What Jill Scott gave me āØ
I donāt know how to explain it, but Jill Scott makes being a Black woman feel like a blessing.
Not in the Instagram-quote way. Not in the āstrong Black womanā survival way. In the sacred way.
She makes it feel intentional. Like these hips were not an accident. Like my curves were drafted by a loving hand. Like my loud laugh and my sharp tongue and my soft heart were all placed here on purpose.
She feels beautifully curated not polished, not perfected, curated. As if every extra inch of me, every innovation in the way I dress, every flaw I try to hide was actually designed to expand something.
Her smile is calming. Inviting. The kind that says, āBaby, come here.ā
But itāll bend at the corners quick if you try her. And that duality? Thatās it. Thatās us. She makes me want to love my mama differently.
Not with the resentment of what she didnāt teach me. Like how to love myself out loud, how to dress without shrinking, how to hold my body like it was something holy.
But with grace. Because maybe my mother was surviving. Maybe nobody taught her either. Maybe softness skipped a generation and is trying to find its way back through me.
Jill feels like a hug from every auntie who would pull you into the bathroom at the cookout and fix your leave-out without embarrassing you.
Like hands that correct gently. Like laughter that forgives quickly. She feels like alignment. Like the earth humming under brown skin. Like a reminder that we were always meant to be loved loudly, fully, without apology.
Jill Scott is a treasure. But more than that she is evidence. That love can be sensual and sacred. That silence can say more than a sermon.
That a Black woman can take up space without asking permission. And when she speaks, or smiles, or simply exists love gets redefined.
