Voices for Virginia’s Children is proud to be a grantee of the Alliance for Early Success. The Alliance for Early Success is a national nonprofit that works with early childhood policy advocates at the state level to ensure that every child, birth through eight, has an equal opportunity to learn, grow, and succeed.  

The Alliance for Early Success replaced its annual grantee meeting with an all-new offering focused on supporting state advocacy organizations in their efforts to become allies for antiracism. The Alabama Experience brought teams from state grantee organizations—200 people in all—on a shared journey to Montgomery, Alabama, that incorporated the Equal Justice Initiative’s Legacy Sites and many of the city’s other powerful spaces that explore our nation’s history of racial injustice and movement toward civil rights.  

Voices sent our Senior Leadership Team composed of CEO, Rachael Deane, Sr. Director of Policy & Programs, Allison Gilbreath, and Director of Operations, Megan Mbagwu, to share in this incredible learning opportunity. This series will include each of our personal reflections, beginning with Allison Gilbreath.

Attending the “Alabama Experience” in Montgomery with the Alliance for Early Success was nothing short of transformative. Before arriving, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d been to Alabama before—my husband was born there, and we’ve spent time in Gurley, just outside Huntsville. But this trip, especially to Montgomery, felt different. Huntsville has grown rapidly and feels modernized in many ways, but Montgomery seemed “stuck in time,” a place where the weight of history is palpable, and the struggle for progress lingers heavily in the air. 

Before we even started the journey, I kept revisiting the mantra, “Equity is both where we are going and how we will get there.” So much of this work, particularly in racial justice and advocacy, has been carried by Black women—and truth be told, we are tired. The Alliance prepared us for racial caucusing—spaces where individuals with shared racial identities could reflect, share knowledge, and foster a deeper understanding of our experiences in a multiracial world. At the time, I didn’t realize how much I would need this space. 

Being surrounded by Black senior leaders from across the country was a reminder of my “why”—the reason I do this work. I had to push myself to not become a “free resource” for others to understand their thoughts or views. My journey, my experiences, are mine, and my “why” is deeply personal. Being in this space reinforced the importance of holding onto that, even as I navigate the challenges of leadership and advocacy. 

One of the most powerful moments of the trip was a bus tour led by a remarkable community advocate who shared the true history of Montgomery—no sugar-coating, no whitewashing. We walked along the path that enslaved people had been forced to take, from the rivers of Montgomery to the plantations. It was gut-wrenching to imagine the mothers and children, chained and screaming for each other, unsure of what lay ahead. In that moment, all I could see were my own two children. The pain was overwhelming, and I couldn’t separate myself from it. I wondered if the white people on the tour saw what I saw—if they understood that, in many ways, we are still walking that path, though now it is invisible. 

What struck me most was the absence of reverence for these sites. The riverbank, a place where so much pain and suffering unfolded, was a space used for tourism without acknowledgment of its history. Why wasn’t this a sacred space? Why wasn’t this history front and center? It was a sharp reminder of how the erasure of Black pain continues. 

The next day, we visited the Legacy Museum, which tells the story of slavery in America on the site of a former cotton warehouse where enslaved Black people were forced to labor. I was bracing for the emotional toll, but nothing could have prepared me. The Legacy Museum was everything I thought the Smithsonian in DC would be, but wasn’t. The exhibits were so intense that I had to step away and cry more than once. As a child advocate, the cries of children in the exhibits were unbearable, but this is our history, our truth. 

One exhibit that hit me particularly hard was on mass incarceration. The question that immediately came to my mind was: Where is the exhibit on foster care? Why aren’t we having this conversation yet? The child welfare system, particularly foster care, is overwhelmingly made up of Black children whose families are grappling with the generational impacts of poverty, a legacy of slavery and systemic oppression. The foster care system not only separates families but also strips Black children of their culture, leaving them to battle internalized racism as they grow older. Why isn’t this history being told? 

At the end of each day, we returned to our racial caucuses, which became a space of rest, joy, and healing. As Black women, we are rarely given the room to be vulnerable without having to explain ourselves. This space was a gift, a reminder that there is a profound distinction between being a Black woman and being a person of color—two terms that are often used interchangeably but carry very different experiences. 

As Black women in leadership, we are held to nearly impossible standards. We are expected to be the smartest in the room, to comfort others, to anticipate problems before they arise, all while staying composed and strategic. It’s exhausting. This was especially evident when we visited the Harris House, just down the street from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s family home. The street had fallen into disrepair, but speaking with Dr. Harris’s daughter, who housed Freedom Riders like John Lewis, reminded me of the invisible labor Black women have always carried. We fed, nurtured, strategized, but those contributions often go undocumented. 

Perhaps the most painful reflection I had during this experience was the realization that sometimes the harm doesn’t come from white people—it comes from other people of color. As a leader of color in the policy space, I often feel trapped in an invisible jail. I have to carefully navigate every word I say, every post I make, every outfit I wear, to ensure I don’t come off as “too angry” or “too political.” It makes me question: Am I truly free? What would liberation really look like for me? 

As I reflect on this experience, I am challenging myself to call out the direct link between slavery and the issues we’re tackling in public policy today. Before Alabama, I didn’t always make that connection so boldly. Now, I realize that while we’re fighting for equity, some of our partners in this work may not share the same motivations. Some are comfortable with the status quo, with the ongoing suffering of my people. But for me, this work is deeply personal. My family is my source of strength, and as a Black mother raising Black children, I know I must continue to fight for a better future for them. 

This trip has changed me. It has reminded me of the power of community, the importance of rest, and the necessity of standing firm in my purpose. As I move forward, I am more committed than ever to ensuring that the work I do is grounded in truth, in history, and in justice for my people. 

Stay tuned for part 2 of this life-changing experience from the Voices’ Senior Leadership Team.

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