She don’t just listen to Kendrick. She feels him. Every bar, every verse, every syllable hits her soul like a sermon. She’s not just a fan—nah, it runs deeper than that. His words shape the way she sees the world, the way she moves through it, the way she rises above it.
Her mornings start with Wesley’s Theory bumping through her speakers, the bass rattling the windows, the lyrics latching onto her thoughts like they belong there. She mouths the words, half-rapping, half-praying. “Everybody gon’ respect the shooter, but the one in front of the gun lives forever.” She nods. She understands.
Kendrick ain’t just music. He’s a movement. He’s a mirror. He’s the poet that speaks the words she never knew she needed.
She walks through life with a certain rhythm, a beat embedded in her step. The world throws its chaos at her—news headlines screaming injustice, sirens wailing in the distance, the weight of being young and Black in a world that don’t always love her back—but she’s got Kendrick in her headphones, and that means she’s got armor.
When she’s down, she plays u—lets herself drown in the pain, the rawness, the brutal honesty. She don’t skip past the hard parts. She sits in them. Feels them. It’s therapy in the form of rhyme.
When she’s up, it’s Alright on repeat, windows down, wind in her hair, her voice loud, defiant. “We gon’ be alright.” Yeah. She believes it. She has to.
She’s had friends who don’t get it. Who hear To Pimp a Butterfly and say, “It’s too deep, too heavy.” But that’s the point. She doesn’t want surface-level. She wants truth. And Kendrick gives it to her straight—no filter, no sugarcoating, just poetry wrapped in pain, in power, in pride.
She remembers the first time she saw him live. The stage bathed in red light, his silhouette sharp, mic gripped tight. The moment he said, “This for everybody who’s ever felt unseen, unheard, unworthy,” she felt her chest tighten. Because that was her. And here was Kendrick, reminding her that her story mattered.
She don’t just listen to Kendrick. She lives by his words.
When she needs wisdom, she plays Mortal Man and questions loyalty, legacy, the weight of being a leader.
When she needs to move, it’s King Kunta, feet hitting the pavement, shoulders rolling to the beat.
When she needs to dream, it’s Duckworth, marveling at the way fate turns on the smallest decisions.
People ask her, “Why Kendrick?” And she just smiles. Because if you gotta ask, you don’t get it.
But she does.
She’s down with Kendrick. And that means she’s down with truth. With power. With the revolution wrapped in rhythm.
And that means she’s never alone.
