The 2024 presidential election has left many Black Americans exhausted—not because we are strangers to hard work, resilience, or the relentless pursuit of justice, but because the weight of saving democracy has historically been disproportionately ours to bear. For decades, Black voters have been the firewall against authoritarianism, white supremacy, and the erosion of fundamental rights. Yet, as the dust settles on another election cycle, one sentiment echoes loudly: We’re tired. For the next four years, someone else can carry this load.
This exhaustion is not just about politics; it’s about the soul-deep fatigue of a people who have been tasked with not only surviving but also repairing a broken system that was never built with our freedom in mind. It is about what I wrote in Fire in the Whole: the unrelenting demand for productivity and sacrifice from Black people, even as society denies us the space to grieve, rest, and heal. When we mourn, when we drop the tools of labor and declare, “We’re not doing this work anymore,” it is not just an act of rest—it is an act of resistance.
The Weight of the Work
Let’s talk about the weight. For generations, Black Americans have been at the forefront of every major fight for justice and democracy in this country. From the Civil Rights Movement to voter mobilization efforts, our blood, sweat, and tears have watered the seeds of progress. But at what cost? The system demands our energy, ingenuity, and voices to fix its failures, all while denying our humanity.
Consider the metaphor of the bootstraps: a phrase often hurled at us as both instruction and condemnation. “Pull yourself up,” they say, as though centuries of systemic racism, redlining, voter suppression, and mass incarceration were just figments of our imagination. Or the infamous, “Shut up and dribble,” as though our role is to entertain and labor while remaining silent about the conditions that oppress us. These messages are not just dismissive; they are dehumanizing.
Our suffering is not just ignored—it is commodified. We are expected to produce brilliance under pressure, joy in spite of pain, and solutions to problems we didn’t create. And when we ask for acknowledgment, for space to grieve, we are met with gaslighting. “Why are you bringing up the past?” they ask, while the consequences of that past shape our present. We are told to “move on,” yet the systems that harm us remain intact.
Mourning as Resistance
In Fire in the Whole, I wrote, “We’re never allowed to mourn the coordinated efforts to erase everything this nation forced our grandparents, parents, and us to endure.” Mourning, in a world that values us only for our labor, is itself revolutionary. It says, “I am not a machine. I am human, and I will honor my pain.”
Lament allows us to name our experiences, to confront the injustices we face without rushing to resolve them for the comfort of others. It is the refusal to perform emotional labor for those who would rather ignore the truth. Mourning is also the beginning of healing. It allows us to process trauma, to move through the stages of grief, and to reclaim the wholeness that oppression seeks to deny us.
When we choose to mourn, we are rejecting a culture that prioritizes productivity over humanity. This act of resistance is not just personal; it is communal. It reminds us—and the world—that we have value beyond what we produce, solve, or fix. It is a declaration that our rest, our healing, and our joy matter.
The 2024 Election and the Call for Others to Step Up
The 2024 election cycle amplified these feelings. Once again, Black voters turned out in record numbers, often overcoming systemic barriers to cast their ballots. Once again, we did what needed to be done—not for recognition, but because the stakes were too high to ignore. Yet, as the results came in, a collective fatigue set in. A question lingered: Why is it always us?
This isn’t just about feeling unappreciated. It’s about the realization that democracy cannot survive if its survival depends solely on the most oppressed. We cannot be the sole defenders of a system that routinely fails us. As many Black Americans have said in the wake of the election, “We’ve done our part. For the next four years, it’s your turn.”
This is not a retreat from justice but a demand for shared responsibility. If you believe in democracy, if you care about equality, then it’s time to act like it. Get your community registered. Organize. Run for office. Show up at the polls. Challenge voter suppression. Fight for policies that protect marginalized communities. And do it without expecting Black people to lead the charge every single time.
A New Era of Rest and Resistance
As we step back, let it be clear: this is not abandonment. It’s survival. It is the recognition that we cannot pour from an empty cup. This is Sabbath. It’s the understanding that rest is not just a pause but a strategy. When we take time to mourn, to heal, and to restore, we are not disengaging from the fight—we are preparing for the long haul.
But rest is also a redistribution of labor. It is a challenge to those who claim to be allies: Will you step up when we step back? Will you carry the torch, not for applause but because it’s the right thing to do? Will you fight for justice, not just when it’s convenient but when it’s hard?
We’re Not Waiting for a Foot-Washing
Let me end with this: We’re not waiting in your churches for performative foot-washings. We’re not interested in apologies that come without action. What we need is for others to take up the mantle—not to save us, but to save yourselves. Democracy is not a gift we’re obligated to deliver; it’s a responsibility we all share.
So, to all concerned, Black, Indigenous, and People of Color hereby formally give notice: It’s your move. To my Black and Brown brothers and sisters: Rest, mourn, and heal. This is our act of resistance. And when we return, we will do so not as saviors but as equals in the fight for a better world.