She is tall, short, thin and round. She is a young college student who thinks she can save the world with a bachelor’s or master’s degree. She is an old grandmother who has the seen the horrors of the world through eyes that now only want to see the sun set one more time. Her skin is the color of mocha, caramel and vanilla. Her hair is straight and long, short and kinky, braided and locked – not in dread, but with pride. She is me. I walked with my mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, cousins and best friends. We are not related by blood, but by spirit. I had the honor of making history by attending the Million Woman March in Philadelphia Saturday. At the time, I did not know what to expect from myself or from the 45 total strangers I would be on a bus with for about 18 hours.On the bus, I was surrounded by women I did not personally know, some I had never seen in my three years at Ohio State. Though we were all brought together to pledge sisterhood to one another, I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness and awkwardness. Loneliness because I had not yet formed friendships with any of them and often sat alone and watched them talk among themselves – wishing I were a part of their conversation. Awkwardness because I was not a part of their world. I was not supposed to feel this way. I wanted to run to these black women and say, “I love you though I don’t know you.” I wanted to march with my sisters, hold hands, embrace and sing songs of hope and pride. But for the remainder of the bus ride, I sat in a cramped seat, wishing I were home instead, watching the whole event on CNN.My whole outlook changed when I opened my eyes to find the gothic buildings of downtown Philadelphia encircling me. At 7:30 a.m., black women were already stepping along the streets to the beat of African drums. Those beats would guide us several blocks down Benjamin Franklin Parkway and introduce us to our other sisters. Children, as young as 3-years-old, grasp their mother’s hand and struggle to keep up. A struggle we, as black women, know all too well, I thought. Women with canes and walkers seemed to move with the ease they once had in their youth. Some thoughtful women I traveled with offered to allow me to walk with them. I clung to them and we learned about each others reasons for attending the march. For many, the march represented a day of atonement. For me, I just wanted to know the answer to the simple question, “Could it be done?” Yes, it can. I was standing in the pond of hope, pride, and ambition and listened to the spirit of women who had seen more struggle and oppression in their lives than I could imagine in all of my twenty years. I gathered their hope for me into my arms and swallowed it with a glass of their pride. I promise to keep that hope alive and pass it on to my children. I grew sad as time would carry me back home. I turned away because it would be too painful to watch the black women disband and return to their respective lives. I did not want the spirit of my sisters to leave me. Then I realized it would not. The spirit of my sisters will be with me always.