In 2024, Black women once again showed up at the ballot box like we always do—clear-eyed, convicted, and in community. An overwhelming 92% cast votes for Kamala Harris, choosing her vision over a return to the chaos of the Trump era. It was an act of faith, strategy, and love—for our families, our futures, and the America we’re still hoping to build.

But just months later, those same Black women are being questioned—not for who they voted for, but for what they’re choosing not to do now. As Trump rolls out his second-term agenda—one already packed with regressive policies targeting reproductive rights, immigration, LGBTQ+ protections, and more—some are wondering: where are the mass protests? Where is the Black visible resistance?

And perhaps more urgently: why are so many Black women opting out?

Just last week, one recent history’s most massive protest demonstrations took place across the world with people taking to the streets to decry Trump’s move on immigration, reproductive rights and tariffs. Noticeably absent were Black faces. 

From Frontlines to Sidelines?

Black women have long been the moral compass of American democracy. We marched with Fannie Lou Hamer. We strategized with Shirley Chisholm. We organized with Stacey Abrams. Time and again, we’ve been the engine behind movements that shook the country awake.

So the absence of large-scale protest participation this time around isn’t apathy—it’s a message. And depending on who you ask, it’s either a warning shot or a white flag.

For some, this silence is exhaustion incarnate. The kind that builds up after generations of fighting, winning, and still ending up with the short end of every policy promise. For others, it's a calculated pause—an opportunity to reassess where our energy is best spent. If protests don’t shift power or policy in tangible ways, are we expected to keep risking our bodies for headlines and hashtags?

What the Silence Might Be Saying

The reality is, silence can be louder than sound when it comes from a people who have given everything. Black women have carried campaigns, communities, and movements on our backs for centuries. If we’re choosing not to flood the streets right now, it’s not because we don’t care—it might be because we’re finally choosing ourselves.

And that’s what has some folks shook. Because our absence forces a long-overdue question: why are we always expected to save a country that refuses to save us?

Resistance, Reimagined

The truth is, resistance doesn’t always look like megaphones and marches. It can be grassroots organizing. Mutual aid networks. Local elections. Community safety teams. Choosing to rest. Choosing to heal.

Black women are not withdrawing—they’re redirecting, away from symbolic gestures and toward sustainable strategies. Away from public performance and toward personal protection. We’ve earned that right.

Still, that doesn’t mean the fight is over. Harm is happening, and silence—if not intentional—can mean we become complicit in our own disenfranchisement. So the challenge becomes: how do we stay engaged without being exploited?

The Call Beyond the Vote

Voting was never the endgame—it was the baseline. Now that we've done our part at the polls, the real question is: what [how?] do we build from here?

If we’re not in the streets, we need to be in our neighborhoods, our city halls, our school boards. If we’re not protesting loudly, we should be organizing strategically. If we’re not being heard nationally, we must amplify each other locally.

Because power doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it rests. But it never disappears. And neither will we.