February 6, 2026

This week, as I reflect on the ten years since publicly launching Racism Is A Sickness, I find myself thinking about the concept of “firsts” and the ways we celebrate milestones in the Black community. The timing is particularly meaningful as we mark the 100th anniversary of Black History Month—a century of recognition, remembrance, and celebration. Yet even in a month devoted to honoring Black achievement, I am reminded that acknowledgment alone is not enough. This essay is an attempt to hold both truths at once: to celebrate pioneers while also examining the structures that continue to limit who gets to follow in their footsteps.

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There is a natural fascination with “firsts.” The first Black person to hold a position, to receive recognition, or to break into a space long denied to our community carries a story that is at once inspiring and historically significant. These milestones are celebrated because they mark progress, moments when doors that were once firmly shut are nudged open, even if just a crack. Honoring these achievements matters, not only because of the individual brilliance required to reach them, but because they remind us of what perseverance can accomplish in the face of exclusion. They offer a mirror to the past, showing us both the barriers that existed and the courage it took to overcome them.

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And yet, being first is rarely a simple triumph. To occupy a space where no one from your community has gone before often means shouldering pressures and expectations that others do not. The firsts carry the weight of representation, scrutiny, and the unspoken assumption that their success signals the possibility of equality for all. Meanwhile, countless others with talent, ambition, and vision remain on the margins, blocked by systems, policies, and traditions that have yet to change. Recognizing firsts is necessary, but it is also a reminder of what remains unfinished, and of the many whose paths were delayed or denied entirely.

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As we mark the 100th anniversary of Black History Month, it is empowering, yet somewhat tempting to see a century of recognition as proof of progress in American life and culture. The month itself has long served as a space to honor achievement, to celebrate pioneers, and to tell stories that might otherwise have been erased. And yet, recognition alone cannot repair or dismantle the systems that continue to constrain access, opportunity, and mobility. Black History Month is important precisely because it offers a platform to reflect—not just on individual accomplishments, but on the structures that persistently limit who gets to achieve them in the first place. Celebrating history without interrogating the present risks turning recognition into a form of comfort, rather than a call to sustained action.

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The work of naming the systems, policies, and practices that continue to limit access and opportunity is not simply a critique—it is an act of care. By identifying where barriers persist, we create the possibility for intentional change, for spaces where more people can contribute, innovate, and thrive. This work extends beyond individual achievement; it is a collective responsibility that can foster healing for communities long denied the chance to fully participate. It is also healing for the nation, offering a chance to shift consciousness away from outdated stereotypes and assumptions about Black people—assumptions that continue to hinder collective progress. Healing comes not from celebrating a few breakthroughs in isolation, but from building structures where excellence is expected because opportunity is available. In this sense, reflection and intervention become acts of repair, honoring the past while actively shaping a future that is more just, inclusive, and generative for all.