That’s us—me, my husband Kahlil, and our daughter Emery, who thinks every day is her birthday. You’d never guess from this photo how many times I’ve been told, “You’re brave,” or “It must be hard.” Not because of money or illness. Just because my husband is Black, and I’m not.
When we started dating, I thought love was enough. And in many ways, it is. But I didn’t realize how much I didn’t know.
Like how to hold my tongue when people lowered their voices around him.
Or how to explain to my own relatives that “jokes” about hair or names or “tone” weren’t funny—they were racist.
Or how to soothe him after a routine traffic stop left him shaken while I sat beside him, untouched, unbothered, and full of shame I couldn’t quite explain.
I used to get defensive. I used to say things like, “But I don’t see color.” Until I learned that pretending not to see it is just another way of ignoring what he lives with every day.
I’ve had to learn how to talk to our daughter, too.
One day she came home from school, her eyes wide with confusion, and asked, “Mom, why do some people look at Daddy like he’s not a good person?”
It stopped me cold. A child’s honesty is like a slap in the face sometimes, but this wasn’t something I could just gloss over with a simple “don’t mind them, sweetheart.” I had to sit her down and explain things I hadn’t even fully understood myself. How some people, for reasons beyond their comprehension, have learned to judge others by the color of their skin, and how that judgment has persisted throughout history, through families, through generations. How it wasn’t fair. How we were going to help our family be different, but it was going to take time, and a lot of work.
The truth is, even though I thought I was prepared for the challenges of an interracial marriage, I wasn’t. I was naive to think that love could solve everything. Sure, it made everything feel possible in the beginning. Kahlil and I clicked from day one. We shared dreams, laughed together, traveled the world. We became parents to Emery, and we thought we were just another family, living our lives with love and care. But the reality of the world we lived in slowly began to creep in. It wasn’t as simple as “love is all you need.”
It wasn’t just about the occasional stares or the uncomfortable comments at social gatherings. It was the systemic challenges Kahlil faced every day—being pulled over for “random” checks, being ignored in stores or treated with suspicion, having to prove his worthiness in situations where others simply didn’t have to. And no matter how much I loved him, no matter how hard I tried to understand, I could never fully feel what it was like. I couldn’t live with the constant weight of prejudice on my shoulders. But I had to learn to stand beside him, with him, in ways I never expected.
One day, Kahlil came home from work and sat me down. His face was serious, more serious than I’d ever seen it before. He told me that a colleague of his—a man he had respected—had made a joke in front of a group of people at work. It was about Black people being “too loud” or “too proud,” something along those lines. Kahlil hadn’t said anything at first, choosing instead to walk away. But later, the colleague had approached him, trying to smooth things over, saying, “It was just a joke, man. You know how it is, right?” Kahlil had just nodded, though I could see it on his face—how much it hurt. How much it stung to know that someone he had respected could look at him and see him as something less.
When he told me this, I felt a surge of anger rising in me. I wanted to call that guy, tell him how wrong he was, how hurtful and ignorant his words had been. But Kahlil stopped me. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Because you can’t change people who don’t want to learn. It’s exhausting, and I can’t do it anymore.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were tired.
That’s when I realized how deep it went—how much emotional labor Kahlil carried every day just by being himself. I had thought that if I loved him enough, I could make things better for him. But the truth was, this wasn’t my fight to fight. This was his, and I could support him, but I couldn’t carry it for him.
The challenge, I quickly learned, was not just navigating those big moments—like the workplace incident—but also the small, everyday ones. The subtle moments when someone looked a little too long or asked where Kahlil was “really” from. The jokes that made him uncomfortable, the ones that I used to laugh at too. I had to unlearn so much—things I’d never thought to question. I had to stop turning a blind eye to things that hurt him, and instead, I had to confront them, even when I didn’t have the answers.
And then came the hardest lesson of all: accepting that I would never fully understand. I would never be able to experience what he went through. And I had to stop pretending that I could. There were moments when I wanted to fix things, to make everything better, to wipe away the injustice. But all I could do was listen, support, and hold his hand when he needed me. I had to be okay with not always having the answers, but being willing to keep learning.
But the learning didn’t stop with me. It was a shared journey. Kahlil had to adjust too. He had to teach me things I didn’t know, things I had never considered, just as I had to teach him to trust that I wasn’t going anywhere. That even though I couldn’t always fully understand, I was on his side. That I wasn’t just his wife, but his partner in this fight, and that I’d never stop showing up for him.
We were in this together. I was the person who, when things got tough, stood next to him, not behind him. I had to learn to speak out when I saw something wrong, even if it was uncomfortable. I had to teach our daughter that the world isn’t always kind, but that kindness and empathy could go a long way in changing it. And every time we faced a challenge, we grew stronger, both as individuals and as a family.
It wasn’t always easy, and there were times when we stumbled. There were times when I was unsure of myself, unsure of how to help, how to make a difference. But in those moments, I had to trust that the work we were doing—together—was making a difference. That the small moments, the conversations, the uncomfortable situations, were all part of the process.
And then came the twist—the moment I never expected. Kahlil was invited to speak at a community event about his experiences. It was something that he had been asked to do many times before, but he had always hesitated. Speaking out meant putting himself in the spotlight, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. But this time, he said yes. And when he spoke, it wasn’t just about the struggles he faced. It wasn’t just about racism or prejudice. It was about the power of love. It was about how, despite everything, he still chose to love the world, to love us, to love me. It was about how love had brought us together, but it was also the thing that would keep us going.
And that was the moment I realized the power of our story. We were living proof that love could break down walls, that love could change things. But it wasn’t just about the love we had for each other. It was about the love we shared with our community, the love we showed Emery, the love we had for the world, even when it wasn’t always kind.
We were living a lesson in action: that change doesn’t happen by ignoring the hard parts. It happens when you face them head-on, when you choose to grow, when you choose to love even in the face of adversity.
So, here we are—still learning, still growing, still loving. And the most rewarding part? We’re teaching Emery that she doesn’t have to be afraid of the hard conversations. That she can make a difference, just by being kind and by standing up for what’s right.
If you’ve ever found yourself in a situation where love and understanding were challenged, remember this: growth takes time, and it’s okay to not have all the answers. What matters is that you keep showing up, that you keep learning, and that you keep fighting for love, equality, and justice. And together, we can make the world a better place.
Please share this post if you believe in the power of love and the importance of standing up for what’s right.
