This week, I went through a whirlwind of emotions—yes, whirlwind. That’s the word. It captures the highs and lows, the unpredictable moments, the shared grief, reflection, and the surprising grace that shaped these past few days. All these feelings—they live in pictures.

Picture this: an artist gifted in creating larger-than-life floral and celebratory installations-roses, sunflowers, and even huge gift boxes with perfect bows. I found one of her creations buried among the thousands of photos on my phone. I went searching for it after hearing she died—suddenly—of a heart attack. She was in her mid-forties. I’d only seen her two or three times, but every encounter was vibrant. She was joyful, always present, always tweaking one last detail so others would want to take a picture beside her work. Her name was Mary. She made an impact. I look at that photo and smile, remembering her smile.

This loss was sudden. Mary was very close to a friend of mine. Mary was central to my friend’s community. When your friend grieves someone central to their world, you grieve with them. And in that shared sorrow, something happens. You become deeply grateful—not just for what you have, but for the very fact that your people are still here. You reflect. You look at your own life, and the things you were grumbling about five minutes ago suddenly don’t matter so much. Perspective shows up, kicks you in the pants—uninvited, but necessary.

Then, another picture: a fire. Not just any fire—the one that consumed Nottoway Plantation, the largest antebellum plantation that was still standing in the United States. A place layered with contradictions, history, and pain. The blaze left it gutted. I studied the photos—before, during, and after. I watched the memes—because TikTok, Threads, and Instagram are unmatched when it comes to irony and reaction. Beyond the satire, there is truth.

No one died in the fire. But that doesn’t erase the deaths that still haunt that land—the men, women, and children who lived, labored, and died under a brutal system of forced servitude. Some say Nottoway is haunted. It should be. The owners memorialized the slave drivers’ quarters. I like to think the spirits of the enslaved were there, too, watching the flames, bearing witness as the restored “Massa’s house” turned to ash.

Nottoway was a tourist site, a wedding venue, a workplace, a symbol. People will be out of work. The state will take an economic hit. These are facts. But there is a deeper truth that sits beside those facts: Nottoway was a sugar plantation. And sugar plantations were among the worst of all plantation systems.

I know this because of the research I did for Sister Mother Warrior and Island Queen. The facts still haunt me:

* The death rate on sugar plantations in the Caribbean and southern states was three to four times higher than on cotton plantations.

* Enslaved people on U.S. cotton plantations had a life expectancy of 30–35 years. On sugar plantations, it was often 10 years or less.

* The work was brutal—cutting cane, operating machinery, surviving the suffocating heat of the boiler houses.

* If you were sentenced to work the boiling vats, it was basically a death sentence. Dehydration, exhaustion, and the relentless heat killed faster than the whip. And that doesn’t count the beatings, the rapes, and the starvation.

I made a post about the fire on Instagram. Most of the responses were respectful. But some fixated on the “grandeur” lost—as if it were Notre Dame. Others insisted I should “get over it.” That all the perpetrators are dead. That the world should move on. Let’s put in pin in this moving notion. I’ll circle back.

Another disturbing image circulating came from still of Nottoway’s scripted tours praising the “humanity” of the plantation, claiming it trained a nurse and built a hospital for the enslaved. That is a lie. There was no formal training. They likely identified a woman who showed skill with herbs and healing and used her ancestorial knowledge. The hospital was not about care—it was about profit. It was cheaper to repair a broken body than to buy a new one. These “hospitals” weren’t acts of mercy. They were maintenance hubs for human chattel.

One of the worst stories I came across still wakes me up at night. A method of execution used on some sugar plantations: the “sugar death.” An enslaved person would be buried up to the neck in sand. Then, boiling sugar syrup was poured over their exposed skin—usually the head. The syrup burned and blistered, but that wasn’t the end. The spilled sugar attracted the ants. The person would die slowly, in excruciating pain, as ants devoured them alive. It was sadism as spectacle. A warning. A lesson. A horror.

How exactly do you “get over” that? How do you erase the knowledge that human beings chose to do that to others—and passed it on, generation after generation? How do you get over knowing that, given the chance, there are people today who would do the same?

But then, a final image. This saved my writing week. It was a photo of frolic. Two Black women—one in a sleek column dress, the other in a romantic, flowy one—running joyfully through a green field in Vatican City. The sun is shining. I imagine the smell of olives in the air, the promise of wine at sunset. Gayle King and Oprah, radiant, laughing, free. That image brought me back to smiling Mary. Not because it was glamorous, but because it reminded me of joy, personal joy.

We need joy. We need moments of frolic. In the middle of pain, of grief, of hard histories—we have to fight for joy. We must protect it, speak to it, defend it. Frolicking is resistance. It’s choosing self, choosing family, choosing rest, choosing humanity.

So yes—we mourn. We reflect. We carry reverence for the past, the true past. But we must also touch grass, run barefoot through a field, choosing self, friends, and family.

To those who are grieving, I offer this: find one photo. One memory. One moment that brings you joy. Hold on to it. Then look for more. Or make more, one moment at a time.

Books that can help you focus on joy and history in meaningful ways are:

Before I Let Go by Kennedy RyanA second-chance romance that explores grief, healing, and Black joy.

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel WilkersonEpic account of the Great Migration—deeply researched and emotionally charged.

What the Fireflies Knew by Kai HarrisA coming-of-age story told through the eyes of a young Black girl navigating grief and growing up in 1990s Michigan.

The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store by James McBrideA community of outsiders in 1920s Pottstown, PA, comes together around a hidden deaf boy—tender, funny, and full of humanity.

And of course

Island Queen: A historical novel based on the real-life rise of Dorothy Kirwan Thomas—her rise from enslavement to one of the wealthiest women in the Caribbean.

Sister Mother Warrior: An epic saga of resistance, sisterhood, and revolution—based on the true story of the women who helped shape the Haitian fight for freedom.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Hub City Books through their website and Bookshop.org

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

If this essay touched you or lit a spark, show some love—hit like and subscribe to Write of Passage!”

Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

Funny thing happens when you go outside.You notice that everything is still moving—still shifting, still becoming—and no matter how much I want it to revolve around me, the earth does its own thing. That’s humbling. That’s sobering. And yes, at times, alittle infuriating. Because I want to believe that if I just dream hard enough, andwork long enough, and sacrifice deep enough, the outcome will be what I want it to be.

That’s the narrative, right? Manifest it. Hustle for it. Build it and it will show up.

But I’m a novelist. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from writing story after story, it’s this: you can do everything right and still be surprised by the ending.

I begin my novels with a solid outline. I do deep dives into my characters—their goals, their beliefs, their relationships, and internalized lies. Yes, the lies we carry. The ones that sit rotting in our guts. They’re the lenses through which we interpret everything.

You’re smart… Smart for a girl. That builds a complex—not about excelling, just about measuring up.Men don’t cry… So they keep loss inside until it breaks them.

You get the picture.

For each character, I must know the lies they’ve accepted as truth, the wounds they carry that must be healed by the journey or story arc. These are full psychological profiles that I develop, mind you. I’m thorough. I think I know these imagined or fictionalized versions of real people better than they know themselves.

And still—those characters go off and do whatever the heck they want to do. They have free will.These changes—the veering off course—happen in a world I designed. And in some aspects, I’m their creator.

If this happens in fiction—fiction—why do I expect real life to follow a given path?

This is where we, as creatives, have to hold two truths at once: We have incredible power to imagine and make. And we have almost no control over how the world will respond. That is not a contradiction. That is your calling.

This is the battle. Creativity is under assault. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Books are being banned. Funding is being slashed. Whole histories are being erased or whitewashed. And in my case, as I’ve shared openly with you words, I need to use for my stories are being banned. (See podcast episode- Welcome to Censorship)

But despite all that—people are still painting. Still writing, publishing, creating. We still feed our families and their spirits with meals inspired by faraway places.

I may make more food at home right now, but with lovely spices? Oh, they’re Caribbean, Italian, French, Indian. I’m not limited. We are not limited.

And I refuse to give away my power because someone with a louder megaphone thinks yelling is the same as truth.

Recently, the world changed again: We have a new pope.

A 133 cardinal electors gathered in the Sistine Chapel to choose to choose him. Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost of Chicago, Illinois, has been elected the 267th pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church. He will be known as Pope Leo XIV—the first pope ever from the United States.

An American pope. From Chicago. A man of Creole, Haitian, and Black ancestry. And while this isn’t the first Black pope—history records at least three others:Pope Victor I (189–199), Pope Miltiades (311–314), and Pope Gelasius I (492–496).

This election still matters. Why? Because no one saw it coming. Because he is from here. Because he chose the name Leo XIV—following Pope Leo XIII, the pope who denounced slavery. In a world trying so hard to erase the past, that choice feels like a restoration. A breath of truth. A puff of white smoke in a sky of dirty smog and denial.

This is what hope looks like: a surprise rooted in deep legacy. A story arc no one plotted, but that landed with power.

Now, let’s be real about the work ahead Shake off the shackles. Listen to hard truths.

For authors and creators out there—especially us Black folks:

* No one owes you anything.Not an award, not a list spot, not a book sale, not a post about your personal life—not even a selfie.

* As an author, you have to earn every bit of support, every accolade, every “yes.”That’s the job.

* As a Black author, the grind is steeper.You can’t coast on past wins. You’ve got to win readers over—again and again.

* If you’re not where you want to be—cry, scream, kick a pillow.But don’t quit. And don’t compare. You don’t know the price someone else paid to get what they got.Be thankful for where you are and who’s standing beside you.

* Keep writing. Keep connecting. Keep striving.Earn it. Build it. Own it.

* Grow the bucket list. Manifest it all.You deserve every win—because I know you’re putting in the work. I’m rooting for you.

The world keeps turning. It’s not waiting for me or you. But that’s not terrible. It means we’re part of something bigger than the moment. It means our stories, our voices, our presence—matter.

Because even when everything feels unpredictable, we still have the power to show up and create—and make something unexpected happen.

And it will feel good and satisfying, even if you are the only one clapping.

Books to help you on your writing and creative journey:

Awaking the Hero Within by Carol S. Pearson

Examines archetypes and how they shape not just stories but our personal transformations

Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert

Encourages writers and creators to keep going, to trust inspiration, and to work without guarantees.

In the Wake: On Blackness and Being by Christina Sharpe

A haunting, brilliant reflection on Black life, history, and navigating systems built to erase.

And Preorders are up fo for my next historical fiction, Fire Sword and Sea. This is A dangerous 1600s Pirate Saga unmasking the truth about women, desire, and freedom. Some folks want to ban this story—so read it first.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting 44th and 3rd Bookstore through their website and Bookshop.org

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

If you felt seen or inspired today, like and subscribe to Write of Passage—there’s a place for you here.

Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe

To step away from my desk, from writing, usually takes intention—an obligation, an appointment, an event.

But this weekend, instead of rushing back to my hotel room to work, I took a walk in the city that never sleeps

.

New York City is magic. The lights and screens can mesmerize for hours. The hustlers are everywhere, each chasing their own dream with a specific kind of determination. I melted into the crowd—a sea of people, heads tilted down, grimaces in place, walking like they’re late to a very important date.

And yet, as I shuffled forward, I walked with purpose. Certain of my own hustle. Certain that, like the waves of moving feet around me, I’m going somewhere important.

Even though these times feel tense and nerve-wracking, this too shall fade. The question is: Who will you be when revival comes?

I suggest you should be out walking. Walking to your own tune. Strolling between memory lane and adventure street.

We can’t let depression and deadlines keep us trapped on a treadmill to nowhere. We need to be out, moving, seeing the sights, meeting the moment head-on.

Downtown New York. Times Square—it’s still vibrant, still electric with people, places, and possibility. One of the places I wandered off to was Broadway. I scraped up pennies and last minute tickets to take in a Broadway Show. My daughter and I caught Gypsy.

Gypsy—the revival—is based on the memoirs of burlesque star Gypsy Rose Lee. Originally adapted by Arthur Laurents, with music by Jule Styne and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, the show first hit Broadway in 1959.

Gypsy follows the struggles of a showbiz mother, Rose, and her two daughters: the sweet, spotlighted June and the awkward Louise. Rose devotes her life to making them stars in a vaudeville world that’s fading fast.

Rose is the ultimate dreamer—the pushiest of mothers, hell-bent on creating success in a season that’s disappearing as quickly as a stripper’s costume.

Gypsy—the cast, the costumes—and especially Audra McDonald—blew us away.

Six-time Tony Award winner, now the most-nominated performer in theater history, Audra stepped into the iconic shoes of Momma Rose—a role made legendary by Ethel Merman, Angela Lansbury, Patti LuPone. And she did it with poise, passion, and a voice that reached the heavens.

For the first time, Rose and her daughters are being played by Black women.

And it feels right.

After all, I grew up with a Mama Rose of my own—down South, with big dreams and high expectations. She had color, attitude, ambition, and love. All of that minus the Gypsy Rose stripping.

And in the legendary Majestic Theatre, we, my daughter and I, took in the chandeliers, the molding, the velvet drapery. The lights dimmed. The orchestra began. And we were swept away—into songs we half-remembered, dances we instinctively tapped to, that wonder that fills you when you let the noise fall away and become part of the show.

This was my daughter first show and she loved every moment.

And sadly, if one doesn’t count off-Broadway shows and church basement productions, this viewing was my first too. I loved it but it’s bittersweet to think of the moments I missed because I chose a different, probably work related path.

And yet I refuse to beat myself up on the Shoulda, would’ve could’ves that befall us. I went with my daughter now. That’s what matters. And as we left we hummed:

Together, Wherever We Go

Wherever we go, whatever we do,

We’re gonna go through it together.

We may not go far, but sure as a star,

Wherever we are, we’re stronger together.

I tweak the lyrics. What can I say, but I’m a writer.

Everything’s Coming Up Roses

I had a dream, a wonderful dream about you.

It’s gonna come true.

They think that we’re through, but…

Nothing’s gonna stop us ‘til we’re through!

Everything’s coming up roses for me and for you!

And now, as I sit on this plane, writing to you, my weekly essay, I hope I’ve passed on something else too.

That it’s okay to take a walk.

That it’s okay to step away from duty, from deadlines, from stress—even just for a few minutes.

That rest and joy are worth chasing just as hard as success.

That it’s okay to fail, as long as we keep dreaming.

My hope is that we all learn to capture that feeling—that joy of being lost in the moment. Of humming. Of strumming our fingers to the rhythm of wonder. Of letting the songs in our soul rise again—when we take care of ourselves.

Even if it’s just with a little walk.

Books that can help you disconnect in meaningful ways are:

Fosse by Sam Wasson

A sweeping biography of Bob Fosse that explores the grind, passion, and price of perfection in the performing arts.

The Women Who Raised Me by Victoria Rowell

Memoir of a actress raised by foster mothers—explores nontraditional maternal love, ambition, and support.

All About Love by bell hooks

This book is about love—for yourself , your children, your lives. This book is the emotional underpinning to a loving journey.

Rest Is Resistance: A Manifesto by Tricia Hersey

Talks about rest as a form of liberation, especially for Black women.

Listen to the album, Sing Happy by Audra McDonald and the NewYork Philharmonic

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Bookmarks NC through their website and Bookshop.org

You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

Let’s keep resting and rising together—please like, subscribe to stay connected to Write of Passage

Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley.

This is a public episode. If you’d like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit vanessariley.substack.com/subscribe