Summertime has always been for the soul. Riddled in shea butter and box braids, I loved every minute of it.

Summer knows how to cradle a weary spirit. It stretches out the days, thick with jasmine air and cicada songs, until we remember who we were before life hardened us. And, for me, that remembering has always tasted like blue crabs and sun tea, felt like freedom between my shoulder blades, smelled like a sharp oceanic breeze.

It was always summertime that brought me back to myself.

You could hear it before you felt it — the laughter of kids racing bikes down cracked sidewalks, unconcerned with the Black mama’s calling, “Get in this house when them streetlights come on!” You could feel it in the air — not just hot, but magical. Like it could wake you up, rock you to sleep, or push you through a hard day, depending on what you needed. While busy bees zipped by and flies buzzed around, tryna sneak a seat at the crab table . . . life was happening.

Honey, I’m talkin’ about summertime.

Grandma’s house was a safe haven — but her front porch? That was a sanctuary. That’s where life came alive, where good gossip mixed with life lessons and the breeze held you when the heat got to be too much. That porch saw tears, belly laughs, and the slow unravel of a long day. And, if you were lucky, it saw a few love stories bloom under its watch, too.

As a girl, I knew summer by the scent; coconut oil on collarbones, charcoal grills, fresh watermelon and sweat. I knew it by the rituals; freezies from the corner store, press-on nails and fresh braids, soft music floating from a nearby window. I knew summer by the way the grown folks turned the backyard into a whole function with just a speaker and a deep fryer.

But now, as a woman, my perspective on summer has shifted.

Summer has been showing me something new, something tender. I adored those days that melt into night — those moments of innocent handholding with girlfriends, all of us euphoric after a round of rosé and laughter, drifting out of our favorite summertime café like we didn’t have a care in the world. It was only supposed to be brunch but, We had things to talk about, Honey. 

Most of our time was spent near the water. Because, what else were we to do? We were having a good ole time. Empty buckets and fishing poles on a Sunday. Sun hats and playlists. Lip gloss melting but, Honey, we still looked good. We had no agenda, only joy. And, in between all that laughter and stillness, summer was teaching me.

Summer taught me how to return to softness after long winters of survival. How to let joy feel like enough. How to walk slower, speak gentler, and be seen without apology.

As a woman, summer started teaching me to wear the shorts. Let the belly show. Say “No” to things that drained me. Say “Yes” to what made me bloom.

Summer became my permission slip.

To rest.
To glow.   

To remember that I am enough, just as I am — sticky, sun-kissed, and soft-edged.

Every year, summer calls me back home to myself. And I answer. I answer with beach days and barefoot walks. With grilled corn and crop tops. With porch convos that run long into dusk. I answer with full-bodied laughter and the kind of joy you don’t have to earn.

Because Black girls deserve that. Because we deserve that. And because, sometimes, the only healing you need is a warm breeze, a good playlist, and somebody’s seasoned hands cracking crabs across from you.

So, if you see me glowing a little more, moving a little slower, laughing a little louder — don’t mind me. It’s just summertime. And I’m letting her love on me.

What about summer calls you back home to yourself? Share in the comments — we want to hear all about it, Sis!