Black man in America

65 years. Another year older, and I’m feeling the truth of what it means to age as a Black man in America — in a country still wrestling with its own shadow, still clinging to systems that harm, still forgetting the humanity of the people it depends on.

My Buddhist practice teaches me that suffering isn’t something to look away from. It’s something to face directly, with clarity and compassion. And my yoga practice teaches me that awareness is a form of action — that breath is a form of resistance — that presence is a form of protest.

We’re living in a time of deep violence, deep division, and deep forgetting. I refuse to let this harden my heart or make me lose hope.

Aging is a radical act. It’s survival in a country that has tried to make Black aging uncertain. It’s choosing compassion that does not collapse into passivity. It’s choosing clarity that doesn’t collapse into despair.

My activism is in the breath, the body, the moment. It’s in teaching people to pause, to feel, to see clearly, to act from a place that’s rooted, not reactive.

I’m stepping into this next year with a steady spine, a soft heart, and a commitment to stay awake.