When Hunger Is Political: Trump’s Attack on SNAP Is an Attack on Us

Tonight, while families were figuring out how to stretch groceries through the weekend, the Trump administration was busy trying to snatch food off our tables. Again.

After a federal judge ruled that the government must issue full November SNAP benefits—because yes, people are hungry and the shutdown is still hurting.. Trump’s team filed an emergency appeal to overturn the decision. Let’s be real: this isn’t about budgets. It’s about control. It’s about cruelty, and it’s about punishing the people who’ve always carried this country on our backs.

We’re talking about Black people. Black women. About single mothers. About grandmothers raising grandbabies. About students, caretakers, and essential workers who are expected to survive on scraps while billionaires get tax breaks and bailouts. About anyone who does not fit into the mold of white supremacy.

This isn’t just policy. It’s violence.

What Trump’s SNAP Attack Really Means

1. It means millions of families, disproportionately Black and brown, could go without food this month.

2. It means Black women, who are more likely to be heads of household and caregivers, are once again being told our survival is optional.

3. It means the government is willing to let children go hungry to prove a political point.

What The Good Girl Movement Is Doing

We’re not just mad, we’re mobilizing. We’ve updated our SNAP Benefits Resource List with:

• Emergency food access programs

• Black-owned grocers and co-ops

• Advocacy contacts to demand accountability

What We’re Calling In

We’re not just reacting. We’re reclaiming—and we’re showing up.

• We demand care that doesn’t come with conditions. Our communities deserve full benefits, full dignity, and full protection—no exceptions.

• We build our own safety nets. From our SNAP Benefits Resource List to our Civic Circles, we’re creating what the government refuses to provide.

• We center Black women’s survival as non-negotiable. Not just in policy, but in practice. In every room, every budget, every decision.

• We move with urgency and intention. This isn’t charity. It’s strategy. It’s legacy. It’s love.

• And tomorrow, we’re serving our people. The Good Girl Movement will be distributing groceries to families in DC, because when Trump tries to starve us, we feed each other. We show up. We pour back. We protect what’s ours.

The Silencing of a Generation: Why Teen Vogue’s Politics Layoffs Are a Step Backward

The recent decision by Condé Nast to lay off Teen Vogue’s politics staff amid its merger with Vogue.com marks a troubling shift in youth-centered journalism. Teen Vogue, once heralded as a bold and progressive publication that bridged the gap between fashion and political consciousness, is now being absorbed into a brand that has historically prioritized luxury over activism. This move not only eliminates a vital editorial team, it signals a broader cultural dismissal of young voices, particularly those of women aged 17 to 30, who have relied on Teen Vogue as a space for education, empowerment, and representation.

A Platform That Dared to Educate

Teen Vogue’s transformation over the past decade was nothing short of revolutionary. It evolved from a conventional teen fashion magazine into a publication that unapologetically tackled issues such as systemic racism, reproductive rights, climate justice, and LGBTQ+ advocacy. It became a trusted source for young readers seeking to understand the world around them, offering accessible, nuanced coverage of public policy, history, and social movements. While they didn’t always get it right, it opened the door for many conversations that otherwise wouldn’t have been had on that platform.

The politics desk played a central role in this evolution. It provided critical analysis, amplified marginalized voices, and created space for young journalists to write about the issues that mattered most to their generation. Teen Vogue’s political coverage was not an accessory to its brand, it was its backbone. Removing this team strips the publication of its most vital function: educating and empowering young women to engage with civic life.

The Impact on Young Women and Marginalized Communities

The decision to eliminate Teen Vogue’s politics team comes at a time when young women, especially Black, brown, queer, and trans women, are facing unprecedented challenges. From rising book bans and attacks on reproductive rights to the spread of disinformation and the rollback of civil liberties, the need for youth-centered political journalism has never been more urgent.

Teen Vogue was one of the few mainstream platforms that spoke directly to these communities. It offered stories by and for young people, creating a sense of belonging and validation that is often missing in traditional media. The loss of this editorial team means fewer opportunities for young women to see themselves reflected in political discourse. It means fewer chances to learn about public policy in language that resonates. It means fewer pathways into journalism for those who have historically been excluded.

This decision also coincides with a missed opportunity for Vice President Kamala Harris to ascend to the presidency—a moment that could have symbolized progress for women in leadership. Instead, the media landscape is contracting, and the voices of young women are being pushed further to the margins.

A Dangerous Precedent in Media Consolidation

The merger with Vogue.com is emblematic of a larger trend in media consolidation, where youth-focused and progressive outlets are absorbed into more commercial entities. This often results in the dilution of editorial independence and the erasure of radical voices. Vogue, while influential in fashion, has not demonstrated a commitment to the kind of political engagement that Teen Vogue championed. The merger raises serious concerns about the future of youth journalism and the editorial freedom of writers who seek to challenge the status quo.

By prioritizing profitability over purpose, Condé Nast is setting a dangerous precedent. It suggests that political education for young people is expendable, that the voices of emerging generations are less valuable than brand alignment, and that the pursuit of justice can be sidelined for the sake of corporate synergy.

What This Means for the Future

The layoffs at Teen Vogue are not just a staffing decision, they are a cultural statement. They reflect a media environment that is increasingly hostile to youth-led activism and progressive thought. For young women who aspire to become policy makers, historians, or journalists, the loss of this platform is a setback. It removes a critical space where they could learn, grow, and contribute.

Without platforms like Teen Vogue’s politics desk, the burden of political education falls heavier on grassroots organizations, independent media, and social networks, spaces that are often underfunded and vulnerable to censorship. The absence of institutional support for youth journalism means that the next generation will have fewer tools to navigate an increasingly complex world.

A Call for Accountability and Action

This moment demands reflection and response. Media companies must be held accountable for the decisions they make and the communities they impact. The silencing of young voices cannot be normalized. Instead, it must be challenged with renewed investment in youth-led media, mentorship for emerging journalists, and platforms that prioritize education over entertainment.

Teen Vogue’s politics team may no longer have a seat at the table, but their legacy endures. The stories they told, the movements they supported, and the readers they inspired will continue to shape the future. It is now up to the rest of the media ecosystem—and to all of us—to ensure that young women are not just seen, but heard.

BLACK GIRLS ARE NOT THE BUTT OF YOUR RACIST JOKE

We’re Not Laughing — We’re Tired

There’s a moment that many Black girls know too well: the room goes quiet, someone says something racist, and then — laughter. Not just from strangers, but from peers. From people who claim to be allies. From people who should know better.

Recently, Olandria Carthen, Love Island breakout star, was laughed at after being called a racial slur on someone else’s live. We will not name the individual who laughed — because they do not deserve our platform, but we will name the harm. What happened was not just inappropriate. It was violent.

While this happened to Olandria, it happens to Black people, and especially Black women — every single day. In classrooms, on social media, in workplaces, in friend groups.

The question is: when is enough enough?

Racist jokes are not only harmful, they are rooted in centuries of dehumanization, and when you laugh at them, or stay silent, you become complicit in that harm. For Black girls and women, these moments are not isolated. They are part of a long history of being stereotyped, dismissed, and disrespected.

This post is not a request for kindness. It’s a demand for accountability. Because Black girls are not the butt of your joke. We never were.

The History Behind the Slurs

The N-word is not just a word. It is a weapon forged in slavery, sharpened during Jim Crow, and still wielded today. It was used to dehumanize, to justify violence, to strip Black people of dignity and identity. For Black women, the slur carries an added layer of misogynoir. The intersection of racism and sexism that uniquely targets us.

Historically, Black women were labeled with slurs and stereotypes to justify their exploitation. These weren’t just insults, they were and still are tools of control.

• “Breeders”: During slavery, Black women were reduced to reproductive property. They were not seen as mothers, but as vessels to produce more enslaved laborers. Their bodies were commodified, their autonomy erased, and their humanity denied. This legacy still echoes today in how Black women’s reproductive choices are policed and pathologized.

• “Wenches”: This term referred to young Black women who were hypersexualized and often targeted for sexual violence. It was used to justify rape and exploitation by framing Black women as inherently promiscuous and available. This stereotype laid the foundation for the “Jezebel” trope, a myth that still influences how Black women are treated in media, healthcare, and the justice system.

• “Mammies”: The mammy stereotype depicted Black women as loyal, nurturing, and self-sacrificing caretakers of white families. It erased our autonomy and reduced us to labor and emotional support for everyone but ourselves. It reinforced the idea that Black women exist to serve, not to be served — a narrative that still shows up in workplaces, friendships, and activism spaces.

These terms weren’t just offensive. They were functional. They shaped laws, social norms, and cultural narratives that still affect how Black women are seen and treated today.

The Stereotypes That Still Harm Us

Black women are constantly navigating a minefield of stereotypes that shape how we’re perceived, punished, and policed.

• The Mammy: Erases our needs and casts us as caretakers for everyone but ourselves.

• The Jezebel: Hypersexualizes us and denies us protection.

• The Angry Black Woman: Silences us by framing our valid emotions as aggression.

• Adultification: Treats Black girls as older, less innocent, and more responsible than their peers, leading to harsher discipline, less empathy, and increased vulnerability to abuse.

These stereotypes are not relics of the past. They show up in classrooms, workplaces, hospitals, and social spaces. They shape how Black girls are treated — and how they are harmed.

Microaggressions Are Not Minor

“You’re so articulate.”
“You don’t act Black.”
“I was just playing.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Can I touch your hair?”

AND YES… LAUGHING AT SOMEONE BEING CALLED A RACIAL SLUR.

These comments and actions may seem small, and many will deem them as harmless. However, they are reminders that we are being watched, judged, and othered. They are constant signals that we are not fully accepted, that we are tolerated, not celebrated.

Microaggressions are not minor. They are cumulative. They chip away at our confidence, our safety, and our sense of belonging. And when they’re dismissed as “not that serious,” the harm is doubled.

We’re Not Taking It Anymore

We are not taking:

• Your racist jokes

• Your silence when harm happens

• Your defensiveness when called out

• Your expectation that we educate you while being disrespected

• Your discomfort when we speak truth to power

We are not shrinking to make you comfortable. We are not laughing along to keep the peace. We are not tolerating harm dressed up as humor.

This space is not neutral. It is protective. It is intentional. It is ours.

De-platforming Is Accountability

Calling out racism is not enough — we must also de-platform it.

That means:

• Unfollowing people who perpetuate harm

• Unsubscribing from creators who mock, stereotype, or silence Black voices

• Refusing to share content that uses racism for engagement

• Condemning hate publicly, not just privately

Visibility is power. When we continue to give attention to people who harm Black women, we reinforce their platform. We must be intentional about where our energy, clicks, and dollars go.

If someone laughs at a slur, they are not “just messy” — they are dangerous and they do not deserve our views, our likes, or our silence.

What Accountability Looks Like

Accountability is not a performance. It’s not a rushed apology or a defensive explanation. It’s listening. It’s owning the harm. It’s changing behavior. It’s understanding that your intent doesn’t erase our impact.

If you cross the line, expect to be called out. Expect to be held accountable. Expect to be uncomfortable — because growth is uncomfortable.

And if you truly want to do better, start by supporting the work already being done by Black women and girls.

Support These Organizations

If you’re serious about change, put your money, time, and voice behind it.

• The Loveland Foundation – Therapy for Black women and girls

• Black Girls Smile – Mental health advocacy

• The Good Girl Movement – Empowering Black girls through community and culture

• Color of Change – Racial justice campaigns

• Sisters Mentally Mobilized – Mental health and leadership for Black women

Final Words

Black girls deserve joy.
Black girls deserve safety.
Black girls deserve to be seen, heard, and protected.
We are not the butt of your joke. We are the backbone of this culture. And we are done being disrespected.

PS… We are riding for every black girl who has endured this type of hate.

300,000 Black Women Pushed Out.

In the last quarter alone, nearly 300,000 Black women have been pushed out of the workforce. Not by accident. Not by coincidence. But by a system that still treats our labor as expendable and our brilliance as optional.

These aren’t just numbers. These are mothers, daughters, organizers, educators, strategists, assistants, analysts, creatives, and caretakers. These are women who held up entire departments, entire communities, entire families. Now, we’re being told — quietly, cruelly.. that there’s no room.

Let’s add some truth here: Black women are the most educated demographic in America. We’ve earned more degrees, certifications, and credentials than any other group. We’ve built careers in spaces that were never designed for us. We’ve led with excellence, even when underpaid, overlooked, and overburdened.

So when 300,000 of us are suddenly “missing” from the labor force, it’s not a mystery. It’s a message.

The Message?

That DEI was never meant to be permanent (it wasn’t created with us in mind anyway). That our presence was conditional. That when budgets shrink, our seats are the first to vanish.

But here’s our response: We’re not vanishing. We’re pivoting.

What does a pivot look like for us?

• Freelance strategy and consulting: We’re monetizing our brilliance, not waiting for permission.

• Creative ownership: We’re launching movements, not just joining orgs.

• Community building: We’re creating networks that don’t rely on gatekeepers.

• Rest and recalibration: We’re reclaiming our time; not as a luxury, but as a necessity.

It looks like The Good Girl Movement; where advocacy meets authenticity, and Black women are centered not just as subjects, but as architects.

How do we stay calm in the chaos?

• We remember that this moment is not a reflection of our worth. It’s a reckoning with a system that was never built to hold us.

• We breathe. We gather. We speak. We build.

• We protect our peace and our IP.

• We lean into joy.. not as a distraction, but as resistance.

We remind each other:

• You are not unemployed. You are in transition.

• You are not behind. You are being rerouted.

• You are not alone. You are part of a legacy.

Call to Action: Build With Us

If you’re one of the 300,000, or if you’re watching this moment unfold and wondering what to do, here’s where to start:

• Share this post with someone who needs to feel seen.

• Join The Good Girl Movement’s mailing list to stay connected as we build.

• Submit your story: We’re collecting real experiences from Black women in transition. Your voice matters.

• Support Black women-led businesses, not just with likes, but with dollars.

• Rest. Reclaim. Rebuild. On your terms.

We’re not waiting for the system to catch up. We’re building the future now.

Say Her Name: Honoring the Black Women and Girls We Lost on 9/11

Every September 11th, we pause. We remember. We mourn. But for many of us—Black women especially—this day carries a quiet ache. Because while the nation grieves, our sisters’ names are often left out of the story.

Black women and girls died on 9/11 too. They were in the towers, in the Pentagon, on the planes. They were professionals, students, mothers, daughters, dreamers. And yet, when the documentaries roll and the memorials are read, their faces are rarely shown. Their stories are rarely told.

It’s time we change that.

Our Sisters Deserve to Be Remembered

Let’s say their names.

Asia Cottom, just 11 years old, was on her way to a National Geographic science trip when Flight 77 hit the Pentagon. She was brilliant, curious, full of promise. Her parents still speak of her light.

Joan Donna Griffith, a mother working in the South Tower, never made it home. Her daughter, Paula Edgar, watched the towers fall from across the country, unable to reach her family. Joan was a nurturer, a provider, a woman who held her family together.

Amelia V. Fields, a civilian secretary at the Pentagon, had just started her job. Her husband had baked her a birthday cake that morning. She never got to taste it.

Sara M. Clark, 65, was flying to Los Angeles to get married. She and her fiancé had just picked out wedding bands. Her love story ended in tragedy.

And we must remember Wanda Anita Green, a trailblazing flight attendant on United Flight 93. Wanda was one of the first Black women to work for United Airlines, serving for 29 years. She was a mother of two, a church deacon, a real estate agent, and a woman who dreamed of opening her own business. She was substituting for another attendant that day, planning to visit her family in Oakland after the flight. Her mother, Aserene Smith, had called her the night before to say, “I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Wanda never made it.

These women were more than victims. They were vibrant, powerful, and deeply loved. Their lives mattered. Their deaths shook families, churches, communities. And their absence is still felt today.

“The Dust Lady” and the Weight of Survival

We also remember Marcy Borders, known to the world as “The Dust Lady.” That haunting photo of her covered in ash became a symbol of survival. But survival came at a cost. Marcy battled trauma, addiction, and eventually cancer, likely caused by the toxins she inhaled that day. She died in 2015, still carrying the weight of 9/11 in her body and spirit.

Her story reminds us that surviving doesn’t mean healing and that Black women often carry pain in silence, unseen and unsupported.

Why Our Stories Must Be Told

Let’s be real: Black folks have always been part of America’s story, even when we’re written out of it. We were there on 9/11. We died. We survived. We grieved. But when Time Magazine released its Beyond 9/11 issue, not one identifiable Black American was featured. Not one.

This kind of erasure is not just oversight, it’s injustice. It tells our children that their lives don’t matter in moments of national tragedy. It tells our communities that our grief is invisible.

But we know better. We know that remembrance is resistance. That saying her name is an act of love. That honoring our sisters is how we heal.

A Call to Action

So today, The Good Girl Movement calls on all of us—Black women, allies, educators, journalists, and leaders to do better.

• Include Black victims in memorials, museums, and media.

• Support families still grieving and seeking recognition.

• Teach our children the full truth of 9/11, including the Black lives lost.

• Create spaces where our grief is honored and our stories are told.

Because our sisters deserve more than silence. They deserve legacy.

Let this be the year we say their names. Let this be the year we remember them fully. Let this be the year we make space for Black women in history not just in tragedy, but in truth.

The Summer I Turned Into a Good Girl

A love letter to Black women and girls becoming, unbecoming, and becoming again through education, evolution, and self-love.

This summer wasn’t just about sunshine and soft life.
It was about transformation. Quiet, radical, sometimes messy, but always sacred. It was the summer of shifting perspectives, of choosing softness, of letting go of who she thought she had to be and leaning into who she’s becoming.

It was the summer of rooftop brunches with friends who feel like soulmates.
Of iced matcha lattes and deep conversations about purpose, healing, and what it means to be a Black woman in a world that constantly asks her to shrink. It was the summer of laughter that echoed louder than her doubts, and silence that finally felt like peace.

It was the summer of walking away—from relationships, majors, jobs, and mindsets that no longer served her.
The summer of starting over, even when it felt scary.
The summer of realizing that she doesn’t owe anyone the same version of herself forever.

For Black women and girls, change is often met with resistance.. from the world, from family, sometimes even from within. However, this summer, something shifted. She gave herself permission to evolve. To want more. To want less. To say no. To say yes. To say “I don’t know yet.”

Some fell in love. Some fell out of it.
Some started new jobs, while others quit without a backup plan.
Some enrolled in classes, applied for scholarships, joined study groups, or finally asked for help.
Some moved to new cities, while others returned home to heal.
Some cut their hair, changed their major, launched a business, or simply rested for the first time in years.

And through it all, she realized: being a “Good Girl” isn’t about perfection.
It’s about alignment. It’s about choosing herself, even when it’s hard. It’s about redefining what “good” means, and on her own terms.

She learned that education isn’t just academic—it’s emotional.

It’s learning how to say “I need help.”
It’s learning how to speak up in rooms that weren’t built for her voice.
It’s learning how to build community, how to ask better questions, how to dream bigger.
It’s learning how to be soft in a world that demands she be hard.
It’s learning how to be still in a culture that glorifies hustle.

She learned that she’s allowed to change.
Black girls are allowed to pivot.
To reimagine.
To start over.
To want softness after years of survival.
To want structure after seasons of chaos.
To want more—or less—and not have to explain why.

She learned that growth doesn’t have to be loud.
That healing doesn’t have to be public.
That becoming isn’t always beautiful—but it’s always worth it.

This is a love letter to the Black girls who are still figuring it out.
To the ones who are tired of being strong but still show up.
To the ones who are building new versions of themselves from scratch.
To the ones who are choosing healing, even when it’s inconvenient.
To the ones who are choosing education—not just for a career, but for confidence, community, and clarity.

As the last quarter of the year approaches, she’s walking into it with clarity.
Not because everything makes sense, but because she’s finally listening to herself. She’s honoring her boundaries, her joy, her softness, her ambition. She’s learning that she doesn’t have to be everything to everyone. She just has to be true to herself.

And if she’s still unsure? That’s okay.
Because becoming a Good Girl isn’t a destination—it’s a journey.
And she’s already on her way.

September Spotlight: Promoting Higher Education for Black Women

This month, The Good Girl Movement is proud to launch a campaign dedicated to uplifting Black women and girls in higher education. Whether she’s a first-year student navigating campus life, a senior preparing for post-grad transitions, or a working professional returning to school, her journey matters.

We’re highlighting stories of resilience, ambition, and self-discovery.
We’re sharing resources, hosting conversations, and creating space for Black women to feel seen, supported, and celebrated in academic and professional spaces.

Because education isn’t just about books, it’s about becoming— and every Black girl deserves the freedom to learn, grow, and evolve on her own terms.

Are you a Black woman in college or the workforce?

We want to hear your story. Share your journey, your wins, your pivots, and your lessons with us. DM us, tag us, or email us to be featured in our September series.

Know a campus or organization that’s doing the work?
Nominate them for a spotlight. Let’s amplify the spaces that are pouring into Black women.

Join the conversation.
Follow @TheGoodGirlMovement on Instagram and TikTok, and use the hashtag #GoodGirlsGraduate to connect with others navigating this season of growth.

This fall, we’re not just turning into Good Girls, we’re turning into scholars, leaders, and legacy-makers.

SHE IS THE MOMENT: Olandria Carthen’s Journey on Love Island USA and the Reality of Being a Black Woman in Love and Media

“The world always tries to label us as ‘angry Black women.’ They use a moment of weakness and make that one specific time our whole character.”

When Olandria Carthen walked into the Love Island USA villa, she didn’t just enter a dating show, she entered a battleground of perception. A proud Tuskegee University alum, radiant in beauty and rooted in self-awareness, she brought with her a presence that couldn’t be ignored. From her flawless style to her grounded energy, Olandria was magnetic. But being a dark-skinned Black woman on a reality show built around desirability meant her journey would be layered with complexity, scrutiny, and emotional labor. She didn’t just come to find love. She came to be seen, and in doing so, she exposed the ways Black women are often misread, mistreated, and misunderstood in spaces that weren’t designed with us in mind.

The Tropes That Trap Us

Reality television has a long history of flattening Black women into caricatures. We’re either the angry one, the loud one, the hypersexual one, or the one who’s “too strong to cry.” These tropes aren’t just lazy, they’re violent. They erase our softness, our nuance, our humanity. And when we show up with clarity, boundaries, and emotional intelligence, we’re punished for it.

Olandria was labeled a “bully” by online audiences. Not because she yelled. Not because she belittled. But because she refused to be disrespected. Because she spoke with conviction. Because she held people accountable. And in a genre that thrives on conflict, her assertiveness was weaponized. This is the burden of representation. Black women are expected to be strong, nurturing, and endlessly forgiving, but the moment we assert ourselves, we’re cast as combative. The editing room becomes a weapon. Moments of vulnerability are cut. Context is erased. And what’s left is a caricature, a flattened version of a woman who is, in reality, layered, loving, and luminous.

The Emotional Labor of Being “The Strong One”

Throughout her time in the villa, Olandria was the one people turned to. She was the sounding board, the truth-teller, the emotional anchor. She held space for others even when she wasn’t being held herself. Chelley Bissainthe, another Black woman in the villa, later shared that “everyone who was in that villa will tell you that they could always come to us for the best advice… we bring everybody a peace of mind.”

But that labor—unpaid, unrecognized, and often unreciprocated, rarely makes the final cut. Instead, audiences are fed a narrative that erases care and amplifies conflict. Olandria didn’t just survive the villa, she carried it and she did so while navigating the weight of being one of the few dark-skinned Black women in a space that rarely affirms us.

Her Journey to Love: Honesty, Heartbreak, and Healing

Olandria’s romantic arc was layered and deeply human. She spent the majority of the season coupled with Taylor, a connection that, at first, seemed promising. They shared laughs, loyalty, and three weeks of partnership. Behind the scenes, there were quiet conversations and subtle cues that revealed Taylor wasn’t truly the match for her. When Casa Amor arrived, the switch was swift. In just three days, he recoupled with someone new, leaving Olandria confused and hurt, wondering where the connection had gone wrong.

She didn’t ask for perfection. She asked for honesty. And when that honesty came too late, it stung—not just because of the rejection, but because of the emotional labor she had invested in a relationship that wasn’t built on truth.

Even when Jalen entered the villa and expressed interest, Olandria stayed loyal to Taylor. She chose commitment over convenience, hoping that her consistency would be met with clarity. It wasn’t. And once again, she was left to navigate the fallout with dignity and grace.

This moment echoed a painful reality for many Black women: being chosen for stability, not desire. Being tolerated, not treasured. And being expected to stay loyal even when loyalty isn’t returned.

The “Cowboy” Who Chose Her Loudly

Love has a way of circling back..

From the very beginning, there was a spark between Olandria and Nic Vansteenberghe. During the blindfold challenge on Day 2, Nic kissed her ntentionally. He picked her in every group challenge. He expressed interest during Casa Amor, but timing and circumstance kept them apart until fate gave them a second chance.

Both Olandria and Nic were dumped during Casa Amor, a moment that felt like the end, but turned out to be the beginning. They received a text inviting them to return to the villa together. They coupled up, shared a steamy kiss, and began to explore what had always been simmering beneath the surface. Though they initially labeled it as friendship, the connection deepened and a week before the finale, they were brought back together once again. This time, it stuck.

Their bond wasn’t rushed. It was built slowly, intentionally, and with mutual respect. They earned second place in the finale, but more importantly, they earned each other. Nic didn’t just choose Olandria, he chose her loudly. He defended her against online hate. He uplifted her in interviews. He made it clear that the noise outside the villa would never shake their bond. “Whatever she wants, I want to make sure happens,” he said during the reunion.

For the first time, our girl was allowed to be soft.

“Usually, I’m a control freak,” she said. “But I let him do everything. The support that I have from this guy is unreal. It allows me to be the soft woman I’ve always wanted to be.”

In a world that demands Black women be strong at all times, Nic gave her permission to rest. To receive. To be held. Maybe he was the cowboy she needed from day one.

Reclaiming Her Voice

Olandria Carthen’s most powerful moment didn’t come during a challenge or a coupling ceremony, it came when the cameras were rolling at the Love Island USA Season 7 reunion, and she chose to speak truth to power. In a room full of people who had shared the villa with her, she stood tall and named the harm. She didn’t sugarcoat it. She didn’t shrink. She said, “Your face was not plastered on George Floyd’s body. Mine was. And I told you that. It was that bad. That shit hurts”.

That moment wasn’t just about her. It was about every Black woman who’s ever been gaslit into silence. Every Black woman who’s been told to “let it go,” “don’t make it about race,” or “be the bigger person.” Olandria refused to let the racism she and Chelley endured be brushed aside. She didn’t just ask for accountability, she demanded it. And in doing so, she modeled what it looks like to protect your peace, your name, and your community.

She had asked for support. She had asked for a public statement to stop the racist attacks. She had asked for allyship, and when it didn’t come, she named that absence. Loudly. Clearly. Unapologetically. Because silence in the face of racism is complicity. Olandria knew that if she didn’t speak up, the narrative would continue to be shaped by those who never had to carry the weight of being a Black woman in the public eye.

Her voice cracked, but her message didn’t. She spoke not just for herself, but for Chelley, for the Black girls watching, for the ones who are always expected to be strong but never allowed to be soft. She reminded the audience—and the world—that Black women are not disposable. That our pain is real. That our dignity is non-negotiable.

This wasn’t just a reunion moment. It was a reclamation. Olandria took bck the narrative that had been twisted by online hate, racial bias, and silence. She reminded everyone that she was not the villain. She was the one who held the villa together. She was the one who gave advice, comfort, and clarity. She was the one who deserved protection, and didn’t get it.

In that moment, she became more than a reality TV contestant. She became a mirror for the culture. A reminder that Black women will always be the backbone of truth, even when the world tries to bend it. She showed us that advocacy doesn’t have to be polished, it just has to be real, and hers was real, raw, and revolutionary.

Her courage to speak truth to power was a masterclass in self-advocacy. She didn’t just defend herself—she defended every Black woman who’s ever been mischaracterized, mislabeled, and misunderstood.

She’s That Girl

Let’s be clear: Olandria Carthen is that girl. A gorgeous, stylish, unapologetic woman with a heart full of wisdom and a mind sharp enough to cut through any nonsense. Her fashion was flawless. Her reads were legendary. And her character? Impeccable. She didn’t just survive the villa, she redefined what it means to thrive in a space not built for her. She showed us that softness is not weakness. That loyalty is not naivety. And that Black women deserve love that doesn’t ask them to shrink, silence, or settle.

Our girl O has so much more in store and we are down for the ride! What’s your favorite moment from the Bama Barbie this summer?