Still Here. Still Hurting. Still Hoping.

Five Years After George Floyd, A Letter to Black Folks and Those Who Say They Care

Five years.

It’s been five years this month since the murder of George Floyd cracked open the soul of this nation. Five years since my phone lit up with calls and messages from people, some close, others barely acquaintances, asking, What can I do? How can I help? For a moment, it felt like the world finally saw what so many of us had been carrying in plain sight. I wrote about this in my 2020 USA Today article titled, How to not let your anti-racist passion die: Advice from your one Black friend.

But then the messages stopped. The posts disappeared. The urgency faded.

I haven’t forgotten. I can’t forget.

Because for those of us who are Black in America, we don’t get to turn off the news cycle or “move on” when the hashtags stop trending. We live with its weight, in our bodies, in our homes, and in the way we prepare our children to walk through this world with both pride and caution. For me, that means raising a family in the very state where it all happened. The grief, the trauma, the reckoning… It’s not theoretical. It’s personal. It’s present.

And now, as we approach this anniversary, our community faces another gut punch: whispers of a potential pardon for Derek Chauvin and the possible rollback of the federal consent decree over the Minneapolis Police Department, the same Minneapolis where George Floyd took his last breath, the same system that promised change.

Let me be honest with you, Black folks, and especially my sisters: I’m exhausted. I’m heartbroken. And I’m also determined.

Because even while the world’s attention has wavered, we are still here. Still rising. Still building. Still healing.

For Us, By Us: Honoring Our Strength, Not Just Our Struggle

What I’ve learned in these five years is that our power is not only in our resilience but also in our reimagining.

My husband and I started 40 Acres Investments, inspired by the unfulfilled promise made to our ancestors. We declare that we are not waiting for permission to build wealth, community, and legacy. It’s a love letter to Black futures.

We’ve launched businesses, written articles, built nonprofits, and raised babies who are both brilliant and Black. We’ve strategized, grieved, and dreamed, all while carrying the invisible labor of being both the survivors and the solution.

To be Black is not only to resist, but to create. And we have never stopped creating.

To Those Committed to Justice: This Is What True Solidarity Looks Like

If you showed up in 2020, thank you for answering the call.

If your momentum slowed, this is your opportunity to reflect and re-engage.

If you’re still here, committed to equity and community, let’s talk about what sustained solidarity requires in 2025 and beyond.

• Partnership is rooted in action, not proximity. Knowing or following Black people is not the same as standing with us. Real partnership shows up in budget decisions, leadership representation, policy change, hiring, and accountability. It shows up when you use your influence to challenge exclusion and advance equity.
• Meaningful relationships are reciprocal. Check in without prompting, not out of guilt but out of genuine care and shared humanity. Authentic relationships are built on consistency, mutual respect, and the willingness to carry the work, not just the conversation.
• Growth happens in private and public. Read, learn, reflect, and take action that no one claps for. Do the invisible work of shifting culture, interrupting bias, and rebuilding systems with intention. Real change is made in quiet choices just as much as in public statements.
• Wellbeing is a collective responsibility. For those of us navigating this world with Black skin, rest is not indulgent; it’s necessary. We deserve spaces to heal without constantly explaining our pain. Honor the boundaries and wellness of Black people as a form of solidarity and love.

True solidarity is not reactive. It is relational, ongoing, and rooted in mutual investment. It doesn’t wait for tragedy. It works toward transformation.

A Message to My People: You Are Not Alone

To every Black mother who felt her heart stop when Chauvin’s name trended again.

To every Black father navigating the balance between strength and safety.

To every child who knows what “pardon” means, not from cartoons but from context.

To every Black professional who’s been the “only” or the “first” and is still carrying the weight of proving their humanity daily,

I see you. I am you.

You don’t need to be everything to everyone. You don’t need to be strong every moment. You don’t need to keep performing grace while the world fumbles with your dignity.

But what I want you to remember is this: We come from people who’ve always found a way—not just to survive but to thrive, to write poetry out of pain, to build a legacy out of loss, to gather, to heal, to protect, to laugh, to love.

And today, as we approach this painful anniversary, I believe we still can.

Where Do We Go from Here?

We keep building, dreaming, and remembering that justice isn’t a moment; it’s a movement. Healing isn’t linear, but it is possible. Being Black in America may be heavy, but we don’t carry it alone.

Let’s continue the conversation, protect our mental health, check on each other, organize our money and our votes, tell our stories, and reclaim our time.

And for those wondering what you can do, start by showing up with more than shock. Bring humility, action, and love that doesn’t flinch in the face of truth.

Because we are still here.

Still hurting. Still hoping. Still rising.

With fierce love and unwavering truth,

Kelli Williams