Expired Anthems and the Sound of Grown Women
There’s a reason Jill Scott’s “Pressha” lands differently for grown women.
It’s not nostalgia.
It’s not sentimentality.
It’s recognition.
And to be clear—this isn’t music I can’t relate to because I never lived that life. I’m in my 40s. I’ve lived plenty. I’ve dated. I’ve loved. I’ve wanted. I’ve compromised. I’ve done the emotional gymnastics, the late-night conversations, the hopeful rewrites, the quiet disappointments. I’ve been desired. I’ve been chosen. I’ve been hidden. I’ve been tired.
I’ve already done that chapter.
I’ve Lived That Life. I’m Good.
So when I hear much of today’s music aimed at women, it doesn’t feel foreign—it feels expired. I’m not interested in fighting another woman over a man who doesn’t have the emotional range to choose either of us properly. I’m not hunting for a rich man to fund my plastic surgery, my rent, my wardrobe, my nails, or my self-worth. In my 40s, I’m not competing with women over beauty; my joints and my peace have already clocked out. And I don’t believe empowerment requires announcing that every man wants me and every woman wants to be me. That level of self-mythology feels exhausting, not liberating.
Then there’s the constant sexual ranking—the lyrical Olympics around who’s the best at what, who gives the most, who outperforms everyone else. I don’t relate. Not because I’m disconnected from my body, but because I’m no longer interested in turning intimacy into a competition or marketing myself like a product. I don’t need to prove I’m exceptional in bed to feel powerful. That’s not liberation—that’s just another job with no benefits.
Finally. Someone Told the Truth.
What Jill Scott offers in “Pressha” is something rarer: honesty. She names the weight grown women carry quietly—the pressure to be everything, hold everything, absorb everything, and still make it look graceful. She understands what it feels like to realize you weren’t rejected because you lacked value, but because your fullness didn’t fit someone else’s image. You weren’t the aesthetic. You weren’t the accessory. You were real.
Gen X women grew up translating expectations. Be independent but not threatening. Sexy but respectable. Strong but silent. Pressure wasn’t an event—it was the environment.
So when Jill sings about it, she’s not dramatizing. She’s documenting.
The Loud Years Are Over.
That’s why “Pressha” matters. It speaks to women who’ve already lived the loud years and are now protecting their peace. Women who don’t need to perform confidence to know their worth. Women who are done repeating lessons just because the beat is catchy.
This isn’t about judging younger women or dismissing their music. It’s about honoring seasonality. Every stage of womanhood doesn’t need the same soundtrack.
Some of us don’t want an anthem about being the baddest.
We want music that understands what it took to get here—and why we’re finally choosing lighter weight.
“Pressha” is the second single from To Whom This May Concern, Jill Scott’s forthcoming album, arriving February 13 via her independent label, Blues Babe Records, with distribution through The Orchard—grown woman music, released on grown woman terms.
This op-ed is dedicated to my beautiful cousin Kemba Miles, the only person who loved Jill Scott more than I do. She passed away on December 27, 2025, and it still doesn’t sit right that she won’t get to hear this new chapter of Jill’s music—won’t text, call, or discuss these new lyrics. Writing this felt like finishing a conversation we didn’t get to complete. I hear “Pressha” and think of her immediately. This one is for Kemba—because she would’ve understood exactly why it hits the way it does.
