The 2024 presidential election has left Black Americans, particularly Black women, with a deep sense of betrayal. For decades, we have been the backbone of this country’s democratic efforts, mobilizing voters, advocating for justice, standing on the front lines of every political fight, and showing up and out on Election Day. Yet, this election served as a sobering reminder of the limits of our labor. Even if every Black woman and man voted for Kamala Harris, it wouldn’t have sent her to the White House. This truth is frustrating and painful, but it also challenges us to reflect on how we move forward—together.

The data is stark and revealing. According to CNN’s exit poll, Donald Trump made notable gains among Latino men, with 54% of their votes—a significant jump that surprised many analysts. Among Black men under 45, nearly 30% cast their ballots for Trump, roughly doubling his support in this demographic since 2020. Asian and Native American voters also showed increased support for him, highlighting a broader trend of shifting allegiances. These numbers don’t just tell a story of changing political dynamics; they highlight fractures in what we assumed were unified goals among Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) communities.

For Black women, who have long been at the forefront of progressive movements, these shifts in voter support feel deeply unsettling. Trump’s rhetoric throughout his campaign and presidency repeatedly insulted and demeaned marginalized communities. He referred to immigrants as “criminals” and “rapists,” allowed a rally comedian to describe Puerto Rico as “a floating island of garbage” in the wake of hurricane devastation, and continuously perpetuated harmful stereotypes about Latino communities. His comments about women were equally troubling, claiming he would protect them “whether they like it or not,” a remark that undermines their autonomy and dignity. These were not isolated incidents but part of a broader pattern of disregard for marginalized groups. That so many voters from these very communities chose to support him raises critical questions we cannot afford to ignore.

It’s tempting to retreat into frustration, to look at these numbers and feel that our efforts were in vain. After all, how do we build coalitions when those who share our struggles don’t seem to see us—or themselves—in the fight for equity? But retreating is not the answer. Now, more than ever, we need to double down on solidarity, even when it seems impossible.

Building bridges within BIPOC communities requires us to confront the uncomfortable truths about our differences while remaining committed to shared goals. We can’t ignore the ways that anti-Blackness operates within some non-Black communities of color, nor can we dismiss the frustrations others feel about being overlooked in broader racial justice conversations. These tensions exist, but so do opportunities to address them through open dialogue and mutual accountability.

We must also recognize the importance of cross-community collaboration. Black and brown communities face overlapping struggles in areas like healthcare, economic opportunity, and criminal justice reform. Addressing these issues together—rather than in silos—amplifies our collective power. However, collaboration requires trust, which takes time and intentional effort to build. It means showing up for each other consistently, not just when it’s politically convenient.

The role of white women in this equation also deserves scrutiny. This election revealed once again how white women’s votes often align with patriarchy and white supremacy despite the progress some claim to champion. To be genuine, allyship between Black and white women must go beyond performative gestures. It requires white women to acknowledge their privilege, confront their complicity in systemic oppression, and actively work to dismantle it. Anything less is not allyship; it’s optics.

There’s no sugarcoating the challenges ahead. This election felt like a rejection of the progress many of us have fought for, and it’s hard not to feel disillusioned. But giving up isn’t an option. Black women have always led, even when the road was lonely, and we’ll continue to lead because our communities depend on it. That doesn’t mean carrying the weight alone—it means calling others in and holding them accountable to the vision of equity and justice we all claim to share.

This is the moment to reaffirm our commitment to solidarity, even when it feels strained. It’s the moment to demand more from our allies, whether they are Black men, other communities of color, or white women. The work is hard, but it’s worth it. After all, we’re not just fighting for our own liberation—we’re fighting for the soul of a nation. And that fight requires all of us, together.

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