Have you ever not known how empty you were—until a weekend of feasting showed you just how hungry you really are?

That was me, this weekend. I spent it in the company of 1,500 readers and fellow authors at the Black Romance Book Fest, and I left with my heart and spirit overflowing. Now, you might say, “Vanessa, I get your newsletter. I follow you on Instagram and Threads. I see the pictures. You go to a lot of events.” And yes, that’s true. I do. I’m the type who soaks everything in—the people, the place, the energy, the reason we gather.

But this? This was different.

When you’re marginalized, stepping into spaces where you’re one of only a handful can be daunting. I still remember sitting in a ballroom at an RWA conference, surrounded by people who wouldn’t meet my gaze—blue eyes turning away, avoiding eye contact as though acknowledgment might cost them something. In those moments, I’ve wished for a sign that read: Conversation is free. I don’t bite.

And then back in my hotel room, I’d recite poet Gwendolyn Brooks’s work, To Black Women. She begins with:

“Sisters,where there is cold silenceno hallelujahs, no hurrahs at all, no handshakes,no neon red or blue, no smiling faces prevail.”

It’s as if Gwendolyn herself had walked the conference floors with me. You learn to prepare yourself, to build armor against the lack of hurrahs, the absence of handshakes. You remind yourself that rejection isn’t always personal—people read what they relate to. Unless they choose to diversify, most gravitate toward characters who look like them or have shared lived experience. Unless, of course, if we’re talking werewolves or vampires—those stories get an all-access pass, while Black, brown, or queer stories are often left outside the gates.

And then there was this weekend.

At Black Romance Book Fest, no one turned away. People smiled. They hugged. They talked to everyone.

You heard Nice boots, cute T-shirt, Girl!!! those nails, and cool—a pirate costume, etc.

The halls were crowded with people, laughter, and cheer. Hallelujahs rang out online buddies met in real life. Hurrahs echoed down halls. It was a beautiful thing—to feel welcomed and seen in a space filled with so many faces who wanted to get you. There was a collective joy, an ease in being present, that’s hard to put into words, but you feel it. It vibrates across your skin and sinks into your soul.

The breadth of representation moved me. Every genre and subgenre had a seat at the table—fantasy, paranormal, historical, contemporary, romantic suspense. I remember chatting with a fantasy author who was stunned, and delighted, to see how many Black readers were there for fantasy and speculative fiction. No genre was out of bounds. Everything—every moment—felt welcoming and grounded in sisterhood and solidarity.

Of course, no event with 1,500 people and limited elevators can escape a little drama. But that’s every conference. I’ve experienced worse. I remember once, dressed in full Regency garb for a costume party, being stopped at the door because someone assumed—that I was in the wrong place. Apparently, I didn’t look like the kind of person who belonged in a Regency gown. That’s the kind of foolishness many of us with Black faces in literary spaces are familiar with. And unfortunately, it still happens, it just looks different—lack of support, lack of proper editing and marketing. Or simply turning the other way at a book signing. But that’s why I pour so deeply into my people, if you’ve made it this far, you are my people, but I especially want to bless the Black sisters who’ve supported me across every step of my career.

They honor that I write something different. They honor everyone who does. They uplift the wide spectrum of Black storytelling—because at the core of it all is love: love of beauty, love of self, love of each other. And that love creates room for fantasy, horror, sci-fi, thrillers, historicals—genres long denied to us but reclaimed through our voices, our pens, and our varying visions.

Gwendolyn Brooks ends her poem with these lines of quiet hope:

“But there remain large countries in your eyes.Shrewd sun.The civil balance.The listening secrets.And you create and train your flowers still.”

This weekend helped me remember my own gardens. That I can conquer large territories or conferences. Black Romance Book Fest refreshed my soul. It restored my balance. It reminded me that I’m still called to create and train my flowers. That even in the face of rejection or erasure, there are places for my stories—and yours.

To my fellow authors: you’re not crazy. Your readers are out there. They are waiting, hungry for what only you can bring. And they’ll be (mostly) patient while you take the time you need to grow and train your flowers.

Because they believe in the bloom that’s coming. And so do I.

Books to help us to grow and train our minds are:

To Black Women by Gwendolyn Brooks, it can be found in the public domain, but

A Street in Bronzeville by Gwendolyn Brooks is available. It’s her debut collection. It that features poems of everyday life with dignity, tenderness, and piercing realism.

For Read Caribbean Month I recommend,

How to Say Babylon by Safiya SinclairA searing memoir about a Rastafarian girl finding her voice against a backdrop of patriarchy.

And lastly, I am asking for your support for Fire Sword and Sea—spread the word and preorder this disruptive narrative about female pirates in the 1600s. This sweeping saga releases January 13, 2026.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting Joseph-Beth Booksellers 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 believe like me that stories matter—please like, share, and hit 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

n 2020, America and the world were spiraling. COVID. COVID shutdowns, high COVID deaths, and the divisive uproar over wearing masks frayed nerves and divided communities. Then, in the middle of the chaos, we witnessed the killing of a man.

George Floyd, a man who’d run afoul of the law in the past, was approached by police under the false suspicion of using a counterfeit $20 bill.

At 8:20 p.m. on May 25, 2020, outside Cup Foods in Minneapolis, Officers Tou Thao, J. Alexander Kueng, and Thomas Lane encountered George. Kueng and Lane approached first, with blue lights twirling—maybe even a siren. George was visibly distressed and repeatedly said, “Please don’t shoot me,” referencing past traumatic experiences with the police.

At 8:21, officers attempted to place him in a squad car. George, unwisely, resisted, expressing intense anxiety and claustrophobia. “I’m not a bad guy… I’m scared, man,” he said.

By 8:25, Officer Derek Chauvin arrived. George was dragged out of the squad car and forced to the ground. Chauvin then placed his knee on George’s neck.

George was already handcuffed. Already on the ground. Already submissive. But Chauvin kept his knee there, applying his full weight to George’s neck.

Kneeling is supposed to be an act of humility—of reverence, of supplication, a gesture one might use to beg God for mercy.

But Chauvin wasn’t begging God. No, it was George who begged for his life. He cried out in search of humanity—for his humanity. He said more than 20 times: “I can’t breathe.”

Still, Chauvin didn’t move. George then cried out for his mother: “Mama, I’m about to die.”

A grown man, pleading for a breath, for his mother. Yet Chauvin kept kneeling, confident that no one would care about this Black man. To some, a man with a record deserves no second chance. So Chauvin kept kneeling, submitting not to justice but to cruelty—for 9 minutes and 29 seconds—until George Floyd died.

This moment shattered the stillness of a world already shaken. For a brief period, it seemed like nearly everyone agreed: This was wrong. This was murder.

I vividly remember the black squares on Instagram. The companies racing to fire employees who lied on peaceful protestors or weaponized stereotypes to suggest somehow George deserved this.

Companies finally acknowledged what many of us had known for years: that they had a diversity and inclusion problem. They made promises.

Penguin Random House pledged to increase diverse representation in its workforce and publish more books by Black authors and authors of color.

HarperCollins promised to amplify underrepresented voices in acquisitions, create fellowships, and increase donations to racial justice causes.

Simon & Schuster announced a new imprint for social justice and pledged to acquire more BIPOC authors. They donated to We Need Diverse Books and Black Lives Matter.

Macmillan acknowledged the lack of representation in its publishing and staff. They committed to more inclusive hiring, employee training, and outreach to BIPOC writers.

Hachette created a Diversity & Inclusion Council and mentorship programs for BIPOC employees. They donated to civil rights organizations and promised to publish more Black and Brown voices.

It wasn’t just publishing jumping to be counted in the righteous number. Target, Microsoft, Apple—major corporations pledged millions to diversity initiatives and underserved communities.

But here we are, just five years later.

Reports from The Washington Post, Reuters, and business analysts show a corporate backslide. Hachette has made notable progress in BIPOC hiring and acquisitions. But others—Penguin Random House, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, and Macmillan—have not provided updated public reports on their commitments. There’s a lack of transparency.

And when BIPOC authors speak up about their experiences with these opaque publishers—about the lack of marketing, the minimal support at launch, the inadequate investments in advertisements—it becomes clear that many of those 2020 commitments were performative. Empty, breathless gestures.

The biggest offender? We all know—Target. After loudly promoting their DEI programs, they rolled them back—loudly and publicly. And sales have significantly declined. I doubt they’ll ever fully regain the trust of the loyal customers they betrayed.

There’s been talk that Target’s retreat has caused some Black authors to miss major bestseller lists. That’s not the full story. The truth is: momentum makes the difference. Local bookstore buys matter count just as much—often more.

Don’t get me wrong—I love walking into a big store and seeing my book face-out on the shelf. I’m deeply grateful to every bookseller, clerk, and sales rep who’s done that for any of my titles.

But let’s be honest: many Black and BIPOC authors lack consistent support from publishers. A publisher can create magic. They can generate momentum—or they can smother it. And I’ve wondered, more than once, if some of these acquisitions with no follow-through are just another version of the black Instagram squares. A performance. “Look, Mama—we did something.” But then the cover’s bad, the e-book or audio launch is botched, and the book disappears, drowning in wrong or limited search results.

So I ask: Did some publishers in 2020 merely shift their knee slightly off the necks of Black writers—just enough to say they weren’t actively killing careers?

George Floyd didn’t deserve to die. He was a man. A father. A person with a past—but one who had a future, until it was stolen.

I use George’s first name throughout this essay because this is personal. I want you to remember how it felt. You saw the video. As a Black woman, that could have been my husband. One of my brothers, my uncles, or my beloved nephews.

I’m not going to lie—my heart still races when I see flashing blue lights. I don’t want to be Sandra Bland. Or Breonna Taylor. I have books to write, stories to tell, a family that I need to be here for. Yet, unless you sit beside me, you’ll never hear the sound I make—the soft, involuntary gasp of relief—when a patrol car passes and doesn’t pull me over.

That breath I’ve been holding finally escapes. And in that moment, I relearn how to breathe.

Books to help us process what happened and where we find ourselves:

His Name Is George Floyd by Robert Samuels & Toluse Olorunnipa is the Pulitzer Prize-winning biography that details Floyd’s life and the systemic racism that shaped it.

Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Beverly Daniel Tatum – Examines racial identity development and institutional bias, including in schools and publishing.

Well-Read Black Girl edited by Glory Edim – Celebrates Black women writers and the importance of being seen in literature.

Help me build momentum for Fire Sword and Sea—spread the word and preorder this disruptive narrative about female pirates in the 1600s. This sweeping saga releases January 13, 2026.

Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast. This week, I’m highlighting The Dock Bookshop 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 believe like me that stories matter—tap like, share with a friend, and hit 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

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

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.

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