Aired on Lifetime in March 2025
First, let me say this:
This isn’t a review. I’m not a film analyst.
I don’t dissect camera angles or critique performances.
But I am a member of the target audience.
I’m a Black woman.
A Black mother.
A Black sister.
A Black auntie.
And once upon a time… I was a Black girl.
I watched Black Girl Missing, and suddenly, I was her again.
The little girl holding in tears, hiding behind good grades.
The one always being told to be “better,” but never told she was enough.
The one no one ever really listened to.
And by the time the credits rolled?
I clutched my pearls.
And my heart ached in too many directions to count.
EARLY TRAUMA
I remember the pressure.
In school. At home. In every corner of my childhood.
The pressure to be the smartest.
The pressure to ace every test.
The pressure to “be like your big sister” or “be more like Irna.”
Like being Keilah never stood a chance.
I remember being told, “You need to go to college so you can be better.”
Better than who?
Because whoever I was in that moment… clearly wasn’t good enough.
I remember feeling unseen, unheard, and emotionally dismissed.
Every feeling I had was “dramatic.” Every struggle, “made up.”
In the film, Lauren tries to explain that she’s overwhelmed and depressed.
And what does her mother do?
She downplays it. Ignores it.
Tells her how disappointed her dead father would be if she dropped out.
Sound familiar?
In our culture, parents can be unintentionally manipulative.
They don’t always see it, and even when they do—correction rarely follows.
Even when a child is old enough to speak up, it’s still viewed as disrespect.
Sheryl did it to Marley too.
Only difference? She realized it after the damage was already done.
THE PRESSURE
That pressure to excel academically never went away.
It just grew up with me.
It’s still there, whispering, “You’re already a failure.”
It’s in every moment I doubt myself.
In every voice that says, “You’ll never be enough.”
Wanting me to become someone else robbed me of knowing how to just be me.
Now I battle with self-worth, self-trust, and the constant urge to overperform.
That pressure created a monster I still fight today:
Never knowing when enough… is actually enough.
In the film, Cheryl tells her daughter an A- isn’t good enough.
Even after Marley admits how hard she’s trying to stay afloat.
She’s new.
She’s the vice principal’s daughter.
She’s a kid, asking for understanding.
And again—her words fall on deaf ears.
Parents, listen to your kids.
With your ears.
With your heart.
With your mind.
This world is already pressing them down.
Don’t be the added weight.
Be the release.
THE LACK OF IMPORTANCE
This… this part is what cut deepest.
Because it’s still happening.
Every single day.
Little brown girls go missing.
And nobody notices.
No AMBER Alert.
No national headlines.
No FBI task force.
Just hashtags in the wind.
Just TikToks begging for reach.
Not playing a race card. Just speaking truth.
In 2025, Black, Brown, and Olive kids still go unseen by the mainstream.
The missing flyers circulate through church groups and cousin chats—but never on CNN.
And yes… we can do more.
We must do more.
THEY should do more…
…but they won’t until WE do.
These girls are still missing.
Still overlooked.
Still unrecognized.
The names read at the end of the film?
Still gone.
Still unknown.
That broke me.
The fact that I didn’t recognize a single name?
Shattered me.
The fact that one of those girls is from my own state?
Troubled me to my core.
What if it were your daughter?
Your niece?
Your sister?
Your cousin?
Would you care more?
Would you share more?
Would you fight harder?
So why wait until it reaches your bloodline?
Why not before it reaches your door?
This film was powerful.
Necessary.
And yet—it flew under the radar.
Unheard of.
Need I say more?
Kae Jaye The Writer 