When Essence Festival rolled into New Orleans this year, it arrived not just with star-studded performances and cultural panels—but with an unmistakable undercurrent of tension. Just days before the annual celebration of Black culture and creativity was set to begin, a powerful open letter began circulating from the heads of the Target Boycott Organizing Committee—Pastor Jamal Bryant, activist Tamika Mallory, and former Ohio state senator Nina Turner.

Their message was direct and deeply layered.

“We love [Essence Fest] BUT we are not feeling [Target]. The fest has become the seminal celebration of our culture for years. We value that it’s the largest Black owned media platform and it’s both a safe space and celebration point for sisters. The recent moves by [Target] is both disturbing and disappointing. We have decided out of conscience that we will not be attending this year but encourage those who are to stay far away from all [Target] activations. Please support the entrepreneurs and by all means Black press and at the same time stay away from companies that want our dollars but don’t return dignity. With all our LOVE for the community we remain.”

The statement struck a chord. It wasn’t an attack—it was a call higher. One that reflected the collective ache many feel navigating corporate partnerships and cultural integrity. And while the boycott organizers made clear they weren’t protesting Essence itself, but rather the sponsorship entanglements, the ripple effect couldn’t be ignored.

As the weekend unfolded, social media began filling with reports of low attendance, side-eye toward influencers announcing their Target Essence Fest collaborations, and an avalanche of opinions about whether the festival had lost its soul—or simply needed grace.

Then came Night One of the concerts. Lauryn Hill, the forever icon and often-criticized latecomer, was slated to headline. But this time, something different happened. She was on time. Ready. Electric. And yet the Superdome sat mostly empty. A performance that should’ve been legendary was met with empty seats, a near 4am end time and heavy online criticism. That’s when Essence stepped in with a rare and passionate defense:

“Let’s be very clear – WE don’t play about Ms. Lauryn Hill.
Not for clicks. Not for headlines.
She arrived on schedule, stepped on that stage, and delivered the kind of performance only a legend can.
The delay? Not hers. We will take that.
The moment? One for the books.
The legacy? Still unmatched.
Put some respect on her name.
Keep the takes, but keep her out of them.”

And just like that, the backlash had officially entered the mainstage.

To some, this was the beginning of the end for Essence Fest. To others, it was a teachable moment about the fragility—and necessary resilience—of Black institutions in the public eye.

Here’s the truth: critique is not betrayal. And accountability is not cancellation. But as we call out, we must also remember to call in. Essence Festival is not just an event; it’s a cultural cornerstone, one of the few remaining Black-owned institutions that amplify our stories, our music, our entrepreneurship, our joy. That doesn’t mean it’s immune to criticism. But it does mean the criticism should come from a place of care, not contempt.

We are allowed to disagree. We are allowed to protest. We are allowed to protect our values and reject harmful alignments. But we must also allow space for nuance. Boycotting is a deeply personal decision—and it should be honored as such. Some choose the front lines. Some choose the sidelines, some are rooting from the comfort of their homes. Some choose to show up for the vendors, the panels, the sisterhood—even while challenging the corporate presence.

What we cannot afford is deconstructive discourse that tosses out the entire house because of one cracked window. Especially not when so many Black creatives, small businesses, media professionals, and first-gen entrepreneurs rely on platforms like Essence for economic and cultural advancement. Especially given the real world obstacles Black institutions like Essence Fest face in comparison to their counterparts.

This moment is not just about a festival. It’s about how we hold each other through conflict. It’s about recognizing that building Black wealth, visibility, and power will always have its ups and downs, especially under the weight of poverty politics and performative allyship.

So yes—let’s challenge our institutions to do better. Let’s demand transparency, alignment, and integrity. But let’s also protect the sanctuaries we’ve built, even as we push them to evolve.

Accountability is love. But so is not discarding each other too quickly.

Cover photo: Can We Talk? Essence Fest, Boycotts & the Power of Loving Accountability/Photo credit: Essence Fest