February is Black History Month, a time set aside to reflect on the people and stories that have shaped our nation. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to see it not only as a moment to look back, but as an invitation to listen—to voices shaped by experiences different from my own.

I didn’t grow up in an environment rich with diversity. As an adult, I’ve had to learn the value of different perspectives—of giving space, of listening, and of recognizing that some of the most important lessons come not from books, but from people willing to share their lived experience.

For me, one of those teachers was a woman named Dorothy Height—not the famous civil rights activist, but an advocate in her own right.

Dorothy served on the board of an organization I led, and she was a powerhouse. She introduced me to segments of my community I didn’t know and held space for me in rooms that were not due me—rooms where trust had to be earned, and where listening mattered far more than speaking, especially as a younger, white woman.

She was one of the most elegant and well-spoken Black women I had ever met. Dorothy carried herself with strength, pride in purpose, and a quiet contentment rooted in her principles. She had lived through moments in history, including the Civil Rights Movement, and she had also experienced deep personal loss. She lived with lupus for more than twenty years and, even then, created a lupus awareness initiative in my hometown—turning personal struggle into service.

When Dorothy said, “Let me tell you something,” you stopped talking and listened. Those words were never casual. While planning Senior Power Day at the Statehouse, she looked at me and said, “Let me tell you something—you need two buses.” I paused. We had never taken more than ten people before, certainly never two full-size charter buses. She didn’t pause. I wasn’t sure. She was. And she filled them.

Dorothy understood people. She knew how to bring them together, how to inspire participation, and how to turn concern into action. That kind of leadership doesn’t come from position—it comes from trust, credibility, and years of showing up.

That is the long view of aging.

Many Black older adults are not simply students of history; they are living history. Their lives reflect change that was often slow, difficult, and never guaranteed. Aging, in this context, is not just about time passing. It is about memory, endurance, and the steady work of carrying truth forward.

Dorothy shaped the way I understand history—not as something finished or distant, but as something carried by people still among us. Black History Month reminds us that these stories are not confined to textbooks or anniversaries; they live in people, and our responsibility is to listen while we still can.