Too often, I’ve heard educators justify this violence by claiming it builds resilience or cultivates grit. I’ve lost count of how many times adults have told Black children that the challenges they face—often rooted in bias, neglect, or punitive systems—will make them stronger. This language, dressed up in the rhetoric of character development, allows harmful practices to persist while shifting the burden of survival onto the child. It is a damaging sleight of hand that excuses harm and erases accountability.

This dangerous framing contributes to the ongoing dehumanization of Black children. How can we expect them to build legacies or lean into their full potential when they’re constantly bracing for the next instance of educational violence, low expectations, or exclusion? Instead of nurturing joy, creativity, and wholeness, we ask them to endure and adapt.

When a program is built with intentionality, it is designed with a specific community and demographic in mind. Every aspect—from the faculty to the pedagogical model, curriculum, schedule, partnerships, and outcomes—is chosen with care to meet the real needs of the students it serves. However, once funding or external support is sought, the first question is almost always: How many students will this serve?

For those of us leading grassroots organizations, our numbers often aren’t in the tens of thousands—and importantly, we don’t want them to be. The goal is not to serve everyone superficially, but to impact someone deeply.

As someone who has spent nearly three decades designing intentional, affirming spaces for children—especially Black and Brown children—I had to release something unexpected: my ego. Not ego in the shallow sense, but the deeper, relentless voice that whispers: keep going, keep sacrificing, no matter the cost. The ego that tempts you to step ahead of God, convinced you can do it in your own strength. But the truth is, when we exchange divine direction for personal ambition, we collect battle wounds God never intended for us.