What does it say about the world that massacres those who fight for its freedom? From the slaughter of African soldiers in Thiaroye, Senegal, in 1944 to the bombing of the MOVE organization in Philadelphia in 1985, the message is clear: Black liberation terrifies those who profit from our oppression.
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These stories—separated by decades and continents—reveal a global pattern. When Black people demand dignity or autonomy, the response is swift, brutal, and devastating. Whether through bullets, bombs, or systemic erasure, oppressive systems work overtime to ensure Black communities “know their place.” But they also reveal something else: resistance is woven into the fabric of Black existence. From Thiaroye to MOVE, Black people have shown that our fight for liberation is relentless—and necessary.

On December 1, 1944, African soldiers—known as the Tirailleurs Sénégalais—returned to Senegal after fighting for France in World War II. They had risked their lives to liberate Europe, only to face indignity and betrayal. Instead of receiving the wages and pensions they were promised, they were met with contempt. When they peacefully protested this injustice, French troops opened fire, killing at least 35 men, though many estimate the death toll to be closer to 300.

This massacre wasn’t about unpaid wages. It was a deliberate act of colonial dominance. France wanted to send a message to its African colonies: Your sacrifices mean nothing. Your lives mean nothing. Stay in your place.
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The tragedy of Thiaroye was buried in colonial archives for decades, a deliberate erasure meant to silence this moment of resistance. As historian Mamadou Diouf explains, “Thiaroye was more than a massacre. It was an attempt to reassert the racial hierarchies of empire.”

Forty years later, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the same fear of Black liberation led to another massacre. The MOVE organization was more than just a group—it was a community rooted in African traditions, sustainability, and anti-capitalism. MOVE rejected the values of a system built on exploitation, choosing instead to live in harmony with nature and one another.

For this, they were deemed a threat. On May 13, 1985, Philadelphia police dropped a bomb on MOVE’s home, killing 11 people, including five children, and destroying 61 homes in a predominantly Black neighborhood. Survivors, like Ramona Africa, were shot at as they fled the flames. “They dropped that bomb on us because we were Black people who stood up for what we believed in,” she later said.
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MOVE’s destruction wasn’t just about one house. It was a warning. Like Thiaroye, it was meant to crush the idea of Black autonomy and remind us of the price of resistance.

Thiaroye and MOVE are part of the same global story. Across continents and decades, anti-Blackness manifests as a deliberate strategy to suppress resistance. The tools may change—guns in Senegal, bombs in Philadelphia—but the purpose remains the same: maintain control through violence and erasure.

Both events reveal a shared strategy:

• Demonization of Black Resistance: The soldiers of Thiaroye were labeled mutineers. MOVE was painted as a radical cult. These narratives justified violence while shifting blame onto the victims.
• Erasure of History: Thiaroye was hidden in colonial archives for decades. MOVE’s bombing remains absent from many American history textbooks. By erasing these stories, the systems that created them remain unchallenged.

​The numbers make the scale of this oppression undeniable. During World War II, African soldiers received less than half the pensions of their white counterparts (Al Jazeera). In the United States, 56 Black veterans were lynched between 1919 and 1946 simply for wearing their uniforms (Equal Justice Initiative). And in Philadelphia, the MOVE bombing left 250 people homeless, yet no officials were held accountable (PBS).

The violence against Thiaroye and MOVE wasn’t just physical—it was psychological. It was about keeping Black people tired, isolated, and disconnected from our history and each other. That’s why self-care is not a luxury—it’s a revolutionary act.
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As Audre Lorde wrote, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” True self-care isn’t about indulgence. It’s about survival, healing, and reclaiming the time and energy that these systems try to steal from us.

Revolutionary self-care begins with reclaiming what this world tries to take from us: our history, our community, and our joy.

Reclaim Your History: Start with the stories they don’t want us to know. Talk to your children about Thiaroye and MOVE. Share these truths with your community. As Toni Morrison said, “The function of freedom is to free someone else.”

Build Your Community: Oppression thrives on isolation. Find your tribe—the people who see you, uplift you, and fight alongside you. bell hooks reminded us that “Beloved community is formed not by the eradication of difference but by its affirmation.”

Protect Your Rest and Joy: Rest is resistance. This system profits from our exhaustion. Choosing to rest and find joy is a radical act of defiance—and a necessary one.
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Honor Your Roots: Reconnect with the practices that kept our ancestors strong, from herbal remedies to ancestral veneration. These acts remind us of the power we carry.

The stories of Thiaroye and MOVE show us the lengths to which systems of power will go to suppress Black resistance. But they also remind us of our resilience. From the Haitian Revolution, where enslaved Africans used their spiritual knowledge to defeat colonial powers, to MOVE’s vision of communal living, Black people have always resisted.
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This is why rhetoric like “Make America Great Again” is so dangerous. It isn’t just nostalgic—it’s a longing for a time when Black people were enslaved, excluded, and erased. But history shows us something else: we have never stopped fighting.

We can’t change the past, but we can honor it. By remembering Thiaroye, MOVE, and countless other stories of Black resistance, we reclaim the narratives they tried to steal. By caring for ourselves and our communities, we prepare for the fight ahead.
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The system wants us to believe we are powerless. But as our ancestors have shown us, resistance is in our blood.

If this article moved you, taught you something new, or inspired you, please share it. Share it with your friends, your family, and your community. Let’s make sure these stories, and the lessons they carry, are never forgotten. Together, we can honor our past and build a future rooted in truth and liberation.​

“A man who feeds you can also starve you,” I once read on Twitter.

These words feel especially heavy as we step into 2025. Social media is flooded with videos of women embracing the “soft life” and demanding “princess treatment” from their partners. These movements promise Black women a life where love feels easy, where someone else carries the load for once, and where exhaustion is replaced by champagne brunches and diamond bracelets.
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It’s seductive—who wouldn’t want to shed the weight of generational struggle and step into a life of care and ease? But the reality for Black women is never as simple as an Instagram reel. Behind the hashtags and curated perfection lies a more complicated truth: Can Black women ever really have a “soft life” when systemic oppression is still at play? And at what cost does this version of rest come, especially when it masks unhealthy power dynamics?

For too long, Black women have been told to endure in the name of love. Be patient. Hold him down. Be his peace. These mantras have been handed down for generations, selling us the idea that a good woman is defined by how much she suffers. This is what we call “struggle love,” and let me be clear: Black women are done with it.

Struggle love has demanded too much. It has asked us to pour from empty cups, to accept breadcrumbs, to sacrifice our dreams for the sake of someone else’s potential. The “soft life” movement says no. No to being the sole provider. No to carrying emotional labor. No to believing that loyalty means suffering in silence.

And yet, even as we reject struggle love, we have to confront the economic realities that keep so many of us trapped in survival mode. The median wealth of Black households in 2021 was $24,520--less than 10% of the $250,400 median wealth of White households, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. How do we embrace rest and ease when the financial gaps between Black and White families are this stark?
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For Black men, systemic barriers like unemployment and wage discrimination make it harder to step into the traditional role of provider. And for Black women, who are the most educated demographic in the U.S. but often underpaid and overworked, the promise of a “soft life” feels out of reach.

The idea of “princess treatment” is equally alluring. Who wouldn’t want to be cherished, pampered, and adored? On the surface, it feels like a direct rejection of the strong Black woman trope that has demanded we be everything to everyone. But not all that glitters is gold.

Take Shera Seven, for example. A popular social media figure and author of Sprinkle Sprinkle: How to Date a Provider and Avoid a Dusty, Shera openly advises women to avoid Black men as potential partners, often citing the economic disparities that Black men face. Her perspective ties directly to the systemic barriers that disproportionately impact Black men’s earning potential, from racial wage gaps to higher unemployment rates, leaving them less likely to provide the housewife lifestyle Shera promotes.

Historically, Black relationships have been defined more by partnership than traditional housewife-provider roles. During slavery, survival was a shared burden as Black men and women labored side by side. Even after emancipation, systemic racism limited economic opportunities for Black men, meaning Black women often worked as domestic laborers or caregivers to help support their families. While white women were largely relegated to homemaking, Black women have long carried the dual responsibility of earning income and managing the home.

This is where Shera’s philosophy resonates with many women: the desire for rest, ease, and provision that Black women have historically been denied. But the "soft life" she advocates for is complicated by its dependence on someone else's wealth, particularly when systemic inequities make financial stability elusive for many Black families.

The reality is that even white housewives, who seemingly had the luxury of being cared for, often chafed against the limitations of that role. Divorce rates skyrocketed during the 1960s and 1970s when women gained greater access to education, employment, and financial independence. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the divorce rate in the United States increased from 2.2 per 1,000 people in 1960 to 5.3 per 1,000 people in 1981. For generations, many white housewives yearned for the freedoms that working Black women had, even if those freedoms came masked as responsibility. Shera’s message taps into this historical yearning for rest, but it also highlights how the housewife ideal has often obscured the sacrifices and vulnerabilities that come with economic dependence.

Shera’s dual message—advocating for financial provision in relationships while also encouraging women to start their own businesses—underscores this tension. While she says, “I can’t work for other people,” she also warns women not to rely entirely on a partner, no matter how wealthy. This pragmatic approach reflects the reality that true rest and ease require more than financial support; they require autonomy.

As activist Tarana Burke has said, “We are so used to protecting our image that we forget to protect ourselves.”

The tragic story of Isis Morales further illustrates this tension between appearance and reality. Morales, a social media influencer who built her brand teaching Black women how to become “trophy wives,” later revealed that her husband had raped her multiple times—something she concealed out of shame while continuing to portray their relationship as perfect. However, when she discovered he had sexually assaulted their two- and four-year-old daughters, she immediately took action. Morales’s story shows how dangerous power imbalances in relationships can be, even when everything seems perfect on the surface.

True princess treatment isn’t about how much someone spends on you; it’s about how they protect your peace, your body, and your soul.​

Here’s the truth: Black women deserve rest, not just in our relationships but in every corner of our lives. The soft life is about more than luxury—it’s about rejecting anything that doesn’t serve our peace. But we can’t achieve this by replicating the very systems that have oppressed us.

As my dad used to tell me, “If a man doesn’t walk on the outside of the street, he’s no good. If he doesn’t buy you flowers, he’s no good. If he doesn’t feed you, he’s no good. And if he does all those things? He still might be no good.”

At the time, his words struck me as cynical, but now I see the truth in them. Grand gestures and material gifts can never replace genuine love, safety, and respect. A man can pamper you with all the trappings of the “princess treatment” and still fail to protect your peace or honor your dignity. The soft life isn’t just about what someone does for you—it’s about how they show up for you, consistently and with integrity.

So how do we step into spaces of care, rest, and mutual respect? It begins with setting unapologetic boundaries and prioritizing peace over the need to please. It means building reciprocal relationships where love flows both ways and allowing ourselves to lean on the communities that uplift us. Investing in ourselves—whether it’s starting that business, pursuing a passion, or taking a long-overdue break—is essential, not optional. And we must communicate our needs with clarity, refusing to accept anything less than the love and care we deserve.
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As we move into 2025, let’s leave the struggle behind. Let’s create relationships that lift us up, communities that celebrate us in all our fullness, and lives that honor the beauty and power we’ve always deserved—one intentional choice at a time.