The Crown We Carry

There’s a kind of glory we inherit before we even take our first breath. A crown, passed down through the whispered prayers of our mothers and the battle cries of our ancestors. Sometimes we don’t see it. Sometimes we don’t even believe it until someone looks us in the eye and says, “Sis, you are royalty. You are already whole. Already chosen.”

But let’s be real. The mirror doesn’t always agree. Some days, reflection feels like betrayal. Some days, you don’t recognize the woman staring back. Still, tucked inside every curl, every coil, every twist, is a story too sacred to ignore.

Because this crown is not just hair.
It’s scripture without pages.
It’s memory braided into melody.
It’s proof that we belong to something eternal, something unbreakable, something divine.

Her mama once leaned in and whispered: “Protect it. Honor it. Wear it with pride.” And mama knew what she was talking about. Because this world? Oh, it will come for your crown. It will try to shrink it, straighten it, silence it. It will label it “unprofessional,” “too much,” or “not enough.”

And oh, how they tried. Through laws. Through boardrooms. Through classrooms. Through side-eyes that screamed: You don’t belong here.

But she did. She always did.

Every braid was a protest.
Every twist was a prayer.
Every coil was a sermon.
With each crown moment, she was declaring: “I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am God’s masterpiece. And I am crowned, period.”

Because this crown is not a burden.
It is a birthright.
A holy inheritance.
A love letter from heaven, stitched strand by strand.

And when she walks, the ground remembers. The air shifts. The ancestors clap. The angels sing. Because her crown is not just hair. It’s her halo. Her story. Her proof that God never makes mistakes.“Because like the queen on the chessboard, she holds the power to move in every direction, rewriting the game with every step.”

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