A Love Letter to Jess Hilarious And To Every Black Woman Wrestling With This Conversation

On safety, sisterhood, and the systems that divide us.

Dear Jess, and dear sis reading this who might see a piece of herself in Jess, 

I want to begin with love. 

Not a performance of love. Not the kind of love that hides the truth to keep the peace. I mean that real, bloodline, legacy kind of love. The kind of love that Black women have always had for each other. The kind that holds your hand and your shadow. The kind that says, “I’m not going anywhere—but I am going to tell you the truth.” 

So let’s start there. 

When I heard your recent exchange on “The Breakfast Club,” Jess, my first emotion wasn’t outrage; it was heartbreak. And not just because of what was said about Black Trans women. My heartbreak came from how familiar the pain underneath your words felt. 

You talked about people constantly questioning your womanhood. About feeling like you can’t just be, without defending yourself. About being pregnant in a professional space and not feeling free to celebrate it. About the exhaustion of having to explain your existence over and over again. 

I’ve lived that, too. 

But here’s the part that hurts in a different way: Even though I know that pain, I also know you don’t see me, at least not yet, as someone who understands you. That’s the lie we’ve been fed. That we, as Black women—especially Trans and Cis—are not on the same side. That we’re competitors for crumbs. That only one of us gets to be seen as real at a time. 

And I need you to know: That lie is killing us.

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