Part 3: The Personal Story Shared by Stacey Abrams

This essay is adapted from the talk Stacey Abrams gave at the Women Winning event in Minneapolis in June

When I ran for governor of Georgia in 2018, I became the first Black woman in American history to earn the nomination for governor from a major political party. I didn’t win that election, but I learned something important: losing an election is not the same as losing your purpose. Titles may come and go, but the work remains. That lesson has guided me throughout my life, and it began long before I entered politics.

When my family moved to Georgia, my parents were pursuing what I jokingly call “permanent poverty.” My mother was a librarian, and my father had worked in a shipyard before they both answered the call to become Methodist ministers. They were raising six children while working full time, attending school full time, and trying to build a better future for our family. We never had much money, but what we lacked in wealth, we made up for in faith, determination, and love.

Just two years after arriving in Georgia, I graduated as the valedictorian of my high school, becoming the first Black student to earn that honor. In Georgia, the valedictorian was invited to the governor’s mansion, and I was thrilled. Like many children, I imagined grand halls, beautiful gardens, and the chance to meet the governor. It felt like recognition that all of my hard work had mattered.

There was just one challenge: my family didn’t own a car. In much of the South, that made getting anywhere difficult because public transportation was — and in many places still is — limited. On the Sunday of the reception, my parents and I boarded a city bus. We rode alongside janitors, caregivers, maids, and others who didn’t have the luxury of taking Sundays off. They were hardworking people doing what they had to do to provide for their families.

When we arrived, we stepped off the bus dressed in our Sunday best. My mother carried her purse. My father stood proudly beside me, encouraging me to hold my head high. Together we walked toward the gates of the governor’s mansion.

A state trooper stood at the entrance with a guest list. But instead of checking the list, he looked at us, glanced at the bus pulling away behind us, and waved another car through the gate. Then another. We waited patiently until he finally turned to us. “This is a private event,” he said. “You’re not allowed here.”

My mother politely explained that I was the valedictorian and had been invited. He didn’t look at the list. He simply repeated that we didn’t belong.

At 17 years old, I was humiliated. Every instinct told me to turn around, run back to the bus stop, and disappear. But my mother gently held onto my arm with a grip that said we weren’t leaving.

She calmly insisted that he check the list. Eventually, perhaps because she and my father refused to back down, he finally looked down at the paper in his hands. There, at the very top of the list, was my name. Without apology, he stepped aside and allowed us to enter.

I don’t remember what the governor said that day. I don’t remember the rooms inside the mansion or the refreshments that were served. What I remember is standing outside the gates of the most powerful home in Georgia while someone looked me in the eye and told me I didn’t belong.

That moment stayed with me because I realized it wasn’t just my story. Every day, millions of Americans encounter people or institutions that tell them they don’t belong — that their voices don’t matter, that their dreams are too big, or that opportunity isn’t meant for them. Sometimes those messages are spoken aloud. Sometimes they’re communicated through closed doors, unfair systems, or quiet acts of exclusion.

My life has been shaped by a determination to prove those messages wrong — not just for myself, but for everyone who has ever been made to feel invisible.

When I served in the Georgia legislature, fought to protect voting rights, and later ran for governor, it was never simply about holding office. It was about strengthening democracy so that every person has the opportunity to participate fully. Democracy is more than an idea; it is something we build through action. It is the foundation that makes every other right possible: access to education, health care, economic opportunity, and justice.

The challenges facing our democracy today remind us that freedom cannot be taken for granted. It depends on citizens who are willing to organize, participate, and hold leaders accountable. It requires communities that refuse to be divided by fear or convinced that some people deserve fewer rights than others.

Throughout my life, my parents taught me what service really looks like. One winter in Mississippi, my father was walking home from work in the freezing rain after his ride failed to pick him up. When my mother and sisters finally found him, he wasn’t wearing his coat. She asked where it had gone, and he quietly replied that he had given it to a homeless man he met along the road.

My sister couldn’t understand why he would give away his only coat. My father simply smiled and said, “He was as cold as I was. He was as wet as I was. But I knew you were coming to take me home.”

That lesson has never left me. Real leadership isn’t about protecting only ourselves. It’s about making sure others can make it home too. It means standing beside those who have been excluded, opening doors that have been closed, and refusing to accept a future where anyone is told they don’t belong.

I may have been the first Black woman nominated for governor by a major political party, but I am determined not to be the last. Progress happens when ordinary people choose courage over comfort and persistence over disappointment. We may not always win on the first attempt, but if we continue doing the work, lifting one another up, and believing in the promise of democracy, we can build a future where every person is welcomed through the gates instead of being left standing outside them.

 

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