I thought Miami Carnival would make me self-conscious. Instead, it set me free.
TheGrio...
Somewhere between the soca and sunshine at Miami Carnival, I stopped worrying about how my body looked and found the joy of letting go.
When Wray & Nephew invited me to experience Miami Carnival, I was thrilled. Then, almost immediately, one concern crept in: my body.
Like most people, I had seen carnival through my phone. The beaded, jeweled, and feathered costumes. The moko jambies towering over the crowd on stilts. An energy so big it comes through the screen. So when the invitation came to step into the festivities, I had only watched from afar, I was equal parts excited and anxious.
Unfortunately, we live in a society where women’s bodies always seem to be open for discussion and commentary. As a Black woman, I’ve watched the judgment passed on other Black women who didn’t meet some unspoken standard of what is seen as beautiful and “acceptable.” And the thought of stepping onto the road surrounded by women who maybe didn’t skip the gym as often as I did this summer…candidly, that felt intimidating.
The funny thing is, I’m no stranger to the beauty of Caribbean culture. I have Haitian roots. My uncle had an iconic dancehall and soca mixtape that he played exclusively on family road trips, the same songs every time, until we knew every transition by heart. In college, I worked with the Caribbean Student Association and even joined a Caribbean dance troupe. So I had a pretty clear outline of what carnival is all about. I had just never actually been. And it turns out an outline is not the same thing as being there.
There is a freedom about being on “di road” that I don’t think you can fully understand until you’re on it. Whether it’s early in the morning at J’ouvert or well into the evening at Carnival, the bass is so loud it feels like it’s shaking the ground beneath you. Somewhere in that rhythm, every layer of tension you’ve been carrying starts to let go.
And the worry I had packed along with my outfit? It didn’t survive J’ouvert morning. From J’ouvert to Carnival, I quickly realized Carnival may be one of the only spaces where no one cares if you have some extra back rolls, a little cellulite, or a belly. Nobody was checking. Everybody was too busy being free.
I don’t think we realize just how much stress and worry can hold us captive. I’ve spent the last year trying to enjoy life while working in news, getting a master’s degree, and grieving the loss of a parent. Somewhere along the way, stress unfortunately became my baseline. But somehow, following massive trucks blasting soca, dancing under the blazing Miami sun, and getting hit with splatters of paint, powder, and water felt like hitting a reset button I didn’t know I had.
And going back to those nerves, I stepped into this experience alone. I wasn’t with people I had known for very long, which I thought would make it feel more nerve-racking. Instead, it made the whole experience more cathartic and more liberating. There was no one to perform for and no version of myself to keep up: just me, the music, and the road.
Arguably, carnival is good for your health. You’re getting your steps in. You’re getting your vitamin D, and you’re whining your waist, which experts say helps release the tension that settles in your hips. Now, I’m not saying swap your therapist for a soca truck. But I am saying my body felt looser and lighter on that road than it had in months. Because reality is shaped by current events, the stressors of life and adulting, it can be hard to find joy.
Yet, this weekend I witnessed hundreds of people from across the diaspora choose joy and come together to celebrate the simple fact that we are our ancestors’ wildest dreams, even as systems and governments try to reverse so much of what those ancestors fought for. The thing is that tension didn’t magically disappear over the weekend. Hearing about other attendees’ experiences at Miami Carnival made the impact of tariffs and immigration enforcement evident. Things didn’t always go as planned. And still, attendees, band leaders, and organizers persisted, made the most of the situation, and had a good time anyway, which was ultimately a much-needed reminder that joy is not only a choice but also a form of resistance.
Carnival didn’t erase the grief, the deadlines, or the headlines waiting for me back home. But it unlocked something I had forgotten was mine to claim.
Sometimes the most healing thing you can do is follow the truck, lift your hands, close your eyes, and let the music guide you, just as it has for our people for generations. I came to Miami worried about how my body would look on the road. I left thinking about how my body felt: loose, light, and, for the first time in a long time, unbothered