Still Waiting, Still Rising: A Juneteenth Reflection on Delayed Freedom

Every year, when the Fourth of July rolls around, I find myself in this quiet tug-of-war. On the surface, it's a day of celebration—fireworks, cookouts, flags waving in the summer breeze. But underneath that, there's a deeper truth I can't ignore. Because when the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, it didn’t include people who looked like me. I’ve never fully been able to celebrate that day with my whole heart. Sure, I’ve participated—I’ve shown up, enjoyed the traditions, played along. But deep down, I’ve always known that freedom wasn’t meant for all of us back then. My ancestors were still enslaved, still seen as property, still denied the basic dignity of being recognized as human.

And that contradiction? It sits heavy. It’s confusing. Hurtful. There’s something deeply unsettling about watching a country celebrate freedom while knowingly denying it to millions. It makes you question what “freedom” even means if it’s only granted to some and not all. That kind of selective liberty isn’t freedom—it’s a facade. And trying to make peace with that dissonance… well, I don’t think I ever really have.

The Wait That Shouldn’t Have Been

When I think about the first Watch Night on December 31, 1862—how Black families gathered in churches and homes, waiting for midnight like it might bring a miracle—I feel this deep ache in my spirit. I imagine the hope in that room, the nervous anticipation, the prayers whispered into candlelit spaces. And honestly, it makes me sad. Because no one should have to wait for freedom.

No one should have to count down the seconds, hoping that someone, somewhere, has finally decided they deserve to live freely. That night should never have needed to exist. And then, to learn that even after the Emancipation Proclamation was issued, it took two whole years for the news to reach Texas… that part always gets me. Freedom was declared, but not delivered. Not right away. Not for everyone.

That delay—those two years—feels symbolic of so much more. A reminder of how often Black liberation has been stalled, silenced, or slow-walked. And in many ways, it still is. Some days, it feels like we’re living through another kind of Watch Night. But this time, instead of waiting for freedom to arrive, it feels like we’re holding our breath, afraid of watching it slip away.

There’s a heaviness to that. A sense of watching history circle back on itself. But even in that, I hold on to the strength of those who waited before us. Because their hope—however fragile—is part of what carried us here.

What Juneteenth Holds

That strength—that deep, quiet, enduring strength—is what Juneteenth celebrates. It’s a holiday rooted in truth, in delay, in pain. But also in joy and dignity finally catching up to declaration.

Juneteenth carries a kind of joy that’s been carved out of struggle—a hard-earned celebration that says, "We're still here." It's not just about what happened in 1865 when Union soldiers arrived in Galveston, Texas, with the news that slavery was over. It’s about everything that moment represents: truth finally catching up to justice and dignity finally getting its due.

There’s something powerful about how we mark this day. The music, the food, the laughter, the remembrance. It's a full-bodied celebration—not just of freedom, but of Black brilliance, creativity, and survival. And every Juneteenth, I think about the resilience it took to make it to that day—and every day since. Juneteenth is a mirror—reminder of how far we’ve come, and how much further we still need to go. It holds the weight of our history and the promise of our future.

Black resilience in 2025 feels complicated. Beautiful and fierce, but also tired. Because we’re still fighting. We’re still watching laws roll back, rights be questioned, truths be twisted. And that sense of watchfulness—that quiet alertness—it feels eerily familiar. Like we're in an extended Watch Night, but this time, it’s not hope we're holding. It’s a kind of bracing. A knowing. Still, we carry on, because that’s what we do. We rest. We rise. We remember. We reclaim. And in the quiet moments, when we pause long enough to breathe, we reconnect with the legacy that got us here—and the vision that will carry us forward.

Freedom and the Practice of Rest

This Juneteenth, I am practicing and encouraging rest. Not just the kind that comes from a nap or a weekend off, but the kind of soul-deep restoration that Black folks have always had to fight for.

Freedom without wellness isn't really freedom. And this ongoing struggle—to be seen, to be safe, to be sovereign over our own bodies and choices—takes a toll. So part of honoring Juneteenth, for me, is about making space to heal, to feel joy without guilt. Allowing ourselves to grieve without judgment and to tend to the parts of ourselves that have carried too much, for too long. Mental health matters in this freedom journey. Therapy, boundaries, breath work, dance, solitude—they’re all tools of liberation. They help us reclaim the wholeness that oppression has tried to strip away.

So today, alongside the cookouts and music and celebration, choose also stillness. Reflection. Restoration. Because the future we’re building deserves healed people to lead it.

Happy Juneteenth! May we never stop dreaming of the world we deserve—and taking care of ourselves as we build it.

Written by Carlita L. Coley, LPC

*******

About the Author

I’m writer, therapist and someone who thinks a lot about freedom—not just the kind written into laws, but the kind we carry (or fight for) in our bodies and spirits. Writing helps me process what I feel, what I know, and what I hope for—especially as a Black woman navigating a world that doesn’t always see the fullness of who we are. I believe in softness as strength, in truth-telling as healing, and in honoring the legacy of those who came before us by taking good care of ourselves. Thanks for sitting with these words for a little while.