Black Women, Land & The Legacy We Carry

I've spent the last few weeks knee-deep in dirt, branches, and memories. Clearing brush around my mama's house, patching our old tin shed, making plans to plant a fig tree and a few other fruit trees in the backyard.

At first, it felt like I was just cleaning up. But somewhere between the rake, hand shears, my small chainsaw, and the sweat, I heard my daddy's voice echo: "You were paying attention."

Growing up, my father would take my sister and me out to the family farm on weekends. Sometimes we didn't do much "work," but we watched. We soaked in the way he handled the land. Slow, deliberate, with respect.

I now see that the inheritance wasn't just physical property. It was something more sacred: wisdom, rhythm, resourcefulness. Things not written in a will, but etched in memory.

As Black women, our hands have always known work. Sometimes forced, sometimes chosen. But too often unrecognized. For centuries, we've labored over land we didn't own, homes we weren't always welcomed into, legacies we had to fight to preserve.

And yet, we keep showing up. Mending. Making space. Reclaiming.

When I cut back the brush around that old tin shed, it wasn't just yard work. It was reclamation. I was clearing ground, physically and spiritually, to honor my family and the roots they laid before me.

I was saying: We are still here. And this land still remembers us.

The Land We Lose

For Black women, land has always meant more than property. It has been sanctuary, survival, and story. From Southern porches where aunties shell peas to backyards where grandmothers coax flowers from clay soil, land is where memory and identity take root.

Yet we've too often been cut out of the systems that protect it.

Between 1910 and 1997, African Americans lost about 90% of their farmland, with heirs' property being one of the main causes. Land passed down without legal documentation proving ownership gradually slipped away. (Source)

Today, 76% of African Americans do not have a will. That's more than twice the percentage of white Americans. Many assume not having a will keeps land in the family, but in reality, it jeopardizes ownership. (Source)

This hits especially hard for Black women, who frequently bear the emotional and financial burden of preserving homes, caring for elders, and trying to make sense of fragmented inheritances.

Often the intentions of our grandparents and parents are not honored. Through ignorance but also systematic oppression, Black women are left suffering and etched out. Our birthright stolen.

Talking about death, inheritance, or even money can feel taboo in many Black families. We don't want to seem greedy. We're taught to stay humble, to avoid tension.

When trauma is layered on top, from historical land theft to modern financial instability, it's no wonder we avoid these conversations.

But not talking doesn't stop the consequences. Every year, Black families lose billions in generational wealth because property isn't protected through legal documentation.

Homes fall into disrepair. Land is sold or lost. Family ties fray. Legacies disappear.

Carrying Forward What Matters

Land and legacy are not just about financial assets. They're about possibility and responsibility. About imagining what could grow if we stewarded what our elders began, instead of starting over generation after generation.

As women, creatives, educators, and cultural bearers, we have the power to shape legacy in new ways. By aligning our values with our assets, and ensuring our loved ones are protected.

Here's how we can start:

1. Have the Conversation

Start gently. Ask your elders about the land they loved, what they'd want done with it, and who they hope will care for it. Bring love to the table before legal talk.

2. Document What Matters

Encourage simple steps like creating a will, naming beneficiaries, and outlining wishes. Free or low-cost legal services exist, and community workshops can help demystify the process.

3. Honor Both Culture & Capital

Legacy planning isn't just for the wealthy. It's a form of cultural protection. Include photos, recipes, oral histories. Make your estate folder a time capsule of love and identity.

4. Build with What You Have

Even if it's just a backyard shed, tend to it. Restore what's broken. Plant something. Reclaim space as sacred.

5. Use Creative Expression as a Tool

Document your journey. Paint it, film it, write it down. Our stories are assets. Let them become bridges for future generations.

From Expression to Equity

Creative expression isn't just art. It's an act of agency. For the communities we serve through LIMITLESS, creativity is how we document our history, challenge systems, and imagine futures that haven't yet been written.

Whether it's fashion, music, tech, or storytelling, we've always made something out of nothing. That's innovation born from necessity, but rooted in culture.

The connection to sustainable wealth comes when we stop treating our creativity like a hobby and start treating it like the valuable, market-shifting force it is.

Too often, Black and brown creatives are the culture, but not the beneficiaries of the wealth that culture generates.

Through LIMITLESS, we're working to shift that by providing platforms, partnerships, and pathways to ownership.

Sustainable wealth isn't just money in the bank. It's infrastructure: systems for protecting intellectual property, mentorship that demystifies contracts and funding, intergenerational knowledge-sharing that connects artistry with enterprise.

Over the next 25 years, an estimated $68 trillion will be transferred from U.S. households to heirs and charity. Black Americans risk missing out on this largest wealth transfer in history by not having estate plans. (Source)

Cultural innovation fuels economies. But when we create with intention and strategy, we build ecosystems, not just moments.

That's what LIMITLESS is about: helping creatives not only be seen, but paid, protected, and positioned to grow something that lasts long after the curtain falls or the show ends.

It's not just legacy. It's leverage.

What We Carry Forward

When it comes to inheritance and wealth transfer among Black women, the emotional barriers run deep. They're tied to the residue of slavery, systemic oppression, and generational trauma.

We've inherited not just land or lack thereof, but also the emotional weight of survival.

For centuries, we weren't allowed to own anything. So even when we do have something to pass on, the systems and language around legacy-building can feel foreign, intimidating, or painful.

There's also unspoken grief that runs through many of our family lines. Some of us haven't had the time or space to properly mourn our losses. Instead of healing, we go into survival mode.

For Black women, we are often the emotional anchors and the executors. Managing grief, caregiving, property, and legacy all at once.

Balancing cultural tradition with legal protection means moving with both reverence and readiness. I can honor my family while also honoring the law of the land.

It's not about choosing between love and law. It's about making sure our love is protected by the law, and that our legacy is not left vulnerable.

Legacy doesn't always look like luxury. Sometimes it looks like patched tin and blooming fig trees. Sometimes it's a phone call with your uncle about lawnmowers or a memory of your grandmother on her riding mower, determined and full of grace.

As Black women, we carry more than history. We carry future.

And every time we show up to repair, reclaim, or reimagine, we're creating a legacy worth protecting.

We were paying attention.

Now it's time to build something that lasts.