

We won’t find the counter-narratives to oppression on the news. We don't really need any more think pieces. And social media? Just. Stop. Scrolling. You can do it (I'm saying this to myself)! We honor our greatest minds by (actually) reading their work.

So pick up a book — or 15 — and interrogate new ideas with the people around you. We asked our community to recommend their favorite radical reads, and here is the short list:

1. Revolutionary Suicide, Huey P. Newton

2. Assata: An Autobiography, Assata Shakur

3. The Fire Next Time, James Baldwin

4. The Spook Who Sat By The Door, Sam Greenlee

5. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches, Audre Lorde

6. Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition, Cedric J. Robinson

7. The Black Jacobins: Toussaint L'Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution, C.L.R. James

8. The united-independent compensatory code/system/concept: A textbook/workbook for thought, speech, and/or action, for victims of *racism (white supremacy), Neely Fuller Jr

9. Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self-Discovery, Bell Hooks

10. The Wretched of The Earth, Franz Fanon

11. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, Walter Rodney

12. PowerNomics, Claud Anderson

13. Invisible Man, Ralph Ellison

14. The Destruction of African Civilization, Chancellor Williams

15. The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson

Disclaimer: The use of the term American Negro is satirical but I like it in this context because it offers some ethnic specificity and side-steps the rhetorical trappings of race. The word “niggas” is used mostly for color and emphasis.

Preface

You are on a platform made by people who have never had the stomach to wait by the gate asking for entry and access. We have been creating spaces for ourselves and over the years, hundreds of others, to express and get money. To be clear, CRWNMAG is indie-indie. No venture capital, no corporate ad dollars (not because we didn’t try) — just folks making stuff that other folks like enough to buy. I give this as context to what might be considered “a radical take” by our Kinfolk who may be more entrenched in the establishment.

So, what are you wearing to the DEI funeral? I was going to go the dashiki and kufi route but I’ve opted for a khaki suit with sharp creases (Dickies, not Brooks Brothers) and running shoes. We don’t need more think pieces or fake Negro outrage, and certainly no more half-hearted social media protests. We are overdue for a reality check, and DonDon is wasting no time letting us know where we stand. It’s the same place we were standing four years ago and, as far as I can tell, we’ve been in the same spot as long as I’ve been alive. Outside.

The Myth of D.E.I.

First of all, it is important to establish that niggas did not ask for DEI. It is a brand name that white liberals made up (popularized) to co-opt our outrage after seeing Black people get beaten, shot and choked to death in social-media snuff films.

Giveth & Taketh Away

As a nervous reaction to the outrage over the treatment of the American Negro, huge corporations made small promises on big press releases. The offers were small enough in scope that they could have delivered in a year or two, max. But, fingers crossed behind their backs and hand over heart, they made commitments; knowing that in time, the outrage would fade and the political climate would swing to the right enough for them to say, “Sike!” without fear of reprisal. This is the “take-away,” a method of psychological manipulation used to engineer compliance by leveraging our natural aversion to loss against our desire and need for more than a seat at the table.

Commingling of Struggles

It is noble to want to fight for everybody’s rights all at once, but that has been proven to be a trap for the bleeding-hearted American Negro. It should be common knowledge by now that the biggest beneficiaries of socio-economic programs like Affirmative Action or DEI have been white women. If you notice, somehow our struggle conveniently becomes bundled with other groups. This happens through the introduction of terms like “minority” or “marginalized” or “underrepresented,” and before you know it, we stop talking about the remedies we need for our very specific historical circumstance and begin prioritizing the needs of others.

Intersectionality is a brilliant framework for the ruling class to use to reach a granular understanding of their abuse of power. However, it is insufficient for the American Negro; for it divides us into smaller, weaker groups. Solidarity is a revolutionary act, but when dealing with a fox you must have focus. The fight is not for the women, or queer folks, or the incarcerated, or the poor. The fight is for the whole of us. There is a specific history of oppression that we share through lineage.

Equity

The American Negro does not have a diversity problem. Look at the variance in complexion of your own family to be sure. We don’t have an inclusivity problem either. Everyone has always been welcome at our table and they love keeping us hovering around theirs because we are an endless source of entertainment and pleasure. Niggas’ problem is — Equity. Our ancestors were quite literally the seed capital of the American empire and our current plight is defined by the lack of return on that “Investment,” made with blood and bone.

A few professional niggas getting jobs won’t fix it. A few enterprising niggas getting government contracts won’t fix it. A mile-high stack of food stamps (yes I am old enough to have bought candy with brown dollars) won’t do it either. We could have all of those things tomorrow and we might be more comfortable, but we would still be subject to and property of the ruling class. Reparations are the only thing that can move the needle for the American Negro. We don’t need handouts or help, or mentorship programs — just the return of our capital. With that, we can reshape the world around us or create something new entirely.

The Scale of the Problem

The condition of the American Negro is beyond change in half-measures. As long as we continue to accept small tokens and the feeling of progress, we will never arrive. Over the last five years, I have heard well-meaning allies talk about addressing our problems in million-dollar or single digit billion dollar terms; when the country (private and public sectors, both) has a debt to the American Negro that has been quantified in the tens of trillions. People like to address our issues in more altruistic terms, but real niggas everywhere would agree when I say, “Run me my money,” and I’ll come up with all kinds of ways to solve my own problems.

Tokenism & The Illusion of Progress

At its core, the DEI promise is just good old fashion tokenism. As the owner of a magazine that has only ever hired Black photographers, I cannot tell you how bad it burns my grits to hear niggas rejoice at the announcement that Vogue hired it’s first Black photographer in it’s 133-year history to shoot a Beyonce cover. We are a generation or more beyond the need for celebrating the “first Black” anything. It just reeks of tragically low self-esteem, which is how they know that they can offer us little, give us little-to-nothing and still maintain the status quo.

In building CRWNMAG, we have often interfaced with giant corporations, earnestly seeking to offer value in exchange for money. In the last five years, we have been greeted warmly at the door by DEI personnel, Chief Diversity Officers and the like (which Ye referred to as BLM managers) only to learn that they don’t have any access to budgets and no sway with the people who do. Imagine what it’s like to walk into a building to do business only to learn that the Token Black person in the room is there to keep you civil whilst you discover that none of the commitments made in public are being honored in practice. This scenario also plays out in a labyrinth of special “programs” that, on their face, intend to aid “Black Vendors” in doing business with large organizations like Target, Ulta, P&G and Unilever. A series of meetings, workshops, and pitches that go nowhere. All the while, they are sneakily data mining and taking your best ideas to be executed by their “existing” vendors.

Fine by us, we built CRWNMAG like an indie rap label from the ‘90s — direct to consumer and out the trunk — so no matter what they say. As long a Black women want to read CRWNMAG, it can exist.

There’s power in putting our hands in the soil. From the Bay to the Bronx, our folks are reclaiming land — not just as property, but as reclamation, as healing, as protest... as future-building. The land holds memory, and more of us are listening.

Our Kinfolk across the country (and beyond) are showing us what’s possible when we move away from dependence on broken systems and toward autonomy, sovereignty and interdependence with the earth.

Whether you’ve got acres or a windowsill, this spring (it's coming, we promise 😂) is a perfect time to plant something, or even volunteer at a local farm or community garden. Reclaim your own patch of ground — and open yourself to transformation in the process.

Explore the Black Farmers Index

Over the last decade, Nilea Alexander and her husband, Lamine Diagne, have built an empire in Brooklyn — from the beloved Café Rue Dix, to the curated retail experience of Marché Rue Dix, to a luxury nail studio redefining self-care in the neighborhood. Now, they’ve expanded again, adding a high-end hair salon and a private-label line of nail and hair care products.

In The Beauty Bible, Nilea shares what it takes to build something that lasts — how she’s navigated the challenges of entrepreneurship, set new standards for luxury and learned to charge what her work is worth.

Read her story in The Beauty Bible — then experience the Rue Dix dynasty for yourself. Book a nail or hair appointment at Marché, or shop their nail and hair care collections today.