Tabitha's Price of Progress: DEI Rollbacks, Black-Owned Businesses, and the Dilemma of Economic Survival

The recent rollbacks of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs across corporate America have sent a chilling message to marginalized communities: the progress that many believed was being institutionalized was, in fact, conditional. These initiatives, designed to create pathways for Black professionals, women, and other underrepresented groups, are now being abandoned in the face of political and social pressure. As this unraveling unfolds, figures like Tabitha Brown, a beloved entrepreneur and media personality, have urged us to resist the impulse to boycott stores like Target—major retailers that provide shelf space to Black-owned brands, including her own. Brown’s plea is understandable, even poignant; she stands at the intersection of personal success and collective struggle, caught in the tension between economic opportunity and the moral imperative to hold corporations accountable. However, as much as we might appreciate the nuance of her position, we must also challenge it. The ask—essentially to prioritize economic inclusion over protest—raises difficult questions about solidarity, sacrifice, and the very nature of progress. Is it selfish to call for boycotts when Black-owned businesses could suffer collateral damage? Or is it selfish to ask an entire community to suppress their grievances because a few of us have finally found a seat at the table? And more importantly, would Brown feel the same way if she weren’t one of the vendors benefiting from this access? These are uncomfortable but necessary questions in a time when corporate goodwill appears more performative than genuine.

DEI programs were never just about people of color or women; they were about creating a fairer, more competitive, and ultimately more innovative society. Rolling them back doesn’t simply affect those they were designed to uplift; it weakens the entire fabric of our workplaces and institutions. Yet, as these doors close, we are being asked to remain patient and gracious—grateful even—for the crumbs that remain. But should we? Would those who came before us, who marched and boycotted, accept this compromise? Should we abandon the lessons of history because there’s a new Afro pick cutting board on the shelves? I have to reflect on the complexity of this moment—one that demands understanding, yet also resistance. I want to explore the balance between economic pragmatism and moral conviction, and whether our pursuit of inclusion has been reduced to a transactional existence within spaces that have historically excluded us. Ultimately, we must ask ourselves if the cost of waiting and accommodating is too great, and whether it’s time to find new, uncompromising ways to make our voices heard. The unraveling of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs feels like a gut punch that was a long time coming. Maybe deep down, we always knew the commitment wasn’t real—just another PR stunt, a corporate “we hear you” moment that would fade once the headlines did. And now, here we are, watching it all be rolled back, dismantled, quietly and efficiently, while the rest of us are left standing here trying to figure out what’s next.

And in the midst of it, voices like Tabitha Brown’s emerge, asking us to take a breath, to reconsider. Don’t boycott, she says. Stores like Target provide shelf space for Black-owned products, businesses like hers. There’s an understandable logic to that, a level of pragmatism that’s hard to argue against. After all, isn’t this what we’ve been fighting for? To be included? To have our products in major retailers, to finally be seen and supported? It’s a valid point. It’s also a painful one. Because at its core, this plea feels like we’re being asked—once again—to settle. To make peace with the idea that a handful of us making it through the door means the rest should quietly wait outside, noses pressed against the glass, grateful for the glimpse. The ask is nuanced, but it’s also heavy with an undeniable selfishness. It’s a request to prioritize personal wins over collective progress, to swallow our frustrations and keep shopping because Black vendors don’t want to be casualties of our outrage. And that’s the thing—why do we always have to be so damn understanding? There’s a familiar script to all of this. We push, we protest, we demand more, and then someone—someone who made it, someone with something to lose—tells us to slow down. To consider the bigger picture. But whose picture is it, really? If Tabitha didn’t have products on those shelves, would she still be asking us to wait? Would she be standing with the boycotts, demanding that companies do better, instead of urging us to find another way to fight back? It’s an uncomfortable question, but it lingers. It lingers because we know the answer.

DEI was never just about people of color or women; it was about creating better workplaces, better opportunities, and ultimately, a better world for everyone. The resistance to it, the eagerness with which companies are rolling it back, reveals just how fragile that progress was. These initiatives weren’t just feel-good measures; they were an acknowledgment that the playing field has never been level. And now, the message is clear: be grateful you were even invited to sit at the table in the first place. The irony, of course, is that it’s still their table. So, what now? Do we step aside and let Black-owned businesses bear the brunt of our frustration? Do we keep spending because if we don’t, our people might lose the little ground they’ve gained? It’s not an easy decision, but it’s also not fair to suggest that economic survival should come at the expense of our dignity. We shouldn’t have to choose between protest and progress, between standing up for ourselves and supporting each other. There has to be another way. And yet, we’re here—caught between wanting to push forward and not wanting to pull anyone else down in the process. But let’s be honest: the fear of losing access should never outweigh the importance of demanding better. We have to ask ourselves, are we willing to settle for visibility without true equity? Are we content with representation if it comes with the expectation of silence?

This moment feels familiar because we’ve been here before. The sacrifices of the civil rights movement weren’t made so that we could tiptoe around corporations, afraid to ruffle feathers because a few of us finally got their products on the shelves. The people who marched, boycotted, and risked everything didn’t do it for incremental progress that could be taken away the moment it was no longer convenient. And yet, here we are, being asked to pause, to reconsider our frustration. Tabitha Brown, with her warm smile and undeniable charm, is asking us not to boycott. She’s asking us to think of the Black-owned businesses inside those stores—businesses like hers—that could suffer if we pull our dollars away in protest. It’s a reasonable request, and it’s coming from someone we love, someone who has worked tirelessly to build something for herself and for others. But beneath the reasonableness lies an uncomfortable truth: the burden of progress is once again being placed on the backs of the very people who have always had to carry it. We’re being told to weigh our collective outrage against individual success stories. To consider that the vendors who finally got their foot in the door might see it slammed shut if we take a stand. And it’s hard. It’s hard to look at someone like Tabitha and not want to support her, not want to see her thrive. But at what cost? Should we continue to support corporations that have made it clear that our inclusion is conditional, that our value is temporary? Should we prioritize access over accountability? And why is it that every time we try to assert our worth, we’re asked to be patient, to be strategic, to be grateful?

Tabitha’s request, however well-intentioned, feels like a plea for compromise in a fight that demands boldness. And it’s not her fault—she, like so many of us, is navigating a system that was never designed for our success. But the reality is, asking us to “find another way” to protest, to speak up, to demand change, is the same thing as asking us to accept less. Because history tells us that there is no comfortable way to fight oppression. It’s disruptive by nature. It’s inconvenient. It requires sacrifice. And it’s painful to realize that some of us are now in a position where we have more to lose than others, where the fear of losing shelf space is enough to make us hesitate in demanding what’s right. But here’s the thing—if we accept that our place on those shelves is fragile, that it can disappear the moment we stop smiling and start demanding, then was it ever really ours? Did we ever truly belong? Or were we just placeholders in a system that was never meant to sustain us? These are the questions we have to grapple with, and they’re not easy. Because the truth is, it’s exhausting to always be fighting, to always have to choose between economic survival and social justice. If DEI was truly about change, it wouldn’t be so easy to dismantle. And if our presence in these spaces was genuinely valued, we wouldn’t be asked to tolerate so much for so little in return. We wouldn’t have to beg corporations to keep their promises while simultaneously being told to be thankful for what we’ve got. So, while Tabitha’s stance is understandable—maybe even admirable in its practicality—it’s not enough. We can appreciate the hustle without losing sight of the bigger picture. Because the truth is, we can always find another way to buy an Afro pick cutting board. But finding another way to demand real, lasting change? That’s not something we can afford to keep putting off.

The unraveling of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) programs feels like a quiet betrayal, a slow, deliberate dismantling of something that was never truly secure to begin with. It’s not just a policy rollback; it’s a reminder that, for all the corporate platitudes and initiatives, real equity was never the goal—appeasement was. And now, as the political climate shifts and the economic landscape tightens, companies are shedding their DEI commitments like an ill-fitting coat, leaving those of us who believed in their promises standing in the cold, wondering if we ever really made progress at all. DEI wasn’t just about creating opportunities for Black people, women, or other marginalized groups. It was about reimagining what fairness could look like, about fostering environments where everyone—regardless of race, gender, or background—could thrive. Rolling it back doesn’t just harm us; it harms the entire structure of progress. It sends the message that inclusion is optional, that equity is expendable, and that diversity is only valuable when it’s convenient. And yet, we’re being told to hold our tongues and keep shopping because some of us have finally made it through the door. But what about those who haven’t? What about the businesses that never got the opportunity to be in Target or Walmart? What about the people who are still knocking on doors that refuse to open? Are they supposed to wait in perpetuity while we hold on to the little wins we’ve been given? There’s a selfishness in the ask to stay quiet, even if it’s not intentional. Because asking us to prioritize one Black-owned business over the collective fight for equity is the very definition of short-term thinking. And it’s not just about shopping; it’s about dignity. It’s about whether we’re willing to let corporations dictate the terms of our existence, whether we’re willing to accept their performative allyship in exchange for a seat at a table that was never set for us. It’s about whether we’re ready to demand more, even if it means sacrificing something in the short term. The civil rights movement wasn’t won through convenience. The sacrifices made by those before us weren’t made so we could shrink ourselves into what corporations find palatable. They boycotted buses knowing it would hurt Black-owned businesses in the short term. They marched and protested knowing it would cost them jobs and opportunities. But they understood something we seem to be forgetting: progress requires risk.

And maybe that’s the real question—are we still willing to take those risks? Or have we become too comfortable with the little progress we’ve made to fight for what we actually deserve? Would Tabitha feel the same way if she weren’t one of the fortunate few with products on the shelves? If she were still on the outside looking in, would her message be one of patience and understanding, or would she be leading the charge for accountability? It’s impossible to say for sure, but it’s a question worth asking.

We have to find another way to make our voices heard, yes—but that doesn’t mean silencing them entirely. We can support Black-owned businesses without losing sight of the bigger picture. We can celebrate our wins while still demanding more. And we can love and respect voices like Tabitha’s while also challenging them to consider the larger implications of their requests. Because at the end of the day, our fight has never been about a cutting board in Target. It’s been about something far greater—something that can’t be bought or sold, but must be earned through relentless, unwavering pressure. And if we have to keep asking for our seat at the table, then maybe it’s time to flip the damn thing over.