Be still, my Black AF heart.

Sometimes I forget how much living I’ve already done.
How much remembering is stitched into my body.
How much of who I am didn’t start with me.

I was born third generation in Harlem.
Not just raised there—rooted.
My Nana walked the same school halls I did.
My mother knew the same streets.
My aunties, my uncles, my people already belonged before I ever arrived.

There’s something grounding about knowing you come from a place that already knew your name.

I grew up on 139th and Lenox.
I still hear it when I close my eyes.
Boom boxes arguing with each other.
Hot 97 bleeding out of open windows.
Double Dutch ropes hitting pavement.
Kids freestyling just because.
Elders ear-hustling and gossiping.
“Peace, God.”
“Assalamu Alaikum.”
“Hey queen.”

People yelling your name up to the window instead of knocking.
Neighbors sending messages back to your parents.
Back to your grandparents.

I knew where I was.
I knew who I was.

I went to a Black school with Black teachers and Black friends.
Black authority was normal to me.
Black intelligence was expected.
Black care was the standard.

So I grew up believing Black people could do anything.
Because I watched them do everything.

Black women raised me in ways they never had to explain.
They taught me to say my name boldly.
To speak when I entered a room.
To stay out of grown folks’ business.
To cross my ankles in a dress.
To swipe the back of it before sitting down.
To not whistle in the house.
To not leave without earrings.
To not leave without some gold.

That we stick together.
That we become the mothers.

Gold has always meant something to me.
Babies dripping in it.
Tiny ears pierced early.
Box braids adorned with it.
Mouths shining when people laugh.
Gold against brown skin catching light the way it always has.

I had to come back to it as an adult.
Church made jewelry feel unnecessary once.
Like adornment was supposed to come from the inside.

Which is true.
But a herringbone necklace never outshined me.
Bamboo earrings never competed with my spirit.
Never could.

Adornment comes from within.
I just believe in reflection, too.

I’ve lived in more than one version of Blackness.
Black American and Jamaican American.
New York and Maryland.
Urban and suburban.
Sacred and sensual.
Soft and protective.

I learned what it feels like to assimilate.
To codeswitch.
To be too much in some rooms and not enough in others.

And I learned what it feels like to come home again—
at an HBCU,
inside Black brilliance,
inside a reminder that I didn’t need to shrink to be understood.

I became a mother.
Twice.

I didn’t cry in the hospital.
I cried when I got home.
Because suddenly, I was holding Black life.
And I understood how ancient that responsibility is.

I fell in love with Black men in a way that required unlearning shame.
Giving myself permission to desire.
To want.
To enjoy being reflected back to myself without explanation.

Along the way, I realized I’m not new here.

This life is an echo.
A continuation.
A prayer answered before it was ever spoken.

If my ancestors were choosing a life for me, they would have chosen this one.
Because I got the assignment clearly.
I got all the text.
I got the helpers.
I got the partner.
I even got the right kids to hold the gift when I am gone.

That is what I Love Us has always been about.

We’ve been quiet for a bit. Not gone, but recalibrating with what feels worth documenting right now. As we move forward, I Love Us is shifting. There will be less obsession with the biggest celebrity names. Instead, we’re giving more attention to emerging artists, emerging movements, and moments in the culture that are unfolding quietly. We’re giving focus to the things you’ll wish you noticed earlier. As this platform continues to grow, I’m also making space for more of my own voice here. Not because I want to center myself, but because courage is part of legacy work.

Thank you for your patience. Thank you for staying. Thank you for understanding that this platform is run by real people, living real lives and listening closely to what feels aligned.

With love,

Thiy Parks, Co-Founder and Editor
I Love Us