This is Red092, and today I want to talk about something that has been weighing heavy on my heart since the tragedy involving Dacara Thompson. For those who may not have followed her story, Dacara was once missing, and later news confirmed her death. What stood out to me more than anything was not just the heartbreak of losing another young Black woman, but the way our community responded.
I have noticed a pattern, and maybe you have too. Whenever a Black woman goes missing or is harmed, the first thing that gets questioned isn’t just where is she or how can we help—it’s her character. People start asking why she was there, who she was with, or what she was doing out. Instead of comfort and compassion, there’s a rush to judgment. And I have to say, this feels very different when we compare it to how society reacts when women of other races go missing.
When a white woman is in danger, the story is usually met with outrage and sympathy first. Nobody leads with questions about whether she made “bad choices.” Even if she was in the wrong place, even if she was with the wrong people, society tends to put its focus on finding her and demanding justice. For Black women, though, it too often feels like we have to fight through criticism before we are allowed to receive any real support.
Why Does It Matter Where She Was?
This is the question I keep asking: Why does it matter where she was if someone harmed her? The fact that a woman is missing or hurt should be enough for us to demand answers, for us to protect her memory, and for us to stand with her family. Wrong place or not, wrong time or not—no one deserves violence. Yet in the Black community, I see people pile on with lectures and accusations even in moments of grief.
Yes, we can all agree that prevention matters. We want to teach our children to be safe, to know their surroundings, and to avoid dangerous situations. But prevention should never be used as a weapon against grieving families. A mother who just lost her daughter doesn’t need to hear a thousand voices saying what should have been done. She already knows her child is never coming home. That grief is enough to carry.
Let’s be real. This double standard is painful. When tragedies strike other communities, the focus is support. Vigils are held, news stations repeat their names, and families receive waves of compassion. For Black families, the focus shifts almost immediately to blame. Why didn’t she do this? Why was she with them? Why was she out late? It becomes less about justice and more about judgment. And it’s not just outsiders pointing fingers. Too often, it’s us—our own community—who are the first to tear down the victim instead of lifting up their family. I have seen it happen repeatedly, and every time it leaves me asking why we don’t show each other the same grace and compassion we see extended elsewhere.
Here’s what I believe: there’s a time for teaching and a time for mourning. When someone is missing, our priority should be finding them. When someone has passed away, our priority should be supporting their loved ones. After that, yes, we can have conversations about prevention and tougher love for our children. We can talk about accountability, safety, and choices. But in the moment of tragedy, support has to come first. We forget sometimes that grief itself is already a teacher. A mother doesn’t need to be reminded of what could have been done differently—she is living with that question every day for the rest of her life. What she needs is community, comfort, and solidarity.
I’m not saying this to ignore the real issues our community faces. We do need to raise our children with awareness. We do need to teach them that the world is not always safe. But let’s not confuse awareness with blame. We can address problems without tearing down the very people we claim to protect. The truth is, tragedies like Dacara’s should unite us, not divide us. They should remind us of the value of every Black life and the need to uplift each other, even in the hardest times. Blame doesn’t heal wounds. Compassion does.
At the end of the day, Dacara Thompson was someone’s daughter. A mother is left without her child. That fact alone should be enough to silence the judgment and spark empathy. As Black women, and as a community, we deserve to be grieved without conditions. We deserve the same compassion that others receive without question.
So I ask you—next time tragedy strikes, can we show up with love first? Can we withhold the lectures and the finger-pointing until the dust settles? Because grief is heavy enough without carrying the weight of judgment too.
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I don’t think people asking questions about why she was out there or what the circumstances were is always about blaming her or tearing her down. Sometimes, it’s about trying to make sense of what happened so that the rest of us—especially women—can protect ourselves.
We need to know if this was a situation where a stranger was targeting women at random, because that means all of us need to be extra cautious. Or was it a case where she trusted someone she shouldn’t have, and it ended in tragedy? If it’s the latter, then as painful as it is, that lesson can still help other women make safer choices.
To me, asking these questions isn’t about being racist or judgmental. It’s about truth. The public deserves to know the full story, not to gossip, but to understand the dangers around us. If we stay in the dark, women everywhere end up living in fear without clarity.
At the same time, I agree that timing matters. A grieving mother doesn’t need to hear speculation and finger-pointing. But eventually, facts do need to come out—not to dishonor the victim, but to make sure her death isn’t in vain and that others can learn from what happened.
I say this with compassion in my heart: this was a terrible loss, and no one deserves what happened. But the truth is still important, and knowing the circumstances can bring both closure to the family and awareness to the community.
@LeahJ.
It’s still rude when that is not the most important thing to talk about at that moment someone has lost a child.
@Dede I am sorry you feel that way just my opinion
Lady in Red 092, I couldn’t agree with you more. Everything you said is exactly what I’ve been thinking but didn’t know how to put into words. It hurts to see how quick people are to judge when a tragedy happens in our community. Instead of rallying around the family, offering love, or pushing for justice, the first instinct too often is to question the victim’s choices. That’s not right.
You’re absolutely right that if this were another race, the narrative would look completely different. We’ve all seen it: national news coverage, vigils, hashtags, and endless compassion poured out for women who were also in dangerous or questionable situations. Nobody picked apart their decisions before offering support. For us, it feels like we have to prove our worthiness of empathy, and that is heartbreaking.
I’m glad this conversation is happening because it really forces us to look in the mirror. What you said, Lady in Red 092, rings true in so many ways. Still, I think part of the reason we see so much finger-pointing when tragedies hit our community is because pain often shows up as criticism. People don’t always know how to channel grief or fear into compassion, so it comes out as harsh words.
But here’s the reality: that harshness doesn’t ease the pain. It doesn’t bring daughters back, it doesn’t heal mothers’ hearts, and it doesn’t make the community stronger. If anything, it divides us at the exact moment we need unity most.
You mentioned the double standard, and I think that’s undeniable. The way missing Black women are covered compared to missing white women has been documented time and time again. One story becomes a national crisis, while the other barely gets local coverage—and even then, it comes laced with suspicion and blame. That’s not just unfair, it’s dangerous, because it shapes how seriously cases are taken and how urgently justice is pursued.
At the end of the day, we have to start practicing radical empathy. When tragedy strikes, we need to remind ourselves that the family’s loss is greater than any lesson we want to teach. Lessons can wait—support can’t.
I hear what you’re saying, Lady in Red 092, and I agree with a lot of it. But I also think some of the criticism we see in our community doesn’t always come from a place of malice—it sometimes comes from fear. Many of us grew up hearing tough love from parents and elders because they’ve seen how dangerous the world can be for Black women. So when tragedy strikes, some people rush to point out “what went wrong” as a way of trying to prevent it from happening again.
Now, I don’t think that makes it right, especially when a family is grieving. Like you said, timing is everything. A mother doesn’t need lectures when she’s burying her daughter. But I do think a lot of this comes from a protective instinct, even if it comes out the wrong way.
Lady in Red 092, you really touched on something powerful here. I’ve noticed the same exact pattern, and it breaks my heart every time. Too often, when it’s a Black woman’s life on the line, the conversation shifts straight into criticism instead of compassion. People want to dissect her choices, her whereabouts, or who she was with—when the real issue should be that another sister’s life was taken or harmed.
You’re right—other communities don’t face this same immediate judgment. Families are given space to grieve, the media rallies, and the main focus is justice and recovery. But for us, it’s like the world wants us to prove innocence or perfection even in our darkest moments. That’s not fair, and it’s not humane.
I think part of this problem is rooted in how society has been conditioned to see Black women as “resilient” or “strong” to the point that empathy gets withheld. People forget we are human, that our families bleed the same, that our mothers hurt just as deeply. Compassion shouldn’t have conditions attached to it.
You also made a good point about timing. Yes, prevention and accountability matter—but not at the funeral, not while a mother is mourning, and not while a family is still in shock. The first response should be support, and the lessons can come later, when people have the space to reflect.
Thank you for saying out loud what so many of us have felt but didn’t always have the words to express. This is exactly why these conversations are needed—because until we start demanding compassion for our community the same way it’s shown elsewhere, nothing changes.