Growing up Black and a girl in Pittsburgh has meant learning who I am while the world tries to tell me who I should be.
Some of my earliest memories are small ones: sitting on front steps in the summer, my hair freshly braided, listening to music float out of someone’s open window. I remember the feeling of belonging in those moments — like the neighborhood itself was holding me. That kind of care isn’t loud or flashy; it lives in familiarity, in people knowing your name and your people.
But I also remember being watched more closely at school, spoken to more sharply in stores, and expected to “know better” even when I was still just a kid. Being a Black girl here has always meant holding joy and pressure at the same time…