Like so many others, I am rooting for Shedeur Sanders. Rooting for his gifts, his brilliance, his boldness, his audacity to show up exactly as he is — confident, stylish, unbothered, Black and unapologetic. He deserves every ounce of success that comes his way.
Shedeur isn’t just talented — he’s exceptional. A record-shattering quarterback who led Colorado through a historic season, smashing statistics and rewriting expectations, all while carrying the weight of his family’s legacy and his bold individuality. Off the field, he holds a 3.9 GPA — academic excellence that should silence doubts about his discipline or leadership. Yet he was overlooked for the Heisman, a snub so glaring that it felt personal and unprofessional. And now, as the NFL Draft conversations unfold, some analysts have dared to rank him below quarterbacks who couldn’t hold a light to him in a fire pit. This isn’t just sports politics — it’s systemic racism dressed up in scouting reports and press releases. It’s the same old bias: punish the confident Black boy, reward the one who knows how to play small.
And yet, as the world gathers to cheer for Shedeur, I find myself mourning.
Not mourning him, but mourning us — the ones who dared to show up the same way and paid the price for it.
The ones who didn’t have a Deion to go to war for them.
The ones who didn’t have a safety net stitched together by fame, legacy, or second chances.
There’s something beautiful about watching Shedeur stand tall, refusing to shrink to fit into old molds, navigating a system that wasn’t designed for his kind of confidence. But something is haunting, too, because many of us know what happens when you don’t have a world-class advocate behind you.
We know what happens when you show up in your fullness, refuse to play small, demand to be seen, and no one powerful is there to explain, defend, or shield you.
You get labeled “arrogant.”
You get told you’re “not a good fit.”
You get quietly removed from the opportunity pipeline.
You get ghosted, blackballed, forgotten.
We grew up being told: “Work twice as hard, be twice as good.” But nobody warned us about the hidden rule — that being twice yourself could cost you everything.
It’s easy to celebrate individuality when it comes in a package people already admire. It’s easy to embrace a bold spirit when that spirit carries famous bloodlines, lucrative endorsement deals, and a national storyline attached. But what about the everyday Black boys and girls whose audacity was seen as a threat, not an asset? Who got left behind because they didn’t come with an explanation or a ready-made redemption arc?
This isn’t bitterness.
This isn’t envy.
This is grief — and it’s real.
It’s the grief of the teacher who lost their job for advocating too loudly for their students.
It’s the grief of the young professional who didn’t get promoted because their brilliance made the wrong people uncomfortable.
It’s the grief of the athlete benched for refusing to bow their head and “stay humble.”
It’s the grief of the student whose questions were labeled “disruptive” instead of visionary.
It’s the grief of the entrepreneur who built something beautiful, only to be told their dream was “too risky” to invest in.
It’s the grief of the activist invited to the table only to be silenced once they arrive. It’s the grief of the artist who poured their soul into their work and was met with silence, not celebration. It’s the grief of the organizer who spoke truth to power and was cast out for making people uncomfortable. It’s the grief of the leader who dared to dream beyond the limits placed on them.
It’s the grief of all the Black boys and girls who were told, “Be yourself” — and then punished for doing exactly that. The ones who had no Deion to call the plays for them. No safety net. No spin machine.
Only their voice, their light, and a system that didn’t know what to do with it.
And while it’s easy to point fingers at white supremacy and systemic racism — and we should — some of the deepest wounds were dealt by the ones who look like us.
The community leaders who saw our brilliance, but, still chose to box us out. The elders who sat at tables of power and guarded their seats instead of making room for the ones coming behind them. The mentors who promised to uplift, but only if we stayed small enough never to threaten their shine.
Their hands are not clean.
It is a betrayal to tell the next generation to be excellent, then punish them for being more fearless than you dared to be. It is hypocrisy to shout “Black excellence” from the podium and then snuff out Black audacity in the boardroom, the classroom, the church, and the streets.
Some of our most painful battles were not with enemies, but with those who claimed to be allies.
Until we are willing to confront all of the forces — external and internal — that crush young Black dreams, we cannot heal what is broken.
If we are serious about liberation, about freedom, about building something better, then we must root out not just the racism we inherit, but the smallness we choose.
We must be the Deions we never had.
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