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She Never Needed Permission
By EL Tehut-9 Abdullah

She never needed permission
To rise.
To resurrect herself from the ruins
Of rusted chains and redlined lies.
Born with a burden
And a blazing brilliance
Her resilience
was never offered ease,
Only expectation.

She wore the womb of the world
On weary shoulders.
Played mother and martyr,
Carried cradle and cross
While they crucified
her character,
Slandered her strength,
Branded her brilliance as
“too much.”
“Too loud.”
“Too proud.”
“Too Black.”
“Too bold.”

But who else could hold
The whole house down
When Daddy disappeared
Into a prison cell,
A casket,
Or got captured
In another woman’s arms?

She became the father figure,
Gold digger,
The harsh,
The bitter,
The heartless picture
Of a woman scorned

She became the storm,
The calm,
The coach,
A consort
The comfort,
The daily bread.

She read bedtime stories
and redlined policies
In prophecies
About her plight

She worked double shifts
To cover double standards.
Made miracles out of coupons
And cast-iron pots,
Turned trash into treasure
trauma into tenacity
And pain into purpose.

They judged her hips,
But not the weight they carried.
They shamed her mouth,
But not the prayers it whispered
Over fevered foreheads
And frightened boys.
She wore fatigue like foundation
And still got up
With dignity dripping down her spine.

She was there
On the plantation
Where the scream
of her stolen children
Echoed louder than the whip.
She bled cotton
into the cracks of her hands,
Pregnant in the fields,
Picking futures from poisoned soil
While her soul screamed for freedom.

She was raped into silence.
Beat into stillness.
But she never stopped singing.
Never stopped running.
Harriet held that pistol with prophecy,
Sojourner stood
with speeches like swords,
Ida wrote truth
with bullets between the lines,
Fannie sang with fire,
Angela stared injustice down,
And Rosa sat so the world could stand.

She bathed white babies
Who grew up to spit in her direction.
She washed the clothes
Of women who’d call her a maid,
Then lock their doors
when her daughters walked their way.

She raised generations
That erased her name,
But she wrote it anyway
In degrees,
In doctorates,
In boardrooms
And ballots.

She was the backbone
Of every movement,
But they asked her to stay quiet,
Look pretty,
Be soft.
Be submissive.
Be smaller than her scars.
They feared her fire,
So they tried to freeze her into fragility.

But she melted every mold.
Burned every box.
And still, they blame her
For failed marriages,
Loveless nights,
And brothers broken by a system
That she, too, survived.

They forget
She stitched his wounds,
Wiped his tears,
Watched him walk away
With another woman
While she tucked their kids
into bed alone.

They called her bitter
But never better.
Called her angry
But never justified.
Called her hard
But never held her long enough
To hear the heartbreak
beneath her armor.

And yet she glows.
Even through grief.
Even through postpartum depression
When no one came to check on her.
Even through menopause
When her body turned
into a battlefield again.
Even when her edges thinned,
Her smile faded,
And the mirror refused to lie.

Still, she stands.
Still, she ascends.
Still, she graduates
At the top of her class.
Starts businesses
Out of brilliance and brokenness.
Out-earns the men who mock her.
Outlasts the lies that try to limit her.

They say she’s too independent
But she had no choice.
They say she’s too loud
But she was silenced too long.
They say she’s too strong
But never asked who taught her strength
Or who stole her softness.

She wanted to be kissed
Not just respected.
Wanted to laugh
Not just labor.
Wanted a partner
Not a project.
Wanted to dance
Without judgment,
To feel sexy,
Without shame.

So the next time
You see her with heels on,
Head high,
Don’t confuse confidence with coldness.
Don’t call her intimidating
Call her incredible.
She has survived
What most could not stomach
And still showed up
For you.

Black woman
You are not too much.
You are the measure.
You are the memory
Of mothers who made nations.
You are the melody
Of a people that would not perish.
You are the might
Of a God who never abandoned you.

You never needed permission
To rise.
To reign.
To rest.
To be loved loudly.
To be whole.
To be held.

And I,
I see you.
I salute you.
I stand for you.
Not just when you are strong
But when you are tired.
Not just when you lead
But when you weep.

Because you are the revolution
Wrapped in rhythm,
The answer before the question,
The light after the lynching.
You are more than worthy
You are wonderful.
And you
Have always been
Enough.

From my forthcoming book titled, “Singing Silently.”  

Written by EL Tehut-9 (@tehut9) www.Tehut9.com

We are men—
but not the kind
they write in fairy tales
or frame in flattering phrases.
We are the forgotten figures,
the fathers and fighters,
the feelers forced into silence.

We carry wounds
woven into our words,
but we’ve been trained
to wear armor over our aching.

Brothers… let’s talk.
Not surface-level sentences,
not hollow handshakes
and locker-room laughter.
Let’s talk about the truth.

Let’s talk about what it feels like
to sleep in the same house
with a woman
who no longer sees you.
Not because you disappeared—
but because she stopped looking.

To eat dinner at a table
where your presence
is as invisible
as your pain.

To sleep in separate rooms
and call it peace—
but it’s really prison.

To reach out for touch
and be told, “I’m tired.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re not who I want anymore.”

To feel like furniture.
Like a paycheck with a pulse.
Like a man misplaced
in the very life he built.

We are husbands
who hug hollow air.
We are lovers
locked out of the love
we once lit with passion and prayer.

No intimacy.
No tenderness.
Just tasks.
Just timelines.
Just two bodies
walking around each other
like forgotten ghosts
in a house that once held heaven.

We’ve heard it all:
“Be a man.”
“Toughen up.”
“Stop complaining—at least you’re not alone.”

But what do you call
being unloved in your own home?

What do you call
the slow death of desire,
when rejection becomes routine,
and you stop asking
because you’re tired
of hearing “no”
in a thousand different tones?

What do you call
emotional exile?
When you’re right there—
and still left out?

We carry that.

We carry rejection
like rust in our ribs.
We carry comparison
like chains around our confidence.

We carry the weight
of wanting to be held—
but being told to hold it in.

And yet,
we show up.
For our children.
For our spouses.
For the world.

We show up—
even when we’re breaking inside.
Even when our prayers
are pleas
we whisper into pillows
so no one hears us
hurting.

But brothers…
what if we didn’t carry it alone?

What if we cracked open this quiet
and let the flood come through?

What if our gatherings
were more than games and grills?
What if they were circles
of confession
and connection?

What if we sat with each other
like sacred mirrors—
reflecting what’s real
instead of what looks good?

What if we said:

“My wife hasn’t touched me in months.”
“I feel more like a roommate than a man.”
“I’m drowning in duty and dying for desire.”
“I pray with pain in my chest
and no peace in my partnership.”

What if someone responded:

“Me too.”
“I see you.”
“Let’s carry it together.”

Because there is healing
in honesty.
There is strength
in softness.
There is power
in presence.

We are not machines.
We are men of meaning.
Men molded by Allah
to feel, to fail,
to forgive and be forgiven.

Let us lay these burdens
at the altar of brotherhood.
Let us bleed our truths
into trusted hands
that won’t mock us for mourning.

Let us teach each other
that masculinity
is not measured
in how much we suppress—
but in how deeply we’re willing
to submit to the truth.

And the truth is—
we’re tired.
But we’re not broken beyond repair.

We’re bruised,
but we still believe.
We’re hurting,
but we’re still here.
We’re lonely,
but we’re not alone.

Because I see you, brother.
The man who prays
while wondering if peace
will ever return to his pillow.
The man who pays every bill
but can’t afford
another night of cold shoulders.

The man who looks at his wedding photo
and wonders
where the warmth went.

I see you.

And I say this:

You are worthy of love
that doesn’t make you beg.
You are worthy of peace
that doesn’t punish you.
You are worthy of brotherhood
that doesn’t just dab you up,
but lifts you up.

So let’s carry the weight—
not alone,
not in shame,
not in silence.

Let’s carry it
like a covenant,
like companions of the cave,
like warriors with wounds
we no longer hide.

Because the heaviest load
isn’t the burden itself—
it’s the belief
that no one will help us hold it.

And I promise you this,
from one fractured man
to another finding faith:

When we carry it together,
the weight becomes worship.
And the pain becomes purpose.
And the silence—
finally sings.