Adjust My Crown

I’ve always been fascinated by crowns. Not tiaras. Not fairy tale things. Crowns. The kind you wear to church. The kind that means something.

As a church girl, a preacher’s kid, I grew up watching women wear church hats like they were carrying legacy on their heads. I would sit in the pew, legs swinging, looking up at the women whose crowns seemed to defy gravity. Women like Mrs. Beverly—who walked into the sanctuary like she stepped out of a royal court. Regal. Untouched. Poised. But I knew, even then, she was carrying a whole world on her shoulders.

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There was Mrs. Robinson. Six children. Still wore her hat like it had its own posture. Like even chaos had to bow when she entered. She carried her crown with distinction and class elegance under pressure.

And then Oh, Paula.

Paula was loud. And yes, I mean loud. This is not a euphemism or a polished phrase. She was bold, vibrant, and unapologetically herself. A walking hallelujah. A praise break in lipstick. Paula was everything I said—and so much more.

She wore her crown like the room owed her joy. And as a child, I looked forward to seeing her every single Sunday. She gave me a reason to go the other way but always look back as I walked away. She pulled attention like light. She showed me how to carry presence and power out loud.

But now I see those church crowns were just the visible ones. The ones we pinned down with bobby pins and matched with gloves. But Black women wear invisible crowns every day, too.

The kind you don’t see but feel. Crowns made of:

• Firstborn responsibilities

• Workplace code-switching

• Silently surviving

• Holding it together for everybody

• Loving people who never learned how to love us back

Crowns made of overwhelm and resilience, grief and grind. Crowns that don’t get complimented—just expected. Crowns that hurt some days, but we wear them anyway. And still? We show up. We shine. We sing. We stretch.

That’s why Juneteenth matters.

Not just because we were legally freed—but because we are still unlearning what it means to be mentally, emotionally, and spiritually free. To walk like we deserve peace. To wear our crowns like we know our names. To stop shrinking. To stop enduring as proof of strength. To live loudly. To rest. To let joy take up space without guilt.

Juneteenth is the reminder that freedom is not just a moment in history—it’s a decision we make daily.

To adjust our crowns. To stand up straighter. To stop carrying what’s not ours. To name what we need. To reclaim our minds, our beauty, our stories, and our softness.

So yeah—this Juneteenth, I’m adjusting my crown. Not because it slipped, but because I finally understand who I am.

And this time? I’m wearing it for me.