Melanin, Majesty & The Motherland

As a child in the 80s, I was engulfed in a world where beauty was equated with whiteness. The media bombarded us with images of super skinny women with straight hair, lips painted in shades of pink, and bodies that had never met a squat. These beauty standards dominated every screen, leaving little room for diversity in the definition of beauty.

White women were either princesses—waiting for a prince with a GPS malfunction—or perfect domestic goddesses whose biggest crisis was whether to season the Sunday roast with one or two sprinkles of salt.

Then there was me... the one who saw seasoning as a love language. Every bite should be a warm embrace, a full-body hug, a “come on in and stay awhile” invitation to the soul. My food didn’t whisper—it sang, shouted, and hit a praise dance on the taste buds of those who dared partake. I wanted each bite to be a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the soul of those who took a chance on my cooking.

As a little Black girl with thick, coily hair that didn't flow in the wind but could hold a barrette like a champion, I spent years trying to fit into a world that worshipped thigh gaps and collarbones so sharp they could julienne a carrot. I tried to be skinny, sucking in my stomach, hiding my defining hips, and crossing my legs like I had less thigh real estate than I did. I stayed in the mirror, not to admire my beauty, but to see what needed to change on my quest for beautification!

But then I moved to London and saw the stunning, thick, dark-skinned bodies of West African women who walked confidently and made the ground feel honored to be beneath them. And suddenly, I saw myself differently. My lips were full, my hips made their grand entrance before I did, and the sun kissed my skin so lovingly that lotion was a mandatory daily ritual. Yet, in a world that worshipped the Aqua Net queens, I spent my childhood thinking I was the problem. I was too loud. I had too many opinions and an endless array of facial expressions that needed no translation. It was second nature for me to throw my hands on my hips and pop my tongue like a punctuation mark.

I was creative, bold, and different, which was not accepted.

There were numerous attempts to mold me—through sermons and flawed theology, through whispered warnings about being “too much,” through the weaponization of my singleness, reminding me that “godly” men would never want a woman like me, through the unspoken expectation that I should make myself smaller, quieter, easier to digest. But I made every effort to conform and still could not! I stayed in churches that made me feel like I was never supposed to reach self-love, only to know God—as if loving myself and loving The Creator were mutually exclusive. You see, systemic racism doesn’t just exist in the streets—it’s in schools, in beauty standards, in pulpits, and in the constant questioning of our very existence. You know, Black is sin, and white is pure. So many negative images can make you believe that you (the Creator’s most significant artistic expression) are the problem. While you can’t change your skin, you can certainly spend your life trying to shrink yourself to make white spaces feel at ease with your presence.

You quickly learn that no knight is coming to save you—Cinderella’s slipper wasn’t made for your wide foot, sis, and frankly, that pumpkin carriage wouldn’t have made it down your block anyway.

I tried. Oh, I tried. I begged for long, straight hair until my mom finally gave me a relaxer for my 7th-grade birthday gift. I wanted my hair to be more tame, more “manageable.” I wanted it to flow freely on my shoulders. But the truth? I never bonded with my hair the way they did. I never felt like my hair was my glory. I saw no value in the tresses that God handcrafted on my scalp. I even went through a phase where I, too, became an Aqua Net queen—then my hair fell out. I stuffed my feet into those dainty white ballet flats, ignoring that my archless, wide feet were staging a rebellion. I even attempted the whisper-thin eyebrow trend, only to look permanently surprised for a year! But no matter what I did, I could not shrink myself enough to fit into a mold that was never meant for me. The Creator didn’t just give me a different skin color—He crafted me with purpose, richness, and excessive amounts of melanin magic. I just hadn’t discovered it yet. I did not know the greatness in me, the legacy woven into my very being, the power that pulsed through my veins like a drumbeat from my ancestors calling me to remember who I indeed was.

But awakening was on the horizon.

I moved to London, and everything changed.

For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by a community of women from all over the continent of Africa. Women who carried their heritage with pride, whose names carried meaning, whose voices held power. Women whose hips hopped out of skirts like they had places to be. Women whose hair defied gravity with the kind of confidence that only a queen could possess. Women who knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that their roots ran deep, far beyond chains and war, far beyond oppression. Slowly, I began to understand that my existence did not start with slavery.

My thick and luscious roots are embedded in West Africa.

I wasn’t a mistake. I wasn’t a misfit. I wasn’t “too much.” I am not “aggressive” or “angry.” Nothing about me needed to change. I can be authentic. I can be bold. I can be loud. I am worthy, just as I am.

I was home.

Healing didn’t come overnight, but I started unlearning. I started seeing myself as a whole. I stopped trying to flatten, shrink, and mute myself. Instead, I leaned into the beauty of my culture, people, and history. I traded Aqua Net dreams for shea butter realities, and let me tell you—my skin has been thriving ever since. I learned to love and accept myself, which has made all the difference. Embracing who I am has been the most empowering journey of my life.

So to my Black sisters who are still in spaces that don’t affirm you: Know that you are not the problem. You never were. The world may try to erase or rearrange our history, but sis, you are living proof that we have always been here, whole and worthy. Your reality did not begin with slavery. Your roots are on the continent of Africa. You are an African Goddess, and that is something no amount of hairspray can hold down.

So go to West Africa. Walk the same lands your ancestors once ruled. Stand in the sun and let its golden warmth wrap around your rich, shea-butter-glowing skin. Move with the sway of hips that carry generations of strength and resilience. Speak in tones dipped in honey and fire, laugh from the depths of your soul, and know that you are the living embodiment of divine femininity. You are the standard. A Queen. You are bold, untamed, and unapologetically you.