How We Heal When Institutions Fail

They Think We Disengaged. Here’s the Truth.

I ain’t gonna lie to you. I don’t know if I can pull this off. I just fumbled a series that’s become reliable for a lot of you on this platform (the Black Friday Brie9fing—sorry, it’s pushed to Monday). I’m grinding away at a book that has taken me years to bring to life. And now I’m here trying to write about a song most of you have never heard by an artist most of you don’t know.

But I can almost guarantee that those two lovers pictured above—Barack and Michelle—heard it in Chicago on WLNR-FM’s Quiet Storm program, “The Soft Touch,” sometime in the late ’80s. That was the soundtrack of their city at night. And when you’re in love, even a song on the radio can feel like prophecy. A slow jam comes on, and suddenly you’re breathing anticipation into the smallest parts of daily life. A voice through static, a kiss at the end of the block, a hand brushing against yours—it all carries weight.

And yeah, I know this sounds dramatic. But you try falling in love with the whole world against you and tell me every brush of skin doesn’t feel like fireworks.

But for us, that weight has always been heavier. Before emancipation, choosing who to love could mean a whipping, a sale, even a hanging. Our rituals weren’t just fragile. They were criminalized. The simple act of loving someone could cost you your life. Sometimes it sounded like a field holler, a woman’s scream that echoed across the rows. That same scream lives inside the songs, bending notes into survival, turning grief into something we could hold.

So when I talk about love, I’m not talking about something soft or sentimental. I’m talking about survival. I’m talking about rebuilding what they tried to break, brick by brick, body by body, touch by touch.

That’s where this post began. It started out as a simple guide for my white liberal friends, almost an admonition. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized: this isn’t just about politics or policy, and it isn’t about the buildings we’ve lost faith in. It’s about the rituals they tried to break, but we learned to build again.

Vesta Williams

Ok, here we go. And I know some of y’all are about to hit unsubscribe, thinking this was just gonna be a 24/7 rage-bait anti-MAGA newsletter. But this ain’t about headlines—it’s about the heartlines that kept us alive.

Vesta Williams. She started out behind Chaka Khan before breaking out on her own. Most of America remembers her for “Congratulations”, that bittersweet anthem you sent to the one who left you for somebody else. But I’m not reaching for that. I’m reaching for the track that barely skimmed the pop charts, but lived everywhere Black love was trying to breathe in the late ’80s.

“Sweet, Sweet Love.”

It played on WLNR’s Quiet Storm in Chicago, the same airwaves Barack and Michelle would’ve been tuned into as two young lovers figuring each other out. Imagine them driving down Lake Shore Drive with that song floating through the night with Vesta’s voice saying,

“Love has grown in many ways, stood the test of time.”

You can’t tell me they didn’t feel that in their bones.

Because that’s what Vesta did. She sang to the places Billboard never measured. I’m talkin bout the barbershops, the South Side basements, the late-night stations where our mating rituals were being stitched back together after centuries of rupture. And Barack and Michelle didn’t just listen; they became the living, breathing testimony of that sweetness.

We’ve always had two sets of charts. The one Billboard printed, and the one our people carried in the marrow. And if you’ve ever sat in a Chicago barbershop, hell any barbershop on the black side of town in any US city, you know which chart really mattered. Vesta’s “Sweet, Sweet Love” topped the chart that mattered which is the one that raised up a First Couple who looked at each other the way our ancestors dreamed we could.

Policy + Ritual Breakdown

Look at that photo. Two young people, legs tangled, arms wrapped, still figuring out the shape of their forever. There’s nothing official about it—no podium, no Oval Office, no Secret Service in sight. Just two souls daring to rest into each other.

Now put that image beside the sound of Vesta opening “Sweet, Sweet Love.” The song starts with gospel piano, not pop flash. A progression you could have heard on a Hammond organ in a storefront church on 79th Street. And then the chorus rises like a choir layered, church-like. She wasn’t just singing about romance. She was preaching survival, testifying tenderness back into a people who had every reason to distrust it.

“Owe wew … I remember I was scared.”

That line alone is policy critique dressed as confession. Because love for Black folk has always been wrapped in fear. Fear of loss. Fear of state violence. Fear of being torn from the one you dared to claim. To say out loud “I was scared” is to name the shadow of Reconstruction raids, the mid-century welfare office breaking families apart, the mass incarceration that waited just around the corner in the ’80s.

Psychologically, it’s trauma memory. Attachment scarred by rupture. But here’s the miracle: instead of freezing, Vesta falls forward:

“I fell in love with you.”

That’s not sentiment. That’s defiance. That’s re-learning the ritual they tried to criminalize.

And that’s why the Obamas matter here. Because before Barack drafted a bill or Michelle planted a garden, they practiced the most radical policy of all: they trusted each other with their bodies. They became the living metaphor of what Vesta was singing which is that love, even when it starts in fear, can become foundation.

So when I hear those gospel chord progressions, I don’t just hear a ballad. I hear a policy paper written in the key of C. I hear a people saying, we will build our own social contract in the bedroom, in the kitchen, on this couch. And maybe later, if the world catches up, we’ll build new institutions. But first we had to heal the scream in our throats with a kiss, a hand on the back, a gospel chord progression that sounded like Sunday morning.

Now look at them here. Barack and Michelle pressed into each other like the world outside might not hold. No flags, no chandeliers, no White House glow. Just two people learning how to make each other shelter.

“Stole my heart in such a way

What you did to me

Can’t explain.”

That’s not just about romance, no, it’s about policy failure and personal restoration colliding. Because when institutions fail to love you back, somebody has to. And in that gap, love steals you. It takes hold where the state has abandoned you.

Psychologists call it attachment, but in our story it’s closer to covenant. To give your heart in a world designed to break it is more than desire. It’s defiance dressed in tenderness. It’s a vow: if they won’t protect us, I will protect you.

That’s what I hear in those gospel chords under Vesta’s voice. Not just a ballad, but a blueprint. A way of reassembling the pieces of a broken policy landscape by starting with the body and by holding one another through the storm.

And this picture of the Obamas? It proves the point. Long before campaign speeches or inaugurations, their first policy was each other. Their first bill passed was this embrace right here which was in and of itself an act of survival disguised as affection.

Because love like this isn’t soft. It’s hard-won. It’s the system’s failure turned into a human safety net. And that’s why when Vesta sings “Can’t explain” that we actually can. It’s the sound of two people making government out of their arms.

And here’s one lesson I take as a husband: protection isn’t just about shielding your partner from harm. It’s about saying, “When the world fails, I won’t.” That’s what Barack modeled and it made me think about how I show up at home and how I show up outside past the doorstep as a citizen.

The Kiss

Look at this picture. Barack leaning in, pressing a kiss against Michelle’s cheek like he’s still grateful she ever said yes. Michelle holding it with that half-smile, the kind of smile a Black woman gives when she knows she is both loved and seen.

Now hear Vesta’s voice:

“(When you kiss me) kiss me

(Feel so good) baby, it feels so good.”

That’s not just a couple’s sweetness. That’s the dream fulfilled. Because for our ancestors, a kiss could be a crime. On plantations, choosing who to love was an act of rebellion. A kiss in the wrong field, a touch seen by the wrong overseer could mean a whipping, a sale, even a death. Entire generations prayed for a day when we could love openly, tenderly, without fear.

And here it is. In black and white. A free Black man kissing his free Black wife, not hiding, not whispering, not trembling. That kiss carries the echo of screams that once traveled across fields. That was the holler of women whose families were torn apart. Those screams live in the blue notes of Vesta’s song. But so does this: the sweetness. The unashamed kiss which was the proof that their dream, our dream, didn’t die.

This photo is not soft. It is the hardest thing we ever fought for. A Black man allowed to love a Black woman in public, and for that love to be the center of power in the world. A kiss like this is an emancipation proclamation written in flesh and tenderness. It is the system’s failure overturned by two lips pressed together.

So when Barack kisses Michelle like this, and Michelle smiles like that, you’re watching freedom touch skin. You’re watching a miracle our ancestors never stopped imagining. And if you can look at this and not cry, you’ve forgotten what it cost us to get here.

Call it soft if you want. Call it moist. But our people know better. That kiss was as radical as any speech, any march, any ballot cast.

And here’s the lesson I take as a citizen: patriotism isn’t chest-thumping. It’s making sure freedom is visible in the way you love. That’s love of country because if love ain’t free, then none of us are truly free.

The Salad

Let me step out of the photos for a minute and tell you something that happened to me. It was January 6th. I was sitting in my cruiser on break, watching on my tablet as the barbarians “toured” the Capitol. That’s the word some of them used. Toured. Windows smashed, flags waving, fists raised. I sat there helpless, uniform on, badge in my pocket, wondering if this was how Rome felt when the gates finally gave way.

And then I went inside a local store for dinner. I built myself a salad from the bar, got to the register, and reached for my wallet. The owner waved me off. “It’s on the house.” First time ever. He didn’t explain, and I didn’t ask. Maybe he recognized the gravity of the moment before I even did. Or maybe he just figured a man staring at the collapse of the republic could use some free broccoli.

I carried that salad back out like it was communion. Because that’s what it was. It was a ritual in disguise.

That night, my wife held my hand as we watched the news unfold on January 6th. And I realized: this is how you rebuild a country. Not in marble halls or marble speeches, but with small mercies. A salad. A hand. A vow that we’ll keep showing up for each other, even when the world is falling apart.

The Wedding

Look at this photo. Barack in his tux, Michelle in her veil, the cake waiting in the corner. Two people standing at the threshold, about to declare in public what they had already known in private: I want to spend my life with you.

Now listen to Vesta:

“There are so many ways, so many things I feel

That you can make me feel just with your…

Sweet, sweet love.

I love you, yes I do.

Sweet, sweet love.

I want to spend my life with you.

Sweet, sweet love.

I need you every day.

Sweet, sweet love.

You’re in my heart to stay.”

That’s not just a slow jam chorus, rather, it’s a vow. And for Black folks, vows have always been political. Our ancestors weren’t allowed them. Marriage licenses denied. Families ripped apart. Husbands sold, wives forced, children taken. So when Barack and Michelle looked at each other and said “forever,” they were doing something generations before them had prayed over but could never legally seal.

Psychologically, it’s repair. Ritual restoration. To say “you’re in my heart to stay” is to heal the wound of “you can be taken from me at any moment.” Every Black wedding is an act of resistance against that history. Every ring slipped on a finger is a rebuttal to bondage.

And here, in this photo, you see the sweetness that Vesta was singing about, the daily, ordinary sweetness that our people once only dreamed of. To wake up next to the one you chose, to build a life brick by brick, to know that the person you love will not be dragged away in the night.

Barack and Michelle’s wedding wasn’t just personal. It was ancestral vindication. It was the moment the lyrics stopped being metaphor and became flesh:

“I want to spend my life with you… I need you every day.”

This is what freedom looks like when it finally gets to stay.

And here’s the lesson I carry as a husband: don’t just say forever once. Say it every day, in little ways. Because love isn’t just declared, it’s maintained.

The White House

Here they are years later, no longer just a young couple on a couch or two newlyweds by a cake. They’re standing on the steps of the White House. Guards in dress uniform behind them. Cameras flashing. And yet, look at the moment. Michelle fussing with his bow tie, Barack smiling like a boy who still can’t believe she picked him.

This is what Vesta was pointing toward when she sang:

“Love has grown in many ways

Stood the test of time

Stronger every day…”

Because love that begins in fear (“I remember I was scared”) doesn’t have to stay there. It can mature, expand, strengthen. It can carry two people from a rented apartment to the biggest stage in the world, and still keep the sweetness intact.

Psychologically, this is what repair looks like when it becomes ritualized. A hand on the tie. A knowing glance. A smile exchanged while the world watches. It’s ordinary, but that’s what makes it extraordinary because our ancestors never got to make ordinary rituals out of love. Their touches were surveilled, punished, erased.

Here, Black love is not hidden. It’s dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos, broadcast across the globe. It says to every doubter, every denier, every cynic: not only did we survive, we learned to adore each other in public.

And that’s the part nobody talks about enough. Policies matter. Institutions matter. But without these rituals, these embodied affirmations of soul, nothing else holds. The Obamas didn’t just lead through speeches and laws. They led through sweetness. They modeled what it looks like to carry love from the field holler to the wedding vow to the White House staircase.

That’s not sentiment. That’s a blueprint.

And here’s the lesson I take as a citizen: leadership isn’t just about power. It’s about care. If you can’t straighten your partner’s tie, you shouldn’t be trusted to govern a country.

Endurance

And now here they are. No tuxedo, no veil, no campaign backdrop. Just sunlight through a window, skin warmed by years, two smiles that know what it took to get here. The world has changed around them, but look close: the sweetness is still there.

Vesta’s refrain plays like prophecy fulfilled:

“Sweet, sweet love…

You’re my baby, sweet, sweet love.

You’re my honey, sweet, sweet love.

You’re my baby, sweet, sweet love.”

This is what survival looks like when it matures. Not the fiery passion of the first kiss, not the trembling vow of the wedding day, not the polished ritual of the White House. This is the everyday. The simple. The sacred ordinary. Two people, weathered and wiser, still choosing each other.

Our ancestors dreamed of this too and no not just freedom papers, not just political rights, but the chance to grow old with the one you love. To see gray hair, to share quiet mornings, to laugh after decades of storms. That was the dream whispered in cabins, hummed in field hollers, carried in spirituals.

And here it is: Barack and Michelle smiling into the camera like they’ve got nothing left to prove. Because they don’t. Their love has already stood the test of time.

This is why Vesta’s song matters. Because it wasn’t just a ballad. It was a ritual restoration, a prophecy of sweetness that stretched from bondage to the present. It told us that love could survive rupture, could rebuild itself brick by brick, kiss by kiss, year by year.

And it did. Right here. In this photo. In their faces. In the sweetness that stayed.

And here’s the lesson I take as a man who loves his country: real patriotism is about endurance too. Not flag-waving, not slogans, but staying when it would be easier to give up. Staying with each other. Staying with the work. Staying with the promise, even when it’s bruised.

Detour: Tears Trauma Triggered

Sweetness alone won’t save us. That kiss, that bow tie straightened on the White House steps, that smile across decades. They are proof of what love can rebuild. But outside those photos, the air has gotten heavier. And what started out as a post meant to guide my white liberal friends has turned into something else. Because the truth is, it’s not just white folks who are hurting. It’s not just Black folks either. It’s all of us.

That’s what struck me listening to the Native Land Pod—an episode called “Tears Trauma Triggered” featuring political strategist and attorney

Angela Rye

, former Tallahassee mayor and Florida gubernatorial candidate Andrew Gilliam and

Tiffany D. Cross

, an American journalist and author. Voices cracking under the weight of it, describing tanks outside Union Station, plainclothes agents trailing brown girls to the store, judges warning of rights stripped bare. “I can’t relax. I can’t breathe. Just walking here… there’s no relief.” That’s not theory. That’s lived panic. That’s the sound of a country where institutions don’t hold anymore.

Look at this picture from the Native Land Pod. (Scroll to timestamp 22:20)

Tiffany D. Cross

, mid-sob, hand raised, like she’s trying to stop a wave with her palm. This isn’t punditry. This isn’t commentary. This is fear caught live. And if you know anything about Black life, you know how rare it is for us to show this kind of terror in public. We’ve learned to armor up, to choke it back. But here it is—undeniable.

Listen to the words around her:

“This is the most blatant and obvious violation of constitutional rights I’ve ever seen.”

“I can’t relax. I can’t breathe. Just walking here… there’s no relief.”

“I saw two little Latino girls surrounded by agents.”

That’s not rage-bait. That’s testimony. That’s the sound of people realizing the line they thought would never be crossed has already been crossed. Judges warning of rights stripped bare. Grand juries saying not just no but hell no. Tanks parked outside Union Station.

This is why I can’t just talk to white liberals. Because the panic is everywhere now. It’s in Black neighborhoods, Latino neighborhoods, progressive cities, conservative suburbs. It’s in the body of anyone trying to hold their children safe.

And here’s the part that matters: politics alone won’t carry us through this. You can’t vote away the anxiety stuck in your throat. You can’t legislate the pounding in your chest. That’s why the old survival code still matters. Music. Community. Spirit. They’re not luxuries. They’re the only tools we have to keep breathing when the air gets thin.

I can hear somebody saying, “Man, this is too much for one post.” And maybe it is. But that’s precisely the damn point which is that this moment is too much. And if you’re not feeling that yet, you’re not paying attention.

Back To Barack and Michelle

But we can’t stay in the terror alone. If all we do is rehearse the fear, we’ll forget how to breathe. That’s why I come back here. I come back to Barack and Michelle, back to the sweetness. Look at this photo: her half-smirk, his peace sign, their shoulders pressed together like two kids still in on a joke the rest of us don’t get.

This is what survival looks like when it ripens. It’s not ignoring the tanks or denying the panic. It’s saying: even so, we are still going to love each other out loud. We’re still going to crack a grin. We’re still going to make a peace sign with the same hands our ancestors once used to pick cotton. That’s the ritual restored.

And this is the balance the music teaches us. Vesta could start with fear—“I remember I was scared”—but she didn’t end there. She moved to sweetness, to vow, to joy. That’s the arc. That’s the inheritance.

So yes, the courts are cracking, the streets are tense, the air feels thin. But the antidote isn’t despair, rather, it’s reengagement with soul. It’s choosing again and again to reach for sweetness, even when the storm is raging. That’s what kept us alive before. That’s what will keep us alive now.

The Lesson

Here’s the lesson, and it’s not just for my white liberal friends anymore. It’s for all of us who feel the weight pressing down. We keep thinking the answer is out there in the buildings or in the courts, or the Capitol, or the Constitution. But buildings can crumble. Papers can be shredded. Tanks can roll in.

What doesn’t crumble is ritual. What doesn’t fade is soul. Our ancestors rebuilt love from the ground up when the law said they had no right to it. They built families when auction blocks tore them apart. They built music out of screams. They built spirit out of ashes.

And if Black people could rebuild our rituals under bondage, then so can you. So can we. But it doesn’t start with policy white papers or political campaigns. It starts with sweetness. With a hand on your partner’s back. With a table full of neighbors breaking bread. With a song that turns your grief into something you can hum.

Barack and Michelle didn’t begin with the White House. They began with each other. And the Obamas are just one example of what we’ve all got access to. That’s the only way forward now. Ritual first. Soul first. Love first. The buildings can come later.

Don’t overthink it. Play the song. Cook a meal. Hold your person’s hand like it’s policy. That’s the work. The rest comes after.

Lennon’s Callback

John Lennon once admitted that Black music freed the middle class. What he didn’t say but what we know is that it didn’t just free their hips or their record players. It freed their souls. It gave them a ritual to hold when the institutions around them felt brittle.

That’s still the map. Music is how we remember the scream in the fields and still find the sweetness in the kiss. It’s how we turn tanks at Union Station into choirs at midnight. It’s how we remember that even when the system tries to break us, we can hum our way back into wholeness.

So if you’re white, if you’re Black, if you’re brown, if you’re whatever just know you’re not going to outvote this pain. You ain’t gonna out-policy it. But you can out-love it. You can out-soul it. You can outlast it by doing what we’ve always done: sing, hold, gather, repeat.

That’s how we heal when institutions fail. That’s how we make freedom more than a headline. That’s how we keep each other alive.

The Beatles once told the world, “All you need is love.”

Black America answered with our lives: love is all we ever had, and it’s how we’re still here.