There is a time and a season for everything.The real question is: Are you ready to move?

Right now, it’s a scary time to be a Black creative. Honestly, it’s a scary time for everybody in the arts. I’ve shared in a previous episode how the Canva bots came for me — they told me that the word slavery was political and banned in their system of tools.Banning books is all the rage. Banning concepts or ideas — stopping the writer or artist at the very beginning — is unfathomable.

Vanessa speaking at the Conyers Book Festival.

You might say, “Vanessa, AI and bots are just part of the times.” And yes, there are many great uses for AI in research and algorithmic approaches. But until we figure out how to train AI without stealing from artists and writers, we are going to continue to have a problem.

If you tell me that the season we’re in now involves AI writing novels and creating drawings and graphics to replace artists, I will encourage you to consider the following:Nothing can replace human creativity, authenticity, and zeal.Those impacted by theft or imitation must press boundaries, pursue legal actions when necessary, and most importantly — outlast the wave.Sometimes, winning is simply about longevity.

Outlasting your haters is definitely one way to gain victory.

For those who follow me, I’m Vanessa Riley. I write in three genres: historical fiction, historical romance, and mystery.

Lately, in the book world, I’ve seen so many friends — so many writers like myself who focus on history — getting hurt. Series are being cut short. Book options aren’t being picked up. Doors that were once wide open are now being slammed shut.

The reasons are many:They tell us the market is soft.They whisper there are “enough” Black books now.They say history—the kind that reveals hidden figures and rich, complicated lives—is suddenly being gutted, looted, or dismissed.

For someone like me, who loves history and is just now finding my footing in historical fiction, it’s dark. It’s absolutely terrifying.

The visual arts, films, and TV have also suffered. In January, I heard similar feedback from filmmakers.

Hollywood is still “recovering,” they say.Budgets are tighter. Risk tolerance is low.Historical pieces, they say, are too “hard to place”—too expensive, too niche.

And then—everyone gets dazzled by Ryan Coogler’s Sinners, a historical piece set in the 1930s that genre-bends horror and drama.The film is a hit.

Annie and Smoke from the Movie Sinners shot by Eli Joshua.

At the time of this podcast, Sinners has grossed over $161 million and is now projected to gross between $300–400 million. A diverse audience of moviegoers—Black, White, Asian, and more—people from all walks of life are coming together to experience this masterpiece of storytelling.

Ryan Coogler, I salute you. You had a daring vision, found or created the systems and opportunities to execute it, and made magic.

Now is the time of opportunity.

We have to shake off our fears and create.We must figure out new ways to tell the stories burning in our souls.To innovate. To evolve. That is pathFinding way through the wilderness is the answer.

Sinners showed us the way—not just by being excellent in storytelling, photography, cinematography, and research—but by knowing exactly who the story was for.

Ryan and his team pushed the right buttons—the necessary buttons. The heart of the film is Black-centered storytelling: Jim Crow South, inclusivity, and vampires.

Because when you know who you’re speaking to and what you want to say, you don’t have to dilute the truth to make it palatable.

As a Black creative, I’ve often been pressured to center pain and trauma in my stories—because that is what some believe (and still desire) is what sells.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners proves that de-escalating trauma works.It sells.Even in the scariest genres.

He took care in how the story was told.Care in how every scene was shot.Care in the research, the respect.

He cast with authenticity—from hair to skin to clothes to dialogue.He didn’t slap diversity on just for clout—the script lived it.

To succeed only by limiting our stories to an audience that believes in our humanity through our suffering is inexcusable.

We must push boundaries, push different buttons.And I believe it is our mission to find new ways to share the lessons of the past—without reducing ourselves to victims or spectacles.

And if Sinners has taught us anything, it’s this:Audiences will reward care.They will reward newness.They will reward stories told with humanity, dignity, and love.

When I first started writing, my mission was simple:Educate the world about the history of Black people across the diaspora.Show our humanity through love stories.

But missions shift with the seasons.Right now? For me—and this pen or keyboard—it’s time to move, to be more daring, to try new approaches to story.

Looking back, I know there were times I softened words, edited scenes, chose tenderness over rawness—because I wanted to make sure readers were comfortable.I wanted the message to reach as many as possible.And I don’t regret the stories I told. I’m proud of every one of them.

But the filter is gone now.And here’s the hard truth:If you still need convincing of my humanity in 2025, I say this with all respect—You probably aren’t going to get it.Keep your coins.Find your own Damascus road.You need divine intervention.

I’m not St. Peter.I’m not standing at the gate any longer, waiting to explain myself—or my people—to you.If you want my knowledge, you’re going to have to do the work yourself.

This new season? This new phase?My stories will be as unapologetic and as free as they’ve ever been.

Because I am a storyteller.And with that comes a duty:To honor my people.To carry the sagas of our ancestors.To bridge the distance from “over yonder” and back to “right here.”

Of course, I want everyone to feel welcome reading my books.I understand I live in a system I didn’t build—but I’m here, and I intend to win.

But my stories?They’re for my people.

And if you’re still listening, you are my people.I write for you.I labor for you.I see you.

I’m ready to move and adjust.And I will be your guide—to happy-ever-after, happy-for-now, or to some bigger definition of freedom and faith. What say you?

What say you?

Some books to guide you in your quest for more authentic storytelling:

“We Do This ‘Til We Free Us” by Mariame Kaba — Essays on abolition and hope, but also about how storytelling and imagination drive social change.

“Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds” by adrienne maree brown — A guide to embracing change and creativity rooted in community and freedom.

And now some fiction titles:

“The Prophets” by Robert Jones Jr. — A deeply poetic novel about Black love and resistance set during slavery but centered on love and humanity, not suffering.

“Bloodchild and Other Stories” by Octavia Butler — Speculative short stories about survival, community, and power dynamics.

“Ring Shout” by P. Djèlí Clark — A daring, genre-bending novel mixing horror, history, and Black resistance during the Jim Crow era (very much like Sinners).

“Island Queen” by Vanessa Riley — A real-life figure’s story told with dignity, richness, and depth.

Show notes are here. This week, I’m highlighting East City Bookshop through their website and Bookshop.org

You can find my notes on history and writing on my website, VanessaRiley.com.

Enjoying the vibe? Go ahead and like this episode and subscribe to Write of Passage so you never miss a moment.

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

Last week was a weird one. The algorithms—the bots—seemed to come for me. Canva, of all places, led the charge. It made me feel like I wasn’t just wrong in opinion, but wrong in essence. As if the characters I write—rooted in history, full of breath and heart—were somehow unworthy. Handcuff me now, because it felt like I was being told it was a crime to write them at all.

Caption: Two Scaredy-Cats watching the must see movie, Sinners.

And in this current climate? That kind of doubt sticks. There’s so much anti-DEI noise. So much effort to “protect” people from truth. Heaven forbid someone learns something. Heaven forbid someone dares to be better, more moral than their ancestors.

I thought I’d shaken it off. Thought I’d moved on. I got back work on my manuscript and typed out another 6,000 words. Then came another note from Canva, gently suggesting I find another word—something less “triggering”—than “enslaved” to describe Jacquotte of the upcoming Fire Sword and Sea, who had in fact was enslaved. So I turned to friends and asked them for other ways to phrase “enslavement.” Here’s what we came up with:

* Bond servant

* Stolen laborer

* Forced job training

* People in the condition of slavery

* Held in captivity

* Kidnapped

And y’all—I laughed to keep from crying. Because all I could think of was: Lord, have mercy.

I might have sinned right then—if not in word, then in thought. I wanted to cuss out the machine. I was disappointed in technology. That’s a hard place to be for a data girl. Yet, I was more disappointed in me for even entertaining the idea of appeasing the bot—the faceless, soulless thing that some biased, flawed, or agenda driven human had created and enabled it to think it knows what’s best.

Surrendering is not how we honor truth or the stories we’re called to tell.

Let me take a moment to invite you to something special.Write of Passage is my little corner of the internet where I share thoughts on writing, storytelling, the ups and downs of life, and how we keep going—even when the odds feel great. If that sounds like your speed, go ahead and hit the subscribe button.

Welcome to the Write of Passage family. Now, back to the podcast.

Fear is a seductive thing. It whispers: Don’t speak too loudly. Don’t shine too brightly. Don’t center stories on Black truth, Black joy, or Black progress.

And lately, I’ll admit—it’s been taking me longer to bounce back. It’s getting harder to hold on to the vision of a brighter morning just ahead when everything feels handcuffed and ready to be jailed or deported.

In the past forty-eight hours. The visuals that I allowed my eyes to see have been, stunning, heartbreaking, and even holy.

On Easter Sunday, my church goes all out for a dramatization of the Crucification: lights, drama, music, the whole thing. But this year, there stood a Black Jesus—bloodied, whipped, brutalized. It hit different, terrifyingly different. Then came Black Simon, stepping in to carry the cross, basically taking on his shoulders the oppressor’s burden given to Jesus. I’m watching it and something cracked, fracture into hundreds of pieces on the inside.

It’s been a long time since I cried in church. The first time was when I said the sinner’s prayer and I admitted that I was scared and I needed salvation.

Side note: Did you know the “Sinner’s Prayer” doesn’t actually appear anywhere in the Bible? There is no biblical record of anyone praying those exact words. It emerged around the Protestant Reformation and took shape in the early 20th century—barely 125 years ago. For context, the Civil War officially ended 160 years ago. Both of those things are not that long ago.

On Easter Monday, I saw Sinners—the Ryan Coogler film with Michael B. Jordan, Wunmi Mosaku, Hailee Steinfeld, Li Jun Li, Miles Caton, and Delroy Lindo. On a gorgeous widescreen, I watched this emotionally rich tale saturated with period details and truths. Spoilers alert: Two brothers are seen watching the sunrise, just in awe of the majesty and their freedom. Then I focused on people dancing, singing, loving.

Then comes destruction.

The movie has all types of monsters. The obvious hate-filled men of the Klan, who are hungry for blood and money. Then monsters disguised as your own kind. The evil is often invited in. He feasts of fear and death.

The violence didn’t make me jump. The gore wasn’t any worse than the makeup used at church for the crucifixion. Eventually, dread arrives. It settles in your chest. It steals all joy before the next morning can come. I found myself waiting for that other foot to fall, for when that bad was coming.

So what does this all mean? Anticipating doom or consequence can be as draining as when the threats or violence comes. We can’t surrender in advance.

It means we must guard our eyes—not to shield them from truth, but to make sure they still see beauty, even in chaos. Still see family. Still see hope.

We must guard our ears—because false praise can lull us into stillness. It can lie to us that we are safe and leave us vulnerable to brokenness. Yet we need music, sweet music, true music, ancestral rhythms. All can cut through the noise and remind us who we are, who we are striving to be.

We must remember:

This little light of mine… I’m gonna let it shine.

A light can be seen.A light reveals what’s nearest—what needs our care.A light casts shadows, warning us of what’s creeping in the distance.A light tells the truth of our circumstances. And it gives us the chance to see the true face of things lurking in the dark.

So keep your light burning. That is your protection.Keep your voice strong. That is how you inspire hope.Then revel in each new day, letting your truth-telling, joy-making, world-building self be known.

To help encourage your soul, try:

Call Us What We Carry by Amanda Gorman – Poetry that engages with history, hope, and the responsibility of bearing witness.

Sula by Toni Morrison – A meditation on Black womanhood, loyalty, and community through beautifully painful prose.

And of course, go see Sinners in the movie theater. Watch creativity and inclusiveness on the widest screen you can find. Thank me later.

The winners will be those who kept their light shining, who believed in truth. And who dared to cry out: It’s me. It’s me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer.

Darkness is real. We tend to invite into our life, our work, our sanctuaries.But remember dawn is also real. Dawn, I hear comes with new mercies, too. I pray we find them.

To be the first to know about Fire Sword and Sea, go to: https://bit.ly/vrfiresword

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting The Book Cellar 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.

Help fight the bots by hitting like and continuing to share this podcast. You are essential to its growth.

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

The Warning That Sparked It All

It started with a slide.

Vanessa Riley trying to find peace and missing it.

Nine months away from the release of Fire Sword and Sea, my fourth historical fiction novel, I was using Canva—an online design tool—to create character slides. Each slide was a snapshot of a journey: a woman who rose from enslavement to ship captain, a reimagined heroine defying colonial narratives and gender norms. I hit the “add speaker notes” button, eager to get tips for speaking. I dream big, thinking I’ll be having substantive discussions on my writing and research. And then—Cava flagged me.

Thanks for reading Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage! This post is public so feel free to share it.

The Canva warning on my character’s slide.

It warned me, that is appears I’m working on a political topic which is not supported.

I paused. Political? This wasn’t a manifesto. I didn’t mention government, war, or even the man in the White House. Just a character arc. A woman doing what men historically claimed as their domain. A woman who had been enslaved, now captain of her own destiny. Was that what triggered the flag?

The slide in question. Yes, I still can’t believe it.

Was it because she was Black? Because she was free? Because she existed at all? At the time of this recording Canva has not responded.

Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

What Had Happened Was…

There’s a popular phrase in Black vernacular storytelling—“What had happened was…” It’s often said with a chuckle, a smile, a pause before unpacking truth. It’s a doorway to context, a map through what might otherwise get dismissed.

So—what had happened was—I was trying to promote a book.

I wasn’t trying to ignite a movement or start a fire. I just wanted to tell a story that mattered. And the tools I used turned on me. These so-called helpers, these digital platforms that were supposed to amplify my voice, were suddenly filtering it.

It’s easy to say the creator world is dicey right now. We’re all stressed—consumers, readers, artists alike. But we can’t pretend this isn’t something deeper. Truth is under attack. Art is under review. And some of us are being silenced before we even speak.

History Is on the Chopping Block

I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about why Canva flagged that slide with the magic word enslaved. To me it’s simple and diabolical: history—especially Black history—is being erased. It’s happening now, it’s in real time.

We are witnessing the rollback of truth. Not in some distant dystopia, but here and now.

Books are being banned. Curriculum gutted. The “both sides” rhetoric used to flatten facts into nothingness. Trusted institutions are quiet or complicit. The hunger for moral equivalence is starving out real accountability.

If you think you’re safe, don’t be fooled. They are coming for you, too. Just ask your Grandma or senior friend who can no longer call their social security office, and now must make inconvenient trips to get questions answered.

Art Is—and Always Has Been—Political

From the beginning of time, artists have resisted. Protest art existed long before hashtags and headlines:

* Ancient Egyptians carved critiques into pottery and tombs.

* Michelangelo’s David stood as a symbol of resistance against the de Medici family.

* Picasso’s Guernica screamed against fascism.

* Jean-Michel Basquiat painted the pain of racism and systemic decay on city walls.

Writers too have been on the front lines of protest:

* Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin rattled a nation and helped spur abolition.

* George Orwell’s 1984 warned us how language and surveillance would become weapons.

* James Baldwin, in The Fire Next Time, broke the illusion of American innocence.

* Chinua Achebe reclaimed African voices in Things Fall Apart.

* Octavia Butler’s Kindred forced readers to time-travel into the inescapable legacy of slavery.

These stories didn’t whisper. They roared.

And yet, many of these works were banned, challenged, or ignored until their creators were no longer threats—until they were dead or despaired . We call them legends now, but in their lifetimes, they faced resistance just for telling the truth.

The Risk of Telling Stories in 2025

I’m not comparing myself to these masters. But here’s the truth: you never know how far a writer might go if they weren’t forced to create under duress. What stories never get told because someone’s afraid of losing a contract, a platform, a chance?

As we hurtle toward the release of Fire Sword and Sea in January 2026, I know the stakes. This novel challenges colonial history. It questions gender roles and race. It doesn’t hold back. And yes, that means it may face backlash.

But I owe it to my characters—and the ancestors behind them—to be honest. To be bold. I wish it felt better to be a truth-teller right now. But it doesn’t. It feels risky. Lonely. Like shouting into the wind and hoping the algorithm doesn’t mute you.

Algorithms Are the New Gatekeepers

Back to that Canva flag. Back to the bots.

We like to pretend the internet is neutral. But algorithms aren’t free-thinking. They’re coded by people. People with biases. People with blind spots. People who might think that a Black woman becoming a ship captain is “too political.”

These systems decide what gets seen, what gets buried, and what gets flagged. And in this brave new world, even our tools are weapons of control.

So what do we do?

Honestly—I don’t know. I rely on these tools. I use them to work faster, reach farther. But every time I click “publish,” I wonder: am I aiding my own silencing? Feeding the same beast that’s ready to swallow me?

Still Here. Still Talking.

I have no tidy resolution to offer. But I do have a promise: I’m still here. I’m still writing. Still teaching. Still telling the truth for as long as the bots allow.

Because censorship isn’t always loud. Sometimes it comes as a quiet “warning.” A flagged slide. A ghosted post. A book pulled from shelves.

And sometimes, yes sometimes, protest are simple acts— continuing to paint, dance, and create, continuing to speak, continuing to write, continuing to tell our stories.

To be the first to know about Fire Sword and Sea: https://bit.ly/fireswordseaupdate

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Fountain 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.

Help fight the bots by hitting like and continuing to share this podcast. You are essential to its growth.

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

There comes a moment when the noise fades, the dust settles, and you look around and realize: this is a losing season. The signs are everywhere—opportunities dried up, allies silent or absent, and the very ground that once felt firm beneath your feet feels like it’s shifting. You blink and think, how did I get here?

Vanessa – Out of Coffee

I move through the world on a mission. It’s loud and clear in my heart: I’m here to tell stories that center encouragement and empowerment—especially for Black women. It’s personal. I am a Black woman. And being one raised at the crossroads of cultures—Caribbean roots, the Southern Baptist South, Irish threads in my lineage—I bring a perspective that’s richly textured. I’m a history and STEM girly, someone who gets giddy over tech and deeply moved by stories of women surviving and thriving from the 1300s to WWII. I love the research, the smells, the taste of a scene, the sound of a woman’s laughter echoing through centuries. And yet, in the middle of building, writing, pitching, and praying, I look up and realize I’m in a losing season.

The world right now is showing its cards. Political chaos runs rampant. Corporate agendas have eaten integrity for breakfast. The pressure to tell “acceptable history” rather than true history is real—and exhausting. The DEI moment has slipped into quotas and checkboxes, and alleged allies are revealing their true motivations. Let me be real: some folks were only in the room for the optics.

When someone shows you who they are, believe them.When a door closes, let it remain closed.If the house is on fire, get out and let it burn.

That’s not bitterness. That’s wisdom earned through fiery flames.

As a woman of faith, I know that even the losing seasons have purpose. There are times I ignored the signs and lost, getting smacked with fallout. And there are times I listened—and for a moment blessings flowed like a river. Then the river ran dry.

It’s not always going to be a winning season. Sometimes, you lose. Sometimes, life kicks you in the teeth. And when it does, you have to ask yourself: now what?

What Do You Do When You’re in a Losing Season?

You grieve. You breathe. You pray.

You let the rain come.

Ecclesiastes 3:4 reminds us: There’s a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.Nobody wants the weeping season. No one welcomes the mourning. But the rain is necessary—it releases what’s buried, nourishes what’s growing, and reminds us, we are alive.

Find Ways to Retain Joy – Vanessa with her 26th book taking Car Selfies.

Losing hurts. It hurts to see people you trusted only stand beside you when it’s trendy. It hurts to watch monuments scrub away Black contributions from the record, as if the Underground Railroad, War heroes erased from Arlington National Cemetery because of their sex or color or skin, and the countless other dark hands that built this country are inconveniences to a prettier story.

Let me be clear: this is all American history—Italian migrations, Haitians battling English troops for our freedom. All the Black, Brown, and White stories woven together belongs to all of us. Yet the only narratives being preserved are the ones that make people comfortable. The rest? We’re told to erase, edit, or hide them. And if you’re someone like me, someone who insists on telling the truth with love and power, you can find yourself cast out, put into a rough season where nothing sticks.

But even here—especially here—there’s still something to do. You regroup.

Hope and Regrouping

Losing doesn’t mean you stop. Losing is a pause. A reroute. A holy moment to reset.

Stop chasing folks who never believed in you.Stop shrinking your truth to make others feel taller.You remember your mission.

Yes, it’s a lonely road when only 6% of the room looks like you. Yes, like-minded folks are rare, and genuine support can feel even rarer. But they are out there. I know that because I have readers and listeners who hear me—who see me. That means the world.

And so, we regroup with intention.

We protect our joy.We sharpen our gifts.We build anyway.

We prepare for the next season by shedding the expectations that no longer serve us. We speak truth—the whole truth—because the stories we tell now will shape the world we’re leaving behind.

I don’t pretend to have it all figured out. I just know the losing season doesn’t get the final word. The bumps and the lows on my path are birthing clarity. Resilience is being shaped, and I fall back on my faith and it brings me out of darkness to the sunshine.

Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

And when the rain stops, and the mourning shifts, we will dance again.

Books to help you through your season are:

Rest Is Resistance by Tricia Hersey

A radical, spiritual, and deeply empowering book about reclaiming rest as a tool of liberation.

Black Liturgies: Prayers, Poems, and Meditations for Staying Human by Cole Arthur Riley

A spiritual balm. Riley weaves faith and justice into meditations that feel like breathing in a storm.

Healing the Soul of a Woman by Joyce Meyer

Meyer speaks candidly about trauma, emotional wounds, and how God works healing in the places we hide.

Island Queen by Vanessa Riley

A Caribbean woman’s rise to power in a world that tried to crush her. It’s history, empowerment, and a well researched novel.

The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

A multigenerational epic that explores identity, belonging, and the burden and beauty of legacy.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Baldwin and Company through Bookshop.org. You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

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

“Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness which could hardly be seen without delight.” — That’s Jane Austen purply prose describing Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility. It’s a passage I repeat in A Wager at Midnight, where our Austen-loving hero sends these words to the woman he loves.

Vanessa on the set of Hallmark’s Sense and Sensibility in a period reconstructed gown.

This sentimental adoration of skin is an example of how, even in the olden days—the 1800s—it’s used to interpret Marianne’s style and good character, and another reason she’s considered qualified to be a good wife.

Where have we gone so wrong that the mere mention of skin makes everyone nervous? Why, when used in literature skin was once a symbol of beauty, in the present it seems linked to division? Why does its celebration feel shameful or wrong? Even those who claim to see no color are blind to the beauty that skin creates.

Did you know that your skin—the dermis—is the largest organ in your body? According to the National Institutes of Health, the average adult’s skin spans 16-22 square feet. That’s a quarter of an average bedroom. For me, that’s half the room on my floor filled with reference books—the ones I’m pouring through as I write. Skin serves as a shield. From freckles, scars, and pigmentation to wrinkles—it’s a storyteller, an archive of our rich history.

More Than Skin Deep

Skin is important. It’s one of the first things anyone notices when you walk into a room. It’s the reason people smile when it’s glowing and radiant. It’s also the reason I was followed around a store when I was young, Black, and in a place where those in power assumed the worst. I wasn’t given the benefit of my character. I was condemned in a glance.

And when people of like minds and shared ancestry congregate and uplift one another, some of those same forces rear their heads again. Now, they are uncomfortable. It makes me wonder—what is it they fear? It’s not 1865. It’s not 1617. Our skin is here to stay, adorned as we please, and present in all public spaces.

Yet, I’m not just talking about external forces. I’m talking about the harm we inflict upon ourselves—the moments we buy into the false narrative that our skin makes us not enough.

Skin as a Reflection of Trauma

Skin records our personal experiences and the imprints of ancestral resilience. It is more than just a covering; it is deeply connected to our emotions and environment. Studies show that trauma leaves a physical signature, not only in our nervous system but in our skin. Ever noticed your skin flaring up after extreme stress—whether it manifests as dryness, scarring, acne, or rosacea? You’ve experienced this connection firsthand.

According to the National Rosacea Society, emotional stress is one of the most common triggers for rosacea. Research in dermatology and psychiatry links post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) to various skin conditions, including psoriasis, eczema, and stress-induced inflammation. Scientists have found that those who experience chronic psychological stress have elevated inflammation levels, which can make skin conditions persistent and resistant to treatment.

A Poster for Healthy Skin – Source: Canva and Vanessa Riley

Our bodies hold trauma in tangible ways. People with alexithymia, a condition where emotions are difficult to identify or express, often experience physiological symptoms, including hyperactivated nerves, increased heart rate, and reduced oxygen flow to tissues. The skin itself becomes more electrically sensitive, reacting intensely to stress. These biological responses serve as reminders that our reactions to the world around us don’t simply disappear.

Trauma and the Legacy of Our Ancestors

Recent genetic research reveals that trauma is not just a singular present experience but one that echoes across generations. The concept of intergenerational trauma suggests that stressful events—war, famine, oppression, and internment—can shape gene expression and affect descendants. Studies of Holocaust survivors and Dutch famine victims show that their children exhibited altered stress responses and health patterns.

Throwing on my science minded writer’s hat for a moment, I must make it clear, trauma doesn’t change our DNA sequence, but it does influence which genes are activated or deactivated—like an editor making notes in the margins of a manuscript. These epigenetic markers can be passed down, creating a biological legacy of resilience or vulnerability. However, just as these changes can be inherited, they can also be rewritten, properly edited out of existence. Healing, self-care, and community can reprogram these genetic expressions, offering paths of restoration.

The Power of Ancestral Survival

Every cell in your body is a testament to survival. Your ancestors endured hardships—some enslavement or forced migration, all subject to colonization. This legacy affects both the oppressed and the oppressor. Both absorb the hate and lies, whether through feelings of false superiority or the fallacy of expecting to be exploited.

Back to Our Skin

Research from Yale and the Mayo Clinic reveals that every human carries an ancestral roadmap at the cellular level. This means that the struggles and triumphs of those who came before us are not just stories—we carry them in our blood, our bones, and our skin.

In the year of our Lord 2025, it’s time to step back and see that we are wonderfully made. Even if our history or ancestry has endured the worst, and even if our ancestors have perpetrated the worst. Knowing true history isn’t about guilt; it’s about recognition—returning honor to those who were hung from the arc of injustice.

Legendary civil rights organizer Ella Baker often asked, “Who are your people?” It wasn’t just a rhetorical question; it was an invitation to recognize the power of lineage. It wasn’t a call for atonement but a call to do better by those upholding supremacy and to do right by our neighbors, all of our neighbors–the ones who don’t worship, love, socialize or believe like you. And especially those who don’t look like you, possessing your skin—the one thing on the list that’s impossible to change.

More Than Skin Deep: The Significance of Firsts

We live in a world where women, Black people, and people of color are still achieving “firsts”—the first to graduate from certain institutions, the first to hold specific leadership positions. I was one of the first, if not the first, Black woman to graduate from Stanford University with a Ph.D. in mechanical engineering. In 2001, only four Black women graduated with a doctorate in physics. I have the honor of knowing one of them.

Yet, despite how hard we work—how much harder we labored to gain our placements—someone will look at our brown skin and assume: affirmative action, lax standards, different (easier) tests. And, of course, we are counted as ‘Didn’t Earn It’ hires. Some believe DEI initiatives are keeping them from breaking into traditional publishing—without considering the possibility that their writing simply isn’t good enough. They don’t realize that calls for historically disenfranchised groups don’t mean the majority is ignored. When people realize that there are enough seats at the table, maybe they won’t be so insecure. Maybe then, they can relax.

For Becky or Karen, I can tell you two things can be true at the same time. When I started out, I remember being told by an agent—one with, let’s just say, racist tendencies—that I wasn’t good enough, and my only hope of publishing was as a co-author. She was wrong. But that manuscript she reviewed? While it had a unique style filled purply prose and uncontrolled flourishes, it was trash. A wise person learns, adapts, and tries not to make the same mistakes. That too is baked into my skin.

Don’t Hide Your Beauty

Maya Angelou once said, “The variety of our skin tones can confuse, bemuse, delight, brown and pink and beige and purple, tan and blue and white. I’ve sailed upon the seven seas and stopped in every land. I’ve seen the wonders of the world, not yet one common man.”

Our skin tells the story of survival, of fire refining gold, of bronzed DNA etched with both power and pain.

Ignore the noise. Your achievements are not anomalies; they are milestones on a journey paved by generations of sacrifice and resilience.

Psalm 139:14 reminds us, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” We are the work of His hand. Our skin—our very being—is a living archive of triumph. We are made not merely to survive, but to thrive in our circumstances, our skin. The legacy endowed in us qualifies us to dream and build and rest—with passion, compassion, and undeniable style.

If you wish to dive deeper into the wonders of skin and pride and human nature, I recommend the following:

I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness by Austin Channing Brown – A personal and insightful memoir on navigating race and faith.

All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks – A discussion on love, self-worth, and community in the face of societal pressures.

Skin: A Natural History by Nina G. Jablonski – A fascinating look at the evolution and cultural significance of human skin.

My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies by Resmaa Menakem – A deep dive into how trauma is held in the body, particularly in the context of racial identity.

And If you want to learn more about the powerhouse behind the scene activist Ella Baker, try Ella Baker and the Black Freedom Movement by Barbara Ransby about Baker’s pivotal role in the civil rights movement and her enduring legacy of grassroots leadership.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting M. Judson Booksellers through Bookshop.org. You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

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

Vanessa Riley’s Write of Passage is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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

My mother was the first female entrepreneur I ever met. She started selling baked goods during tax season while my father prepared income taxes for clients in our home. I distinctly remember her brownies—one of my favorite treats—being sold right on our porch to delighted customers. But my mother wasn’t just an entrepreneur; she was a serial entrepreneur. She took that experience and built a bookstore—Goldenrod Christian Bookstore—in the booming metropolis of Aiken, South Carolina. And for those familiar with Aiken, you’ll catch the joke in that description.

Midnight Release Party of A Wager at Midnight at The Book Worm Bookstore

A love of books has always been deeply ingrained in my family, which made it all the more distressing when larger businesses noticed the niche my mother had carved out. Since there wasn’t another Christian bookstore for miles, these businesses began selling Bibles and offering similar services, cutting into her business. I suppose at any stage of success, there will always be competition, challenges, and obstacles that try to stop you. You just never know what each day will bring.

One of my fondest memories of Goldenrod was an item my mother kept by the register—a small, round coin. Some were blue, others red, and each had the words “To It” stamped on the top. It didn’t make sense to me at first. When I asked her about it, she gave me that knowing smile and said, “This is for everyone who delays their dreams, thinking they’ll get around to it.” Then she placed the coin in my hand and said, “See? Now you have a round to it. So go after what you want.”

The idea of “a round to it” is a powerful concept. It represents the ultimate form of procrastination—the assumption that we will always have another moment, another chance. But nothing in life is promised. We shouldn’t make plans assuming X, Y, or Z will happen down the line, nor should we sit still waiting for the perfect moment.

By the time you hear this podcast, I will have released my 26th book into the world, A Wager at Midnight. I will also, in all likelihood, be very tired because we celebrated with a midnight release party. (Side note: I probably should’ve named it A Wager at 10 PM—then I could have gotten a full night’s sleep! But I digress.)

The event was an incredible opportunity to celebrate this book, an indie bookstore that I love, and the readers who believe in my voice and mission—supporting women, female entrepreneurs, and female authors. Because despite what anyone may tell you, being an author is a business. Our product is our words, codified in a book. We have to market, advertise, reach new customers, and most importantly, appreciate every reader—whether they pick up a book from a library, buy it from a bookstore, or listen to it through headphones. Every reader is a valued customer.

At the midnight party, we celebrated in style. The menu featured chimichurri sauce with a range of crudité vegetables, Megan Sussex’s lemon honey olive oil cake with cream cheese frosting, baked donuts with chocolate ganache and floral sprinkles, holiday meatballs, and an array of cheeses—including a particularly tipsy drunk goat cheese. There was plenty of food, and even greater joy in watching people savor what had been created with love and care. Perhaps I’m a serial pleaser because I want people to enjoy my words, but if I throw a party, I want them to enjoy the food, too.

So consider this message your round to it. Wear that outfit you’ve been saving for a special day. Take the trip you’ve been thinking about. Start the business that’s been living in your head, even if the present situation feels uncertain. Celebrate everything—whether it’s a major victory or simply the fact that you’re still in the game.

More about A Wager at Midnight

And as we celebrate book number 26, A Wager at Midnight—Stephen and Scarlett’s story—we honor a narrative that intertwines a fight against the blood disease sickle cell anemia with a love story between a Duke and a Viscountess, who place a wager that will be settled at the end of A Wager at Midnight. At its heart, this book is about two people devoted to medicine and helping others, yet unsure if they can have both love and their dreams. But luckily, Stephen and Scarlett get a round to it.

Books that can help bolster the celebration now mindset:

Don’t Settle for Safe by Sarah Jakes Roberts – Encourages stepping out of fear and into purpose.

The Light We Carry by Michelle Obama – Encourages resilience, taking action, and finding joy even in difficult times.

The 5 Second Rule by Mel Robbins – Teaches a simple technique to stop procrastination and take immediate action.

So celebrate today. Party today. Because nothing is promised, and you deserve your flowers—or your holiday meatballs—even if it isn’t an official holiday. You deserve a celebration.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting “The Book Worm Bookstore” through Bookshop.org. You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.

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