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