Remember. Reclaim. Resist.

This Juneteenth, I am honored to share this virtual space with a friend, unwavering supporter, and guest writer, Zac Rich. Zac’s voice joins ours in this year’s blog as we honor not only the historical weight of Juneteenth but also the profound personal loss that shaped the heart of Meryl’s Safe Haven, Inc. on the day of observation for Juneteenth in 2022. As we continue to grieve and celebrate the legacy of our namesake we are reminded that Juneteenth is not just a marker of emancipation, but a call to protect and uplift the freedom that was fought for, delayed, and still under threat. In the years since Meryl’s passing and the national recognition of Juneteenth, we’ve been building a haven that reflects both the struggle and the triumph of Black resilience. This blog is a tribute—to Meryl, to truth-telling, to the power of legacy, and to the ancestors whose hands continue to guide our way forward.

This time of year, I find myself restless. When I do find the land of dreams, I wake up heavy-hearted—and sometimes angry. There’s something about the air in June that shifts inside me. A lingering ache. This year especially, I longed to be back home in Florida, graveside, talking, remembering… laying white roses.

It has been three years since Meryl passed. It still doesn’t feel real. Every Juneteenth since has become a strange, heavy blend of memory and meaning—the anniversary of freedom, and the anniversary of our personal loss as I still remember the exact moment the first call came in and what I was doing at the time—that swing set still sits incomplete. The day her seed—MSH—began to take root. We’ve built it through tears, laughter, grief, and fierce hope.

In Black communities, grief is both deeply personal and profoundly collective. We mourn our people, yes—but we also mourn the systems, silences, and injustices that shape our lives and too often define our deaths.

Zac: I’ve been thinking a lot about legacy over the last six months. What does legacy even mean in 2025? When a single executive order can erase it—when community-rooted work gets labeled “too controversial” and erased from public sight—how do we protect what was built?

I’ve seen organizations be forced to rename themselves just to survive. I’ve seen hard choices between accepting government funds or standing firm in identity. I’ve seen people—my people—disappear into the system with no explanation. I’ve watched the stories of queer Black resilience be painted over, physically erased.

And on this day—this day meant to celebrate the end of the legacy of slavery—I can’t help but wonder: When will this too be erased?

Tasia: There’s something happening that feels dangerous. Subtle, yes—but dangerous. Schools are scrubbing Black history from their curriculums. DEI positions are disappearing. “Equity” and “justice” are being turned into dirty words. Even Juneteenth has been stripped down to retail discounts and hollow email blasts.

But not here.

Here, we understand that legacy isn’t something you simply inherit. It’s something you fight for. It’s something you protect. It’s the space to grieve without shame, and to celebrate without permission.

I remember the assumptions made about Meryl’s passing. The speculation. The dismissal. That wasn’t just about her—it was about a pattern. The way Black deaths are questioned more than mourned. The way Black life is always subject to asterisk and footnote. So when we talk about Juneteenth, we must talk about the after. After emancipation. After the chains. After the illusion of freedom. What happens when freedom is declared but not upheld?

Zac: A friend said something recently that stuck with me: “Look at your family. Your brother. Your cousins. Look at what you’ve all built. Your granddad would be so proud. And not just of what you’ve done—but of what came before you. All those generations lined up behind you—North Carolina, Alabama, Nigeria—each with their hands on the back of the one in front, pushing you forward. That’s legacy.”

That image lives in me now.

Maybe legacy isn’t a building or a plaque. Maybe it’s not something you can hold. Maybe legacy is what you inspire in others. What you make possible. Maybe that is the monument.

I think about the people who inspire me daily. People who are legacy. Sam Williams. Giselle Byrd. Manuel Sequeira. Allison Feaster. And Tasia Cerezo, who carries and grows Meryl’s vision with strength and grace. I think about Sa’Doni Powell—just 4.5 years old when his life was cut short last month. And yet, in that short time, he left a mark on my soul that time cannot erase.

How could I ever believe that legacy can be taken from us?

It can’t.

We come from an eternal line of hands on backs. Our ancestors push us forward every day. That is not erasure. That is endurance.

Tasia: So this Juneteenth, I lay that single, white rose once again—not just in memory, but in protest...

In promise.

In power.

Because legacy lives in action.

My contribution to the cause