Every October, the world turns pink. Logos change color, ribbons multiply, and companies release limited-edition “awareness” collections. For some, it feels like empty marketing—a season of performative solidarity that fades as soon as the calendar flips.

But for Black women, awareness isn’t just branding. It’s a lifeline.

Behind every pink ribbon is a statistic that doesn’t get enough airtime: Black women are 40% more likely to die from breast cancer than white women, even though we’re diagnosed at roughly the same rate. We’re also more likely to be diagnosed younger and with more aggressive forms of the disease. Those numbers aren’t abstract—they’re names, families, and futures cut short.

That’s why awareness—real, informed, intentional awareness—still matters. It’s not about optics. It’s about access.

When awareness campaigns are done right, they create connection points that save lives. They bring mammogram vans to neighborhoods where healthcare deserts exist. They encourage women to ask questions about their bodies, their family history, their risk. They turn fear into conversation, and conversation into action.

For Black women, that action is critical. We live at the intersection of medical bias, misinformation, and generational silence. Too often, our pain is minimized, our symptoms are dismissed, and our trust in the healthcare system is fractured. Awareness doesn’t fix all of that—but it opens the door. It reminds us that our lives are worth early detection, worth advocacy, worth care that sees us.

Still, there’s a valid frustration when Breast Cancer Awareness Month becomes commercialized. When pink ribbons are slapped on products with no connection to real change—when it feels like “pretty marketing” instead of meaningful impact—it can cheapen the cause. But that’s not a reason to abandon awareness; it’s a reason to reclaim it.

Because the pink ribbon isn’t the problem. The problem is when corporations wear it louder than the communities it’s supposed to protect.

The power of awareness lies in who tells the story. When Black women lead the conversation—when we’re the ones designing the campaigns, sharing the statistics, holding the health fairs, and telling our stories—awareness becomes activism. It becomes cultural education and community care.

Look at groups like the Sisters Network Inc., the Tigerlily Foundation, or Black Women’s Health Imperative—organizations built by and for Black women who understood that visibility could mean the difference between life and death. Their work isn’t performative; it’s preventive.

And then there’s the personal side of awareness: the emotional courage it takes to say, “Check your breasts.” Those words might seem simple, but for Black women—who are often taught to put everyone else first—they’re radical. They’re a reminder that self-preservation is not selfish.

That act of self-care is what saves lives. It’s what turns fear into empowerment.

The first time many Black women even hear about mammograms isn’t from their doctor—it’s from another Black woman. A friend, a church member, a sorority sister, a cousin. Awareness travels through us. It’s braided into our conversations, our communities, our traditions of care.

And that’s why every pink light, every ribbon, every survivor’s story matters. Because somewhere, a woman who thought she didn’t have time for herself might finally make that appointment. Somewhere, another woman might find comfort in seeing someone who looks like her on a poster, on a panel, or on a stage, saying, “I made it through. You can too.”

Awareness can’t end with October. It has to live in our routines—in the way we check on our friends, the way we demand equity in research funding, and the way we support survivors long after the chemo ends.

So yes, the world might look a little too pink this month. But I’ll take that over a world that doesn’t see us at all.

Because for Black women, pink isn’t performative. It’s power.