Remember when Juneteenth used to feel like freedom?
Not just the historical kind—the day in 1865 when Union troops finally arrived in Galveston, Texas, to inform the last remaining enslaved people in the U.S. that they were free, more than two years after the Emancipation Proclamation—but a lived, present-tense kind of freedom.
For decades, Juneteenth was a celebration I could feel in my bones. A full-sensory, multi-generational party. There were cookouts that went all night long, concerts in city parks, kids running through sprinklers, grandmas telling stories, TV specials highlighting Black artists and leaders, church choirs singing freedom songs. It was a holiday Black communities created and sustained ourselves, even when the rest of the country ignored it.
And then, for a moment, everything shifted.
In 2021, Juneteenth became a federal holiday. On paper, this was a major victory. After decades of advocacy, the country had finally acknowledged what so many of us already knew: that Juneteenth marked a moment of both unspeakable injustice and radical resilience. There was a collective sense that maybe we were turning a corner.
But here we are in 2025, and Juneteenth feels different again.
It’s still being acknowledged, technically. Some companies still give the day off. A few news anchors will give it a passing nod. But the soul of the holiday feels quieter. And not in the good, contemplative way. In the uneasy, looking-over-your-shoulder kind of way.
Ask around, and you’ll hear the same thing: “It just feels toned down this year.”
And that’s not a coincidence.
Since the racial reckoning of 2020, we’ve watched a slow, deliberate backlash gain momentum. Where once there were DEI statements and book lists, now there are lawsuits and budget cuts. In statehouses across the country, laws have been passed banning conversations about systemic racism, “divisive concepts,” and so-called “critical race theory.” In higher education, DEI departments have been dismantled. In some places, public institutions are being told that even acknowledging racial inequities could threaten their funding.
What does that have to do with Juneteenth? A lot, actually.
Juneteenth is not just a historical footnote. It’s a cultural mirror. Celebrating it means acknowledging that freedom was delayed. That injustice can be written into the very structures of a society. That Black Americans have had to fight for rights that were supposedly already ours.
And when the political climate starts punishing institutions for acknowledging racial injustice, holidays like Juneteenth start to become casualties, too.
I’ve heard from friends who work at organizations that used to put on big Juneteenth events—panel discussions, volunteer opportunities—who’ve been told to keep it low-key this year. “We don’t want to be seen as political,” they’re told. Or: “We’re just going to share a graphic and leave it at that.”
In other words: We’re backing away.
And the thing is, the people who say that probably don’t even realize how familiar that silence is.
For Black Americans, this kind of retreat isn’t new. It’s part of the pattern. The same institutions that want to celebrate Black culture when it’s convenient are often the first to go quiet when it’s costly. The same companies that rushed to observe Juneteenth in 2021 are now afraid it might hurt their bottom line.
But Juneteenth wasn’t built on permission. It was built on memory. On family. On faith. On resistance.
It’s why, even in this quieter moment, Black communities are still showing up.
In some ways, the shift away from corporate-sponsored Juneteenth might be a blessing in disguise. With fewer glossy, surface-level acknowledgments dominating the spotlight, there’s space again for the real thing: local, grassroots, community-centered celebrations. I’ve seen more churches organizing teach-ins and worship nights focused on justice and liberation. More families gathering for intentional meals where they tell the full story—not just of 1865, but of their own elders and ancestors.
Juneteenth is evolving, yes. But it’s not disappearing.
If anything, this moment is a reminder of what the holiday has always been about: not simply marking the end of slavery, but proclaiming that Black freedom is sacred, ongoing and still worth fighting for.
As a Black Christian, I can’t separate Juneteenth from my faith. The biblical story is full of moments where God commands people to remember. Not just privately, but publicly. Not just intellectually, but communally. The Israelites were told to celebrate Passover every year, not because they might forget the facts, but because they might forget the feeling—the embodied reality of liberation.
Juneteenth is that kind of celebration. A living memory. A spiritual act.
So yes, it feels different in 2025. The national energy that once surrounded the holiday has been replaced with caution, even avoidance.
But that doesn’t mean the story is over.
The thing about Juneteenth is, it was never just about who showed up. It was about why we gathered. It was about who we became when we told the truth about our history and refused to let it be erased.
And this year, even if it’s a smaller circle, I’ll still be remembering. I’ll still be hoping. I’ll still be celebrating.
