Black Woman Walking With Intention: A Love Letter to My Body, My Ancestors, and My Community

By Shapel Monique LaBorde

Heart disease and stroke is the No.1 killer of women, and Black women bear the brunt of this crisis. I’ve seen it with my own eyes—felt and still feel it in my bones. My great-grandmother, Grandma Babe, had congestive heart failure, and I watched my uncle weather multiple strokes, his body holding the weight of a lifetime of stress until finally, it had its fill. I know, intimately, what toxicity—whether emotional, environmental, or systemic—can do to a body. I have had my weight go up and down all my life and my battles with respiratory illness and most recently hives and inflammation when the stress comes. I know; what grief does. What overextension does. I have seen how life can press in, take root in the blood, constrict breath, and steal vitality.

I know, too, that liberation must be a practice, a daily commitment. That’s why today, on the first day of Black History Month—but truly, on just another day of Love and Liberation in my world—I stepped outside, laced up, and began my walk through Rochdale Village. My daughter had her dance activities and I had life-inducing activities to get to. Not just a walk, but an intention. A movement in honor of Black joy, the Black body, and the Black spirit. The Devil will NOT steal my joy no matter whose body you pass through. I am not to be touched, I am God's favorite daughter.

I made a small but mighty goal: to help raise $250 for the American Heart Association and to walk 56 miles this month—one step, one breath, one prayer at a time. Not simply for fitness, but for awareness. For the ancestors who didn’t have the luxury of rest, for those who worked their bodies to the breaking point, for those whose hearts beat beneath the weight of this world.

For the ancestors who lacked the luxury of rest, who pushed their bodies to the brink, and whose hearts bore the weight of the world, I remember their sacrifices and struggles that have shaped our present. They labored under the relentless sun, their hands calloused and worn, each arduous task a testament to their resilience and unwavering spirit. These individuals, often overlooked in history by well, everyone, carried the burdens of their families and communities, sacrificing their own dreams and desires for future generations. Their stories are woven into the fabric of our existence, echoing through time as a reminder of the strength needed to endure hardship and the perseverance required to overcome obstacles. We honor their legacy, recognizing the toll that relentless labor took on their bodies and minds, and the emotional weight they carried as they navigated a world filled with challenges and injustices. Their hearts, my God ,their hearts- though heavy with sorrow and struggle, beat with a fierce determination to provide a better life for their descendants. Something that fuels me each and every day.

They faced adversities that tested their limits, yet they found ways to rise above, demonstrating an extraordinary capacity for hope and resilience. In our modern lives, it is vital to reflect on their sacrifices and the foundation they built for us. We stand on the shoulders of giants who paved the way for our freedoms and opportunities, and it is our responsibility to honor their memory by striving for justice and equity in our own lives. We must ensure that their hard work and dedication do not go unrecognized, and we must carry forward their legacy by fostering a sense of community and support for one another, just as they did. I pray we can find the capacity to remember and restore. Their struggles remind us that rest is not merely a luxury but a necessity, and we must advocate for a world where everyone can find peace and respite, free from the burdens that once weighed so heavily on our ancestors.

And today, my first steps took me through Rochdale. Back through Rochdale, through and to my girlhood, and repositioning my womanhood.

Rochdale: A Walk Through My Becoming

There is something about walking through a place that raised you. The air shifts. Especially on a day like today where the sun is shining yet the air is so so brisk and chilled. The concrete beneath your feet hums with memory. Rochdale is not just a neighborhood, a jambling of neat little buildings—it’s a timeline of my girlhood, my womanhood, my motherhood. It’s the summers spent at Vic Hanson summer camp, my skin kissed by the sun, my heart filled with joy and confusion as I found my ways into Black girlhood, my laughter mingling with my cousins’. Yes, it’s the weekend nights at Aunt Khedda’s house, packed with kinfolk and stories, stories from my father's sister, a place where my Black girl heart could just be. And eat! Because my Aunt Khedda kept a stocked fridge with so many options. It is also my entry point into motherhood. It’s the late nights of single motherhood, exhausted yet determined, navigating pickups and drop-offs with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I have to get my Esthetics diploma because I started and I have to go to work and I have to matriculate through this degree, my Grandma Babe spent actual physical breath affirming these things for me. They must manifest, by any means necessary.

Rochdale holds my footsteps, my past selves, my dreams in transit. Today, I walked through it not as a burdened Black woman, well not as burdened as I could be, because with this walk of intention, I reclaimed a joy and as a woman reclaiming her majesty, my steps were an offering—of gratitude, of recognition, of release.

Moving for the Ones Who Can’t

I am fully cognizant that mobility is not granted to every body. Walking is not the only way to honor heart health, nor the only way to reclaim a body that has been taxed by life’s demands. So, to those who move differently, to those who rest in their stillness, to those who tend to their hearts in ways that don’t require miles beneath their feet—I see you. I honor you. And I invite you to join me, however you can. Sit with the trees, breathe in the air, let the sun lay its hands on your skin. Place your palm over your heart and remind it: you are loved.

A Walk, A Tribute, A Gift

Today, my steps were a prayer. A meditation on Black motherhood—on the journey of a childhood friend who is about to embark on that sacred path. I carry her in my spirit, willing her joy, ease, and the kind of love that sustains generations. I am grateful she is in a supportive union and I wish her the best as the road unfolds.

And because I know myself, because I move with intention, I did what I do best—I bought some books. Because I don't need another book. But I am extra. Because knowledge is a salve, a light, a way forward. Because literacy is a legacy, and I am my ancestor’s wildest dream, flipping through pages they could only wish to read. I love books and I need to touch them. I want to pass that love and care to as many children as possible.

These are the days that matter most. The ones where the body and spirit align, where movement becomes a form of magic, where the past and present fold into each other like an embrace. I need a hug after yesterday. Today was a reminder: I am here. I am well. I am walking toward something greater.

Even if my bracelet is lost and misplaced because I couldn't sit still for a moment and gather my headspace. Even if the other parent insists on being unbearable. Even if I am just up to my neck in stress. No, now that I can change. I can move out of that space. And I did, I stole back my time. To move. To walk. To write. And to sit.

So, I will keep moving. For my great-grandmother. For my uncle. For every Black woman who has carried too much. And for myself—because my body is my home, and I intend to honor it.

If you feel moved, if you feel called, join me. Donate. Walk. Breathe deeply. Commit to the practice of loving yourself radically. Because this isn’t just about heart health—it’s about Black life, Black joy, Black survival, and Black thriving.

56 miles. One month. A lifetime of intention.

Let’s go.

In what ways does stress function as both a personal and collective experience for Black women, and how can we philosophically reframe it?

What does Black joy mean in a world structured to suppress it? Is joy itself a radical act of defiance?

How do we reconcile the tension between self-care and communal responsibility, especially when burnout is a reality?

What does a heart-healthy lifestyle mean beyond just diet and exercise? How do love, community, and joy contribute to well-being?

What are your personal signs of overextension, and how can you set healthier boundaries to prevent burnout?

How does stress physically manifest in your body, and what practices help release it?

What small daily actions can you take to honor your heart—both physically and emotionally?

I also want to shout out We Juicing on this fine February day. The manager Romaine and staff member, Khadijah were phenomenal, and the juice was amazing. I love that they are still in business since 2019. Please support this magnificent testament to Black wellness, health, and economics. It was the perfect way to boost my intentions for heart health today on the first day of Black History Month.