I had another letter forming.
It was going to be about movement. About the paper. About the book. About October coming together faster than I planned.
And all of that is still true.
But then I saw the news about Nolan Xavier Wells.
And I need to say it plainly: there are very specific ways this world hijacks the nervous systems of Black women.
Not in theory. In our actual bodies.
The alert comes. The details come. The comments come. The group chat goes quiet, then heavy. We are expected to know, to grieve, to pray, to be angry, to stay informed, to keep working, to keep mothering, to keep answering emails, to keep making dinner, to keep functioning.
And somewhere in there, the body says: I cannot keep taking this in alone.
That is why real community matters.
Not performative community. Not just likes and comments. Real communication. Real checking in. Real, “Did you eat?” Real, “I saw it too.” Real, “I am not sending you the worst thing, but I am sending you love.” Real, “Come sit down for a minute.”
We need places where Black women can tell the truth without becoming the whole tragedy. We need rooms where our grief is not consumed. We need tables where good news can still be held. We need to know who we can call when the world gets loud.
Part of what people felt in June was safety and that was intentional.
The Juneteenth gathering was not only beautiful because the table was beautiful. It was not only peaceful because the sound was peaceful. It felt the way it felt because there was something familiar enough for the body to trust.
A familiar song
A mason jar
A woman checking on another woman.
A plate made with care.
A room where we did not have to introduce every part of ourselves before we could rest.
That familiarity matters.
Our bodies are always asking am I safe here?
And sometimes safety is not announced. Sometimes it is built quietly through repeated signs of care. Food. Voice. Light. Laughter. A chair waiting. A familiar rhythm. A feeling that somebody thought about us before we arrived.
That is the practice I am sharing and learning to name.
Nervous system regulation through familiarity.
Not clinical. Not cold. Not something that asks us to become projects.
Something older than that.
Something our people have been doing in this country …OUR country for a long time.
And still, there is good.
I am learning that holding the good is not denial.
It is part of the disciplin too.
It is how we keep the world from taking everything.
We made the “paper.”
hava was written up. A real article, in real print, a first for us.
I read it slowly. Twice. Not because I doubted it was real, but because some things deserve to be beheld and not rushed past. Some things were wrong or overstated for effect, but what was right was women came together and loved being in that space. So we will take that as a win.
I have wanted rooms like ours to be seen for a long time.
And there is a book.
I have not told you this part yet.
Her name is Hava B•.
A little girl, barefoot, locs and beads, who learns to catch her breath in her grandmother’s house. Three rooms. The same feeling. Grief and joy in the same in a little body. The breath we are learning to make room for, handed down small enough for little hands.
It is for our daughters and the granddaughters and the little girl still living in each of us.
I will share more soon. She is worth her own letter.
But we should know she exists, because this community is part of the world that made her.
October is the same day, stretched.
The same care. The same table. The same sound. The same instinct to make room for Black women to feel good, safe, cared for, and able to exhale.
Only this time, we do not have to leave after a few hours.
Three days on the Blanco River.
Sunrise yoga. Sound bowls at night. A sister circle. A chef. A river to set things down in. Good company. Real rest. Space to return to ourselves before the holidays begin asking for us.
The rooms are filling. Some of the June women are coming back and bringing their sisters, which tells me everything I need to know about what we built.
If this year has done too much and too little at the same time, this is our weekend.
Come take a breath before the holidays ask everything of us.
Reserve your seat: havabeing.com/events
This week, we are holding grief and good news in the same hands.
That is not easy.
But it is honest.
So when the world is loud in our bodies, we pause before we scroll again. We check on one another without sending the worst thing we saw. We tell the truth gently. We say where we are. We remind each other that we are not carrying it by ourselves.
The practice does not begin in October.
October just gives it more room.
breathe. be·hold. begin.
💛