There comes a moment when faith stops feeling like home and starts feeling like red tape. A moment when the room that once held you begins to shrink around your breath. In my new editorial, I confront the politics of holiness, the violence of control dressed up as devotion, and the God who keeps showing up in all the places they were told they shouldn’t. It’s a letter for the ones who left quietly, a mirror for the ones who stayed, and a door for the ones still searching for where God went after the meeting adjourned.

What we were taught to fear in each other—and in ourselves—was never ours to carry. This piece explores how honoring the full, sacred spectrum of Black identity becomes an act of ancestral fidelity, spiritual liberation, and collective healing.