Look at us. Not surviving — shining. That kind of laughter that breaks every chain still trying to hold on. That joy they said was too loud f
Look at us.
Not surviving — shining.
That kind of laughter that breaks every chain still trying to hold on.
That joy they said was too loud for good women,
too free for the faithful,
too wild for polite company.
But we laugh anyway.
Because we’ve earned this moment —
this sweat, this freedom, this flex.
We are not here to be small.
We are the daughters of thunder
who learned to praise with our feet,
to shout with our muscles,
to testify with our breath.
We remember when we were told
to smile without showing teeth.
To serve without wanting glory.
To dim so others could glow.
But baby, no more.
We glow together.
We’re the kind of women who lift each other
like hymns raised from the gut —
a whole gospel choir of “You got this”
a harmony of “I see you.”
Every rep, every ache,
every sacred laugh that spills like honey —
it’s all rebellion.
A celebration of bodies that carried generations
and still dared to dance.
They called it attitude.
We call it ancestral permission.
To live out loud.
To take up space.
To redefine what soft and strong can look like
standing side by side in pink fire.
We are the revolution wrapped in rhythm.
Proof that healing can sound like laughter.
Proof that sisterhood can look like victory.
Proof that joy — Black, bold, and unapologetic —
was never just a feeling.
It’s a strategy.