There’s a question that keeps me up at night:

What if the people who came before us had chosen comfort instead of courage?

We praise their names now – Harriet, Malcolm, Sojourner, Fannie Lou, Nelson – but in their time, these were ordinary souls standing against systems that wanted them invisible. They weren’t superheroes; they were men and women who felt fear in their bones and moved anyway.

They could have stayed silent. Harriet could have accepted the plantation’s routine, convincing herself that survival was good enough. Martin could have kept his sermons confined to the safety of his church. Countless freedom fighters could have tried their convictions for comfort, for a paycheck, for the illusion of peace.

But they didn’t.

They refused to let the world’s chains define their spirits. Their lives were short on comfort but rich with purpose.

Now we sit in the future they built, surrounded by screens and conveniences, yet somehow more trapped than they were. Our chains are digital and emotional; they whisper instead of clank. They tell us to stay quiet, to avoid confrontation, to “not make it about race,” to be grateful. And far too often, we obey.

We call it “self-care,” but sometimes it’s self-sedation. We say “I don’t do politics,” as if existence itself isn’t political when your skin is history’s battlefield. We scroll past injustice because we’re late for work, and tell ourselves we’ll speak up next time.

But comfortable is a liar. Comfort promises safety while stealing strength.

Because comfort lets people believe pain belongs to someone else. It tells them the danger is distant, that the system only bleeds the guilty, that the anxiety in Black families is an exaggeration. But every Black parent – mother, father, guardian, grandparent – feels the same tightening in the chest when a loved one leaves home. And yes, some of us have been so scarred by this system that we end up repeating its violence without even meaning to. That’s what happens when a society teaches you fear before it teaches you freedom.

So let me ask, again and again, until it lands where it should:

If you truly believe the Black community has nothing to be frustrated with or scared about, are you willing to trade your child or loved one in place of a Black body?

Would you trade your whole family?

Ask it slowly. Picture it. Would you still call it “politics” if the uniforms stopped your car?

Would you still preach patience on the knee pressed down on your son’s neck?

What if, despite the absence of an immediate threat to officer safety or public welfare, a series of needless escalations ended in deadly force? The subject – your child- sustained fatal injuries as a result. The officer receives a two-week paid vacation “administrative leave,” the department praised his professionalism, and the evening news told the world your child once turned in a homework assignment late in third grade and was “troubled.” Then came the promotion for bravery, and a letter from your insurance company denying coverage because your child was now labeled a criminal – all so the city and department could remain untouched by accountability.

That’s the question America avoids because it knows the answer.

Every generation meets a moment when silence becomes betrayal. For some, it comes when they see a knee on a neck. For others, it’s when their child asks why their school teaches only one version of history. For you, it might come as quiet knowing that if you keep pretending not to see, you’ll lose the part of you that still feels.

That’s why I write here – not to shame, but to remind. Humanity’s greatest achievements were born out of discomfort: rebellion, migration, protest, art, truth.

If the enslaved had waited for comfort, freedom would still be a rumor. If women had waited for comfort, voting would still be a dream. If truth-tellers waited for comfort, the powerful would still go unchallenged.

And not only Black heroes carried that torch. There were white and brown brothers and sisters who risked their lives to hide fugitives on the Underground Railroad, to march in Selma, to teach in Freedom Schools, to expose corruption from inside the machine. They didn’t do it for applause; they did it because conscience left them no choice. Their courage cost them status, family, even life itself – but they stood anyway. They proved that justice isn’t a color; it’s a calling.

So when you read this site in silence, maybe from the safety of your phone or your living room, I want you to know: I see you. I understand the hesitation. The world punishes those who question its illusions. But your quiet agreement does nothing to heal it.

You don’t have to march or shout or break the system overnight. Start smaller. Share what stirs you. Have the conversation you’ve been avoiding. Teach your children what their textbooks won’t. Every act of awareness is a crack in the wall of complacency.

Ask yourself – when the next generation looks back, will they say we protected comfort or that we continued courage?

The people who gave us a future didn’t do it because it was easy. They did it because they couldn’t live any other way.

So maybe it’s time to stop asking what if they had stayed comfortable and start asking what if we finally stopped?

Outro/ Call to Action

Every age reaches a point of decision, and ours is staring us in the face. How long can a people be expected to forgive the unforgivable? What happens when the Black community, in all its brilliance and restraint, finally decides it has given enough patience, enough grace, enough silence – and when its true allies stand beside it without hesitation?

Imagine that collective moment: when those who’ve benefitted from privilege choose partnership over guilt; when those who’ve endured oppression choose creation over complaint; when we all, together, stop begging to be seen and start being the vision.

That isn’t revenge; that’s balance returning.

So I’ll leave you with this: Would you rather be a partner for justice or a recipient of justice?

One builds the future willingly; the other waits until truth knocks the door down. The choice has always been yours.

If these words moved something in you, don’t keep them hidden. Share them, talk about them, argue with them – just don’t let them die in silence. That’s how change begins: one brave conversation at a time.

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