At the new start of the current government administration, one of the early executive orders called for ending what he called “illegal discrimination and preferences, including DEI” in federal agencies, and strongly encouraged the private sector to follow suit. The order itself had no binding power on corporations, but the ripple effect was clear. More than 20 companies, including Target, began to quietly scale back diversity initiatives.

This shift was especially jarring for Target, a retailer that had built much of its modern identity on progressive branding, community partnerships, and a public commitment to diversity and inclusion. In 2020, Target pledged to increase Black employee representation, invest $2 billion in Black-owned businesses, support HBCUs, and partner with Black banks. For many Black shoppers, that signaled not just good PR but real accountability.

But by early 2025, Target reversed course. Executives abruptly announced a rollback of their DEI programs, shelving much of the progress they had promised. Unlike companies such as Nike or Ben & Jerry’s, which doubled down on their commitments, Target chose appeasement. They gutted their brand value of “belonging,” and in doing so, betrayed the very shoppers who helped make them a $100 billion company.

The fallout has been swift. Target has now reported several consecutive quarters of declining sales and foot traffic. And in August 2025, CEO Brian Cornell—who had led the company for nearly a decade—abruptly stepped down after facing mounting pressure from investors and backlash over both sales losses and the boycott. His resignation has become a symbol of how consumer activism, especially the unified power of Black shoppers, can reshape corporate leadership.

As tempting as it can be to stroll Target’s aisles, discover a new kitchen gadget, and walk out with a bag of things you never planned to buy, the math is simple: Black consumers spend roughly $12 million a day at Target. Why keep giving that kind of money to a company that won’t keep its promises to us?

But here’s the tension—what about the Black-owned brands caught in the crossfire?

Take SLAYYY Hair, for example. In February 2025, just one week after Target announced its DEI rollback, the retailer proudly launched SLAYYY as its first Black-owned synthetic hair brand. The timing was unfortunate, as the boycott meant the brand’s major retail debut never had a fair shot at success. For many Black women, being able to grab braiding hair at Target instead of trekking across town to a beauty supply store could’ve been a game-changer. Now, the brand has had to pivot, relying heavily on Amazon, independent beauty supply stores, and its own site, slayyyhair.com, to reach customers.

And SLAYYY isn’t alone. Black-owned brands like The Lip Bar, Uncle Funky’s Daughter, The Doux, and TGIN all still sit on Target shelves. These are companies founded by Black entrepreneurs, still majority- or wholly Black-owned, and still fighting to thrive. Their growth and survival are partly tethered to retailers like Target, even if those retailers are failing us on a values level.

That’s why this moment requires balance. The boycott has proven that withholding the Black dollar is powerful—we’ve seen it in real time. But if the goal is liberation through ownership, then our next step must be to intentionally seek out and support these brands directly whenever possible. That means buying from their websites, shopping them in independent beauty supply stores, and keeping their visibility alive beyond Target.

The truth is, Target’s decline may continue long after Cornell’s resignation. But Black-owned brands don’t need to fall with them. As long as we remain conscious of where our dollars go, we can hold corporations accountable while still fueling the entrepreneurs who built brands for us, by us.