In a time where Black communities across America face a relentless stream of cultural, political, and emotional trauma—joy becomes more than a feeling. It becomes a radical act. The weight of racism, economic disparity, police violence, erasure, and political disregard bears down with unrelenting force. And yet, against this backdrop of injustice, Black joy rises. Not because the world has given us permission, but because we’ve chosen it as a form of resistance.
Joy Is Not a Distraction. It’s a Declaration.
In the realm of mental health, joy is often regarded as a byproduct of healing. But for Black Americans navigating a sociopolitical climate marked by racial injustice, cultural erasure, and historical trauma, joy is not just a feeling—it is an act of survival. It is, quite literally, resistance.
From a clinical perspective, persistent exposure to racialized trauma can lead to cumulative stress—often referred to as weathering—that takes a toll on both mental and physical health. The ongoing impact of police violence, health disparities, microaggressions, and systemic inequity has left many Black individuals in a chronic state of hypervigilance. For some, this manifests as anxiety, depression, racial battle fatigue, or even complex PTSD. Yet in the midst of all this, many in the Black community continue to create space for laughter, love, creativity, and celebration.
This is not a contradiction. It is a deeply therapeutic response.To be joyful in a world that has consistently tried to rob Black people of their humanity is defiant. Joy says, I still exist. I still love. I still laugh. I still create. I still dance. In this way, joy is not frivolous—it’s revolutionary. In every smile shared at the cookout, in every spontaneous moment of laughter between sisters, in every sideline cheer at youth games, or in every perfectly timed “Y’all alright?” text that turns into a healing phone call—Black joy holds space for healing, connection, and spiritual defiance.
What If You Just Had Fun?
That question—”What if you just had fun?”—might seem too light for times like these. But it’s not meant to suggest apathy. Rather, it’s an invitation to reclaim something sacred.
What if you gave yourself permission to feel free, even when the world tells you to stay on high alert?
What if you allowed your soul to breathe, to dance, to sing, to wear colors that make no sense but bring you joy?
What if you told the truth about your pain—and still chose laughter in the same breath?
In a culture that feeds off Black pain for entertainment, economics, and policy, Black joy breaks the cycle. It rewrites the narrative. It reminds us that our ancestors didn’t just survive—they celebrated, they created, they dreamed.
Choosing Joy Without Denying Reality
Let’s be clear: choosing joy does not mean ignoring grief, anger, or fear. Black people have long held the skill of “both/and”—we grieve and we grind, we rage and we rest, we cry and we cook. We understand that joy can live in the same room as pain.
To rest, to dance, to play spades, to sing loudly off-key, to roller skate at sunset, to tell that same funny story one more time—is to declare, I will not be defined by trauma alone. That is not trivial. That is sacred.
A Call to Radical Joy
This is your reminder: Your joy is not an accessory to your activism. It is part of your liberation. Protect it. Practice it. Pass it on.
So yes, in this time of cultural reckoning and social fatigue, what if you just had fun? Not to run from what’s wrong, but to ground yourself in what’s still right. In who you still are. In what you still deserve.
Joy is resistance.
Joy is refuge.
Joy is your birthright.
And nobody—no system, no headline, no policymaker—can take it away.
In Her Honor 