Standing in Lagos, I felt the ground beneath my feet differently. The air, the rhythm of the city, the way the people moved with purpose and ease—everything reminded me that before we were faculty, before we were employees, before we were measured by productivity or credentials, we were rooted in something far older. We come from people who innovated, created, organized, resisted, and built community long before higher education existed. Our ancestors understood knowledge not just as information, but as relationship—to land, to family, to spirit, and to purpose.

As educators of color, we often walk into institutions carrying histories that are invisible to the systems we move through. Yet those histories shape how we teach, how we lead, and how we show up for students. In Lagos, I was reminded that our work is not only intellectual—it is ancestral. It is guided by voices and lessons that did not need to be written down to be real.

At the conference, I encountered colleagues who deeply understood this. We shared stories of resilience, joy, fatigue, hope, and the ongoing journey of making space for authenticity in environments that sometimes struggle to hold it. There was laughter. There were nods of recognition. There was restoration.

What I brought back with me—and what I offered in my presentation—is this: We do not walk into the classroom alone. Our ancestors walk with us. Their creativity is in our problem-solving. Their courage is in our leadership. Their love is in our mentoring. When we remember this, we teach differently. We lead differently. We live differently.

As I return to my lecture halls, I am carrying Lagos with me—not as a place I visited, but as a home I remembered. And I am committed to ensuring my students remember too.