Wednesday, April 29th, 2026

H. WordSmith Reads

Black Writers’ Studio | MidWeek Reflection

Dear Friend of the Page,

Today, I listened to the African American Studies podcast, and it stirred something in me that I cannot set down.

But honestly, this reflection didn’t start there.

It began yesterday.

I found myself in a Substack room, reciting an original poem out loud. And somewhere between the first line and the last, something in me settled. Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough for me to recognize it:

It felt like a homecoming.

Not to a place.

But to a pace.

To a way of being with my own voice that didn’t feel forced or extracted.

And that’s why today’s podcast stayed with me the way it did.

Because it didn’t bring something new. Instead, it confirmed something I had just felt myself.

Writing, especially for us, has never just been about the page we keep to ourselves.

It has always had a second home:

the public square.

For Black writers, the page is where we gather ourselves.

But the sharing? That’s where something else happens.

That’s where the work breathes.

And right now, as we face another wave of backlash, another attempt to contain, erase, or rewrite us, we are being called not just to write…

…but to bring the work with us.

Into digital rooms.

Onto main streets.

Into conversations that need language.

Yesterday reminded me that this doesn’t have to feel like labor in the way the world has taught us to understand it.

It can feel like alignment.

Like stepping into a rhythm that already belongs to you.

I have been searching for a way to live and work that does not wear me down. I want to move at my own pace and build a life where writing is not just an escape, but something I live within.

And for a moment, in that room, reciting that poem…

I touched it.

Today’s reflection is asking me not to dismiss that moment, but to trust it.

To recognize that when something feels like home, it is worth building around.

So yes, we have a responsibility as writers.

To tell the truth.

To carry the work into the public square.

To continue the lineage we inherited.

But maybe part of that responsibility is also this:

To notice when the work loves us back.

To pay attention to the spaces where our voice can exist without strain.

To build from there.

So today, I want to ask you:

Where has your writing felt most like home recently?

And what would it look like to trust that feeling enough to follow it?

Don't force it into something else.

Do not shrink it to fit old expectations.

But follow it.

We return, again, to what we know to be true:

There are times when you have to see yourself whole and healthy, even when trauma tells a different story.

Maybe wholeness sounds like your own voice, spoken out loud.

Maybe it sounds like a room that receives you.

Maybe it sounds like a poem that reminds you who you are.

Write it.

Share it.

Build from what feels like home.

We are Friends of the Page,

And we write the work forward.

✍🏾