Lately I have been sitting with the feeling of giving my all and getting very little back.

Not just in relationships. In friendships. In work. In the way I show up for people and communities. I keep noticing how often I am the one who shows up early, stays late, checks in, holds space, follows through, and cares deeply. And somehow I still end up feeling overlooked or taken for granted.

Over time, that kind of imbalance starts to weigh on you. Not in a loud or dramatic way, but quietly. It makes you pause and wonder if you are doing too much or expecting something people are simply not capable of giving.

The more I sit with it, the clearer it becomes. My effort is not the issue. My care is not a weakness. My consistency and emotional honesty are not flaws. They only feel that way when they are poured into spaces that do not know how to value them.

I am learning the difference between being too much and being in the wrong place. I do not need to shrink or harden myself to protect my peace. I just need to be more mindful about where my energy goes.

I’ve been quiet here, and it wasn’t because I had some grand plan to disappear and return refreshed. The truth is simpler: I didn’t want to force anything I wasn’t sure about, and I was tired. Mentally, emotionally, creatively.

There is so much pressure to always be on, always producing, always showing up with something to say. But forcing it never feels good, not on the page and not in life. I didn’t want to give you half assed words just to say I posted. So I let myself step back.

Being away reminded me that silence has its own kind of rhythm. Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is admit you don’t have the energy to push through. And that’s where I was. Tired, sorting through my own head, trying to honor my energy instead of ignoring it.

Now that I’m easing back in, I don’t want to act like the pause didn’t happen. It did, and maybe I needed it. Maybe this space is meant to hold both the days when I’m full of fire and the ones where I’m too worn out to light a match.

I’m back, slowly. Writing again without forcing it. I just wanted to be honest about why I’ve been MIA and thank you for still being here.

What’s Next

In the weeks ahead I’ll be sharing more essays, reflections, and pieces that feel real to me in the moment. Nothing forced, nothing rushed. Just the kind of writing that comes when I let myself breathe.

The other day I decided to rewatch Aaron Hall’s “I Miss You” music video. I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe I was feeling nostalgic. Maybe I was just scrolling too deep. Either way, I pressed play and immediately remembered why this video haunted me as a child. But watching it now, as a grown woman who’s experienced real loss and understands emotional weight in a different way, it hit like a truck. A slow one.

What I thought would be a sad but harmless little R&B throwback turned into a full on emotional ambush. We’re talking grief, death, childbirth complications, Black and white flashbacks, nursery scenes, church pews, and a level of dramatic crying I wasn’t prepared for before noon. The video felt like a short film with no resolution, just sorrow sitting heavy on your chest.

And that’s when I realized: music videos are not just accessories to the music. They are archives of emotion. They’re visual essays. They’re cinematic love letters, cultural documents, grief capsules, and sometimes just chaotic brilliance wrapped in slow motion.

So here’s the update:

Yes, Art on Wax will absolutely continue to feature album covers alongside music videos. Because these visuals shaped the way we remember songs. They helped build the aesthetic language of entire eras. They gave us stories to hold onto when the lyrics alone couldn’t do it. And as I build this archive of thought, memory, and reflection through TBP, I want to honor all the forms Black expression takes. Especially the ones that don’t get enough credit for their emotional impact.

I’ll be writing about the ones that made us cry, the ones that made us feel seen, the ones that were too ridiculous to take seriously, and the ones that live in our heads even when we try to forget them. Some will be deep dives. Some will be funny. Some might just be me spiraling in real time.

If you’ve ever seen a video and thought, “This is too much, but also exactly what I needed,” then you’re in the right place. Thanks for continuing to read, feel, and process with me.

And yes. I still haven’t recovered from “I Miss You.”
But at least now I’m making it content.

“You have to tell people who you are.”

Tyler said that in the Ask It Anyway interview, and I haven’t been able to shake it.

That one sentence cracked something open for me. Because honestly? I’ve spent so much of my creative life waiting for people to get it. Waiting to be discovered without saying too much. Creating quietly. Hiding behind aesthetics. Posting, deleting. Making things I love, then convincing myself no one would care. That I should wait until it’s perfect. That I’m not ready. That maybe I’m just doing too much.

But what Tyler said reminded me: if you don’t tell people who you are, they’ll either make it up or overlook you. Either way, you disappear.

And when you’re creative and scared, disappearing starts to feel safe.

let me say that again….

There’s so much vulnerability in making something. Not just the thing itself, but the audacity it takes to say, this came from me. To say, I made this and I want you to see it. That’s terrifying. Especially when you’re used to being overlooked, talked over, or never quite chosen. When you're used to not being the favorite. Not being understood. You start to internalize that your work doesn’t need to be loud. That maybe it’s better to just keep it to yourself.

But what if that’s the lie? What if the fear isn’t protecting me anymore, just stalling me?

That interview wasn’t even Tyler at his loudest, but it felt like the most honest. He didn’t overshare. He didn’t perform. He just showed up fully, with intention. And in doing that, he told us exactly who he is.

That’s the level I’m trying to be on. Not just creating for me, but creating so there’s no confusion. Creating so when someone stumbles on my work, they feel me in it. They know what I stand for. They know the voice. They see the vision.

I’ve spent too much time afraid of being misunderstood and not enough time being loud about who I am. That stops now.

So yeah. Tyler reminded me that you don’t just create to be seen. You create to be known.

And that requires nerve.

Until next time,

Stay bold, stay brilliant, and remember, as Jay-Z says, You could be anywhere in the world, but you're here with me. I appreciate that!

-Shadé

There’s something especially irritating about watching Tyrese Haliburton hit a choke sign while Reggie Miller just happens to be commentating on game one of the eastern conference finals. It feels like history folding in on itself in the most disrespectful way.

Maybe it’s not just about Haliburton. Maybe it’s the ghost of Reggie still haunting the Garden, headset and mic on, witnessing a new generation mimic his exact brand of smugness. Different era, same energy. And as a Knicks fan, that cuts deep.

Don’t get me wrong, I love watching Black players succeed. But watching Haliburton, another young Black man, mirror that gesture against my Knicks feels personal.

This isn’t just sports. This is memory. This is pride. This is culture.

So no, I don’t care that it’s “just a game.” Because for Knicks fans, especially Black ones, it’s never just a game. It’s watching our home be turned into a stage for somebody else’s highlight reel.

Respectfully, TYRESE HALIBURTON IS A CORNBALL!

Knicks in 5!

I remember watching Love is Blind Season 6, and that scene after Clay said no to AD at the altar hit me harder than I expected.

AD was crying, and through tears, she said:
“I’m just never enough.”

WHEW. I FELT THAT.

Not like, I watched it and thought, “That’s sad.”
But, like, it echoed through my chest and touched on my insecurity.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with that heavy, quiet statement:

“I’m just never enough.”

Not just in love.

In everything.

In love, I give and get silence back.

I stay patient, give space, and try not to be too much, but somehow, I still feel like too little.

Like my softness is only welcome when it’s convenient.

The best parts of me are easy to use but never enough to keep.

And it doesn’t stop there.

In work?

I’m overlooked and passed over.

I show up, apply, and try to build something out of nothing, but I still feel like I’m behind. Like everyone else, I got the manual for success, and I’m just out here winging it, waiting for someone to see me. Pick me. Pay me.

In purpose?

Even that’s cloudy now.

I started The BLK PRSPCTV to create a space where Black creativity, Black feelings, and Black beings could exist without apology.

But some days, even that feels shaky.

Like, who am I to hold space when I’m this lost?

When I’m doubting if I’m even worth the space I take up?

This isn’t some dramatic breakdown.

It’s just honesty. The kind that creeps in on a Thursday morning when nobody texts back and all your plans feel stuck when you’re scrolling job boards and past due dreams. When you realize you’ve given so much and still feel invisible.

But some days, I don’t want a motivational quote. I want answers. I want to rest. I want relief.

Because right now?

I feel like I’m trying so hard to be okay. To be “better.”

To be enough for a world that keeps telling me I’m not.

The BLK PRSPCTV was never about perfection.

This is me, showing up in the middle of the mess.

This piece isn’t wrapped in a bow. There’s no clean ending, just a pause.

The BLK PRSPCTV isn’t about having it all figured out. It’s about reflecting out loud, creating space for honesty, and reminding each other we’re not as alone as we feel.

Thanks for being here with me during the questions.

Lately, I’ve felt this urge to put my thoughts down. Maybe to make sense of them, maybe just to honor them. I turned 38 a few weeks ago, and something about this moment feels important. I can’t quite explain it. It’s not some big milestone, but it's more like I’m stepping into something new. Something that deserves to be remembered.

Virgil Abloh understood that feeling. He moved through the world like a collector of moments. Scribbled notes, rough sketches, screenshots, and receipts were all part of something bigger. He found beauty in unfinished ideas, in fragments that felt random at first but ended up telling a story. He didn’t just design clothes or sneakers. He built an archive of thoughts. A kind of living proof that creativity isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Sometimes, it’s in the little things we decide to keep.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot. What I keep, what I forget, what only makes sense when I look back later. Virgil treated ideas like artifacts, like time capsules. He understood that creativity isn’t just about what you make. It’s about how you care for the process. How you protect even the tiniest spark of a thought because you never know what it might grow into.

In a world that worships polished outcomes, Virgil reminded us that the process matters just as much. His Off-White designs, with their quotation marks and zip ties, were like little nudges saying, “This isn’t finished. And that’s okay.” His notebooks, filled with half-formed thoughts and messy margins, showed us that inspiration doesn’t always show up in big, dramatic ways. Sometimes, it’s hiding in the chaos. Sometimes, it’s in the mess we overlook.

And I can’t help but wonder. How many ideas have I let go too soon? How many times did I brush off a passing thought because it felt incomplete? How many things did I promise myself I’d remember… and didn’t? Virgil made space for the unfinished. He believed that every idea, no matter how small or fractured, was worth revisiting. Nothing is ever really wasted if you give it time to evolve.

His work was a love letter to the in-between. He didn’t rush to tie things up with a neat bow. He embraced the draft, the prototype, the version that wasn’t quite there yet. That’s where the magic lived. In the tension between “not yet” and “almost.”

I’m learning to move that way, too. To stop waiting for everything to feel perfect before I start. To hold onto the ideas that don’t make sense yet. To let thoughts linger. Some of them are meant to be rediscovered later when I’m ready to see them differently.

Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to documenting this moment in my life. Not because I know what it means but because I want to remember that it happened. I want to treat it like something worth archiving.

Virgil had a way of noticing what most people ignored. Street signs, construction materials, and the way a font played with space. He reminded us that design isn’t just about what we create. It’s about what we see. That’s a lesson I want to carry forward. To pay better attention. I want to stop waiting for inspiration to arrive fully formed and instead recognize that it’s already around me, tucked inside the little things I’m drawn to keep.

Maybe that’s Virgil’s most significant legacy. Not just the fashion or the big-name collaborations but the mindset. The invitation to see more. To treat every fleeting idea like it matters. Because it might, one day.

Virgil once said, “Everything I do is for the 17-year-old version of myself.” I think that’s what this is, too. Writing things down. Remembering. Leaving a trail for the future version of me. A way to look back and say, “This is where I was. This is what I loved. This is what felt important, even if I didn’t know why yet.”

So here I am, putting it all down. Thought by thought. One moment at a time. Because one day, I’ll look back and see it for what it really was. A blueprint in the making.

And something tells me that’s exactly what Virgil would’ve wanted.

Until next time,

Stay bold, stay brilliant, and remember, as Jay-Z says, You could be anywhere in the world, but you're here with me. I appreciate that!

-Shadé

Toni Morrison gave us more than stories—she gave us wings. She knew that Blackness was boundless, that love could be both a shackle and a key, that history was something we carried in our bones and our names. Today, on her birthday, I return to Song of Solomon, the novel that taught me about freedom, about longing, about the way we search for ourselves in the echoes of those who came before us.

You wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down.

A simple line, yet it reads like scripture. How often do we hold onto the weight—ancestral burdens, misplaced love, the ache of not being seen? Morrison urged us to unlearn, to release, to trust that we were meant to soar. Milkman’s journey was ours, too—a lesson in knowing that liberation isn’t just about where you land, but how you take off.

Morrison’s gift was her knowing. She wrote for us, about us, with an intimacy that felt ancestral. She honored the everyday, the mystical, the mundane—because all of it was worthy of preservation. Her words were a home, a mirror, a map.

So today, I sit with her language like a prayer, letting it remind me that we are, as we have always been, capable of flight.

Happy Birthday, Toni Morrison 💙. You are missed.

“Hov on that new shit, ni**as like, ‘How come?’ / Ni**as want my old shit, buy my old album.” — JAY-Z

I woke up early on my born day, and the first thing I felt was gratitude. Another year, another chance to move with intention, to live on my own terms, to keep becoming.

This past year taught me a lot. Some lessons were soft reminders, and others felt like a slap to the face. But either way, I listened. I learned. And I let go. Growth means shedding old versions of myself—versions that worried too much about what people thought, that gave too much to the wrong places, that second-guessed her own power. That woman got me here, but she’s not coming with me into 38.

“Legacy, legacy, legacy, Black excellence, baby, you gon’ let ’em see.” — JAY-Z

My father’s absence still lingers, especially today. His voice, his presence, the way he always made my birthday feel like something to celebrate. Losing him has made me even more intentional about the legacy I carry—his, mine, the one I am actively shaping every day. Blackness is legacy. It’s preservation, remembrance, and choosing to honor those who came before me by living fully, by standing firm in who I am.

“People will love you and support you when it’s beneficial.” — Nicki Minaj (but let’s be real, it fits)

I’ve learned that time is my most valuable currency, and I will not let people waste it. I will not pour into spaces that take and take but never give.

People will smile in your face and still move funny behind your back. Don’t let people fool you. Sometimes the ones you think you’re cool with are just wolves in sheep’s clothing. And I’ve made peace with that. The mask always slips eventually.

“I’m in the zone like the 4th quarter / Back in the zone like I’m war-ready.” — Nas

So, as I step into 38, I’m walking lighter. I’m moving with clarity. I’m choosing me—not in the performative, self-care-as-aesthetic way, but in the real, I-will-not-betray-myself way.

Here’s to another year of standing firm, protecting my peace, and preserving a legacy that will outlive me.

"Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me." - Zora Neale Hurston.

I’ve been watching Seeking Mavis Beacon, a documentary about the mysterious history of the woman behind the famous typing software. It got me thinking about something I’ve never put into words—the quiet power of seeing yourself in the everyday. not in the grand, history-making moments, but in the small things, the random things, the things you don’t even realize are shaping you.

For me, it wasn’t always the obvious places. Of course, I had my favorite Black sitcoms, my favorite R&B stars, my favorite athletes. But I’m talking about the subtle moments, the ones that don’t seem significant at the time, like the Burger King Kids Club back in the day. There was a whole cast of kids in that little animated crew, but I always gravitated toward the Black boy with the high-top fade. His name? Jaws (His name is derived from his older characterization, in which he was said to be the Super Official Burger King Quality Taste Tester, as well as an expert on food, specifically the food served at Burger King).1 He wasn’t the leader. He wasn’t the main character. But he was there, and that was enough. That was something.

We don’t always realize how much we are shaped by the presence—or absence—of ourselves in the things we consume. It’s in the commercials we watch, the voices we hear on the radio, the illustrations in school textbooks, even the packaging of products we see every day. It’s why, as a kid, I’d get excited when a doll actually had brown skin that wasn’t an afterthought. Or why I’d instinctively hold onto a certain cereal box a little longer if there was a Black kid on the front. Also why at my big age of 37 why I still remember the Just for me jingle.. “I want style body and shine… a look that’s totally all mine..”

These moments may seem small, but they plant something in you. A seed of belonging. A sense that you exist in the world, not just in your home or neighborhood, but everywhere.

The flip side is just as true. When you don’t see yourself—when your existence is either erased, tokenized, or overlooked—you learn to adjust. You learn to make do with the options given. Maybe you latch onto the character who kinda looks like you, even if they weren’t written with you in mind. Maybe you rewrite the narrative in your head, inserting yourself into spaces that don’t acknowledge you. Blackness has always been in these spaces, but too often, it’s pushed to the background, muted, or repackaged under a different name.

That’s what stood out to me while watching Seeking Mavis Beacon. The real woman, Renée L’Espérance, was Haitian-born, but the software stripped her name, her voice, and her story. She was there, yet invisible. A presence without full recognition. And that’s what happens to so many Black figures—both real and fictional—who quietly shaped the culture but never got their due.

That’s why representation matters. Not just in the big, obvious ways, but in the everyday. In the cartoons, in the mascots, in the stock photos, in the smallest corners of culture where Blackness has always existed, even if it’s been overlooked. Because we are always seeking ourselves—whether we realize it or not.

And when we find ourselves, it changes everything.

Also one time for the film poster!!! its so well designed! The graphic design nerd in me is salavating!

Until next time,

Stay bold, stay brilliant, and remember, as Jay-Z says, You could be anywhere in the world, but you're here with me. I appreciate that!

-Shadé

Okay, let’s get one thing straight: Stacey Dash’s character Dionne in Clueless was that girl. I’m not just talking about the fashion (which was, of course, top tier). I’m talking about the attitude, the confidence, and, yes, the iconic one-liners that gave us all life. In a movie that’s filled with fashion-forward, social-status-obsessed teenagers, Dionne stood out….not just because of her fabulous outfits but because she was unapologetically herself. Dionne was a character who was unbothered, and that energy is something we could all use a little more of.

Now, let’s talk facts because Clueless has plenty of them. Did you know that Stacey Dash was actually 26 years old when she played the high schooler, Dionne? 26! But honestly, with the way she brought that character to life, it was hard to tell. She had the vibe of someone who was just too cool for school, and it made sense. Dionne was that person who could give you a life lesson while still being effortlessly chic, and Stacey Dash pulled it off flawlessly.

But let’s not forget she wasn’t just an iconic character in the movie. Dash reprised the role for the Clueless TV series, and let me tell you, it slapped just as much as the original. Yes, it wasn’t the same as the film, but it still had that 90s charm and classic Dionne sass. Seeing her as Dionne again was like slipping into your favorite comfy sweater…it felt right. If you haven't watched the series, do yourself a favor and catch a couple of episodes on YouTube because it was just as good, if not better, in some ways.

Then we have the very interesting case of Paul Rudd, who played Josh, Cher’s stepbrother. Let’s talk about Josh for a second. We all know that Paul Rudd is practically immortal because the man still looks like he’s in his 30s (but we’ll save that for another post). What I’m wondering is why nobody questioned the relationship between Cher and Josh. Cher was 16, right? So, here’s the thing..why was no one blinking an eye at that? This isn’t a "sibling" relationship by blood, but it’s still family, right? Still...that “relationship” dynamic was pretty weird when you think about it. It was 90s Beverly Hills, so maybe it was all just a little more lax? Or maybe we were all too wrapped up in the fashion and teen drama to stop and wonder whether that was a healthy boundary.

But no matter what, let’s be honest: the movie wouldn't be the same without these characters. Cher and Dionne together were the power duo of the 90s..Cher with her fashion-forward, somewhat cluelessness and Dionne with her effortlessly cool demeanor and tough love. They complemented each other perfectly. Dionne, especially, was ahead of her time when it came to serving up confidence and style and keeping it real. She was the friend who told it like it was, who could pull off plaid like no one else, and made sure you knew your worth ..whether you were dealing with a problematic ex or trying to find your place in high school social hierarchies.

But Clueless wasn’t just about the fashion or the drama…it was a reflection of a particular moment in time, one where teen movies ruled the world, and every single detail, from Dionne’s little Chanel hats to the way the girls would glide through the halls of Beverly Hills High, mattered. Clueless gave us one of the most memorable portrayals of friendship, loyalty, and self-assurance in a world where everyone was trying to figure out who they were.

So, in the end, while we may have had questions about the relationships in Clueless (looking at you, Josh, and Cher), one thing is for sure: Dionne, in all her fabulous glory, was a cultural moment we could never let go of. She was our dream best friend; she was the blueprint for stylish Black characters in teen films, and she showed us that it’s possible to be both fabulous and fierce at the same time.

Until next time,

Stay bold, stay brilliant, and remember, as Jay-Z says, You could be anywhere in the world, but you're here with me. I appreciate that!

-Shadé

This year has been a transformative journey for The BLK PRSPCTV. Since July 2024, when I launched the Art on Wax series, I’ve poured my heart into curating, reflecting, and sharing stories that matter to me—and, I hope, to you. As the year comes to a close, I want to celebrate the moments, milestones, and posts that defined 2024.

📈 Subscriber Growth

• Total Subscribers (as of December 2024): 329

• Key Growth Milestone: In October, my subscriber count crossed 299, marking a significant moment in this journey.

• Top Subscriber Sources:

• Substack App: 218 (67%)

• Other Substack Network: 95 (29%)

• New Accounts Created: 5 (2%)

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Watching this community grow has been incredibly fulfilling. Whether you joined through Substack or found The BLK PRSPCTV another way, I’m so glad you’re here.

🌟 My Top Posts (July–December 2024)

1. “The Unmatched Boldness of Lil’ Kim’s Hard Core Era”

• Published: July 5, 2024

• Engagement: This was the most liked post of the year!

• Writing about Lil’ Kim’s unapologetic artistry and her impact on music and fashion was a joy. Seeing how much it resonated with you reminded me why I do this.

• Top Comment: “Lil’ Kim walked so everyone else could run. This was such a great read!” – Comment by @KrisWillows

2. “31 Days of Black Holiday Movies to Keep You Cozy”

• Published: November 30, 2024

• This post combined my love for Black cinema with the warmth of the holiday season. Your feedback made it clear that these films mean as much to you as they do to me.

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3. “Solange’s A Seat at the Table: A Visual Masterpiece”

• Published: June 28, 2024

• Solange’s artistry has always inspired me. Breaking down her visual storytelling was a labor of love, and I’m so glad it connected with so many of you.

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4. “Shotguns and Stances: The Legacy of Ice-T’s Power Move”

• Published: November 26, 2024

• Engagement: This was the most commented post of the year!

• Reflecting on Ice-T’s legacy and the power of resilience in Black culture brought so much depth to the conversation.

• Top Comment: “This piece on Ice-T perfectly captures his influence. Thank you for shining a light on his journey and the strength of Black women.” – Comment by @MarissaAKin

5. “Basquiat’s Legacy in NYC Museums”

• Published: August 10, 2024

• A tribute to Basquiat’s lasting impact on the art world, exploring his representation in major institutions and his role in shaping contemporary art.

Most Memorable Discussions: Album Art and Legacy

One of my favorite moments this year was being featured on Siima's podcast, where we had an in-depth conversation about the power of album covers, particularly Toni Braxton’s iconic self-titled debut album.

The conversation explored the visuals that defined an era, with Toni's album cover standing as a timeless example of elegance, boldness, and Black femininity in its purest form. Her cover was more than just an image—it was a statement.

This dialogue highlighted the ways art and visuals contribute to music’s legacy and how they shape our connection to artists and their stories.

Listen to the episode on Spotify:
🎙️ Shadé Freeland with Siima

Toni’s debut album continues to inspire not only for its music but also for how its visual presentation elevated her artistry. It's conversations like these that remind us why we celebrate Black art in all its forms.

🔥 Key Themes Explored

1. The Art on Wax Series:

• Launched in July 2024, this series tackled themes of authenticity, vulnerability, and creativity.

• Standout entries like “Cranes in the Sky” and “A Letter to the Little Me Who Needed More” explored mindfulness, healing, and introspection.

2. Black Icons and Storytelling:

• Posts like “The Unmatched Boldness of Lil’ Kim” and “Solange’s A Seat at the Table” celebrated the cultural and artistic contributions of Black creatives.

3. Cinematic Reflections:

• With posts like “31 Days of Black Holiday Movies” and “31 Days of Black Horror”, I highlighted the diversity and richness of Black cinema.

4. Artistic Legacy:

• Pieces like “Basquiat’s Legacy in NYC Museums” demonstrated my commitment to preserving and honoring Black art.

📊 Engagement Metrics

• Total Posts (July–December): 58

• Most Commented & Liked Post: “The Unmatched Boldness of Lil’ Kim’s Hard Core Era”

🗣️ Community Love

• “This piece on Solange perfectly captures her brilliance. Thank you for highlighting her!” – Comment by @JeanetteMoore

• “Your Art on Wax series has been my favorite this year. It’s raw, honest, and so needed.” – Comment by @RochelleBanks

• “Lil’ Kim walked so everyone else could run. This was such a great read!” – Comment by @KrisWillows

💡 Looking Ahead to 2025

With a foundation built on authenticity and creativity, 2025 is poised to be even greater:

• Expanded Storytelling: I’m planning to dive deeper into multimedia formats and collaborations.

• Continued Growth: Building on the momentum of the Art on Wax series, I hope to bring you even more personal reflections and cultural explorations.

• Celebrating More Black Icons: I’ll continue to highlight the figures shaping our culture.

Thank you for being part of this journey! What were your favorite posts or moments from 2024? Let’s keep building this incredible community together in 2025.

Seeing the love and success of my 31 Days Black Horror Movies list, I had to follow it up with something just as festive for the holiday season! These Black-led Christmas movies offer everything from heartfelt family moments to laugh-out-loud comedies. Whether you’re into musicals, romance, or feel-good vibes, this list has something for everyone. Let’s dive in:

1. This Christmas (2007)

2. The Best Man Holiday (2013)

3. Almost Christmas (2016)

4. Jingle Jangle: A Christmas Journey (2020)

5. A Madea Christmas (2013)

6. Last Holiday (2006)

7. The Perfect Holiday (2007)

8. Holiday Rush (2019)

9. A Diva’s Christmas Carol (2000)

10. Black Nativity (2013)

11. The Preacher’s Wife (1996)

12. A Christmas Blessing (2013)

13. Miss Me This Christmas (2017)

14. You Can’t Fight Christmas (2017)

15. Merry Liddle Christmas (2019)

16. The Christmas Pact (2018)

17. Christmas Belles (2019)

18. A Royal Family Christmas (2015)

19. Throwback Holiday (2018)

20. Marry Me for Christmas (2013)

21. The Holiday Calendar (2018)

22. Dear Santa, I Need a Date (2019)

23. Wrapped Up in Christmas (2017)

24. Style Me For Christmas (2024)

25. Every Day Is Christmas (2018)

26. One Fine Christmas (2019)

27. The Christmas Swap (2016)

28. No Time Like Christmas (2019)

29. Christmas in Compton (2012)

30. Angels in the Snow (2015)

31. A New York Christmas Wedding (2020)

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🎁 Honorable Mentions

• Something from Tiffany’s (2022)

• Friday After Next (2002) <= THIS IS A CHRISTMAS MOVIE!!

• Meet Me Next Christmas (2024)

• Holiday Heart (2000)

• The Black Candle: A Kwanzaa Celebration (2008)

• Kirk Franklin’s A Gospel Christmas (2021)

• Let It Shine (2012)

• Carole’s Christmas (2019)

• Christmas Déjà Vu (2021)

• Under the Christmas Tree (2021)

This lineup covers everything from comedies and musicals to heartwarming dramas, giving you plenty of variety for the whole month!

Post-grad life feels like one big construction zone. Every day, I’m stacking things—plans, emotions, routines—hoping they’ll form something solid. But no matter how much I build, it still feels like there’s always something unfinished.

It’s that feeling Solange captured so perfectly: “I tried to run it away, thought then my head be feeling clearer.” I’ve tried that too. I’ve filled my days with everything from content creation to aimless walks through the Bronx, hoping to quiet that restless ache. Some days it works. Most days, it doesn’t.

Because here’s the truth: you can’t escape feeling. No amount of busy will fill the emptiness. And that’s been the hardest part of this season—realizing that all the cranes I see, all the things I’m trying to build, might not fix what’s underneath.

I think a lot about how this was supposed to look.

Post-grad life, I mean. I thought it’d feel more put together. More clear. But instead, it’s just… this. A mix of frustration, hope, uncertainty, and moments of joy that remind me to keep going.

I don’t have the answers. Honestly, I’m learning to be okay with that. Maybe the work right now isn’t to figure everything out, but to let myself feel it—without running, without fixing, without trying to turn it into something it’s not.

So if you’re in this space too, just know you’re not alone. It’s messy, and heavy, and sometimes even beautiful. We’re all just here, staring at the cranes in the sky, and trying to make something that feels like home.

Until next time,

Stay bold, stay brilliant, and remember, as Jay-Z says, You could be anywhere in the world, but you're here with me. I appreciate that!

-Shadé

Dear Inner Child,

I see you, and I feel the hurt you’ve carried for so long. I know you’ve been holding onto a lot of pain—feeling unworthy, feeling rejected, and feeling like you’re not enough. I want you to know, those feelings don’t define you. You are and always have been enough, just as you are.

I’m here now, and I want you to know that you’re safe with me. I know there were times you felt invisible, times when you didn’t get the love, attention, or care you needed. It’s okay to feel sad, angry, or scared about that. You deserved so much more, and I’m here to give you what you need now.

You are so incredibly special, not because of anything you do or say, but simply because you exist. You bring light and beauty into the world just by being you. I’m sorry for the times I’ve doubted you or let others make you feel small. From now on, I promise to honor you, to protect you, and to celebrate all the wonderful things that make you, you.

You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to keep everyone happy. You don’t need to be anything other than who you truly are. I love you for every part of who you are, even the parts you feel are messy or “too much.” You are worthy of love, joy, and peace, and I’m going to work hard to make sure you know that every single day.

Whenever you feel afraid, whenever you feel unworthy or alone, remember that I am here. You can lean on me. You’re not alone, not anymore. I am here to give you the love, patience, and kindness that you’ve always deserved.

With all the love in my heart,

Shadé

It's that time of year again when the nights grow longer, shadows feel thicker, and the chill in the air makes you look over your shoulder a little too often. But what better way to dive into the spooky season than with Black horror?

For the next 31 days (sorry, y’all, we are already ten days in), I’ve curated a list of 31 Black horror films that highlight the diverse experiences, creativity, and genius of Black filmmakers, writers, and actors in the genre. This is more than just a list of scary movies—it is a celebration of Black culture, storytelling, and the ways we’ve been able to make our own space in horror. From classic vampire tales to modern psychological thrillers, I’m giving you a little bit of everything.

Why Black Horror?

Black horror speaks to our history, our fears, our triumphs, and the very real horrors we've faced. Whether it’s a nod to social commentary like Get Out or a reimagining of classic horror tropes in films like Ganja & Hess, Black horror gives us the space to create fear, face fear, and be fearless.

Each film on this list brings something unique to the table, whether it’s a story rooted in cultural legends, psychological terror, or the everyday horrors of navigating a society that can feel downright terrifying on its own. The beauty of Black horror is in how we twist the genre to tell our own stories, reflect our experiences, and—quite frankly—scare the hell out of you.

What to Expect

You’ll find classics like Blacula (1972) and Candyman (1992) that have stood the test of time, alongside more contemporary films like His House (2020) and Bad Hair (2020), which bring a fresh, innovative perspective to the genre. And, of course, I've included some gems you might have missed—films like Sweetheart (2019) and Rust Creek (2019) that will leave you with chills and something to think about.

So grab your popcorn, turn down the lights, and prepare yourself for a month-long celebration of Black Horror.

I already posted this in my notes, but this list is for those who might’ve missed it! Let me know which ones you're watching—or if I missed any of your favorites!

The Full 31 Days of Black Horror List:

1. Blacula (1972)

2. Candyman (1992)

3. Bones (2001)

4. The People Under the Stairs (1991)

5. Tales from the Hood (1995)

6. Vampires vs. the Bronx (2020)

7. Night of the Living Dead (1968)

8. His House (2020)

9. Eve’s Bayou (1997)

10. Get Out (2017)

11. Us (2019)

12. The Girl with All the Gifts (2016)

13. Bad Hair (2020)

14. Black Box (2020)

15. Ganja & Hess (1973)

16. Spell (2020)

Part 2

17. The First Purge (2018)

18. Sweetheart (2019)

19. Ma (2019)

20. Def by Temptation (1990)

21. Blacula II: Scream Blacula Scream (1973)

22. Rust Creek (2019)

23. The Craft: Legacy (2020)

24. The House on Skull Mountain (1974)

25. Da Sweet Blood of Jesus (2014)

26. Thriller (2018)

27. Survive the Night (2020)

28. Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror (2019)

29. Rattlesnake (2019)

30. J.D.’s Revenge (1976)

31. Antebellum (2020)

Here are five honorable mentions for Black horror films that didn’t make the main list but are absolute must-watches:

1. Tales from the Crypt: Demon Knight (1995) – A supernatural action-horror featuring Jada Pinkett Smith as a badass hero fighting against an ancient demon. This one mixes classic horror with comic book vibes and some memorable performances.

2. The Transfiguration (2016) – A quiet, unsettling film about a boy obsessed with vampires, blending horror with a poignant commentary on isolation and trauma.

3. Vampire in Brooklyn (1995) – Eddie Murphy's take on the vampire genre, directed by Wes Craven. It's a mix of horror and comedy with a unique approach to the vampire mythos.

4. Beloved (1998) – Based on Toni Morrison’s novel, this psychological horror stars Oprah Winfrey and explores themes of trauma, loss, and haunting memories from the horrors of slavery.

5. Body Cam (2020) – A supernatural thriller with Mary J. Blige playing a police officer investigating disturbing, paranormal occurrences tied to police brutality.

This lineup is not just for the hardcore horror fan—whether you’re a casual viewer or someone ready to be genuinely frightened, there’s something here for you. Stay spooky, y’all! 🎃👻

The movie The Last Dragon holds a special spot in my heart. It is more than just a film to me. It symbolizes things that I didn't even know I needed when I was younger and aspects that still feel relevant to me today. This film pays tribute to the era of the 80s. What sets it apart is the focus on excellence; more than anything, it shines a spotlight on brilliance through arts and a strong sense of self-assurance. In essence, The Last Dragon captures a fun side of creativity.

Let's delve into the character of Bruce Leroy. Leroy, a man, embodies qualities like reflection and commitment to pursuits beyond what society expects. His quest for mastering martial arts and the elusive glow struck a chord with me. As a woman who sometimes didn't fit into stereotypes, his refusal to conform was empowering. He showed me the significance of embracing my passions confidently without needing approval from others. Leroy's journey towards self-acceptance really resonated with me, showcasing how empowering it can be.

Now, let's talk about Sho'nuff and his impactful role in the film. As the self-styled Shogun of Harlem, sporting his flashy outfits and delivering charismatic one-liners like “Am I the baddest mofo low down around this town?” he added a whole new dimension to the story. Sho'nuff's bold personality created an interesting contrast with Leroy's calm demeanor, bringing depth to their interaction. Despite being the nuff's character injected a lively vibe into the plot, keeping the au’ keeping the audience engaged.

Shifting our focus to the music in the film, it truly stands out. The song "Rhythm of the Night" by DeBarge perfectly encapsulates the vibe of music. Its lively beat makes you want to dance along and enhances the mood of the film. In The Last Dragon, music isn't simply in the background; it plays a role that is almost like that of a character influencing the atmosphere of the scenes. Let's also appreciate Vanity's contribution to the film. Her captivating presence strikes a balance between elegance and empowerment. She embodies glamour and resilience qualities that resonated with many during that period.

Speaking of standout musical moments in the film theres’s one song that continues to strike a chord with me: Willie Hutch's "The Glow". This track serves as the soul of the movie. Hutch's soulful voice and lyrics have a way of boosting confidence and belief in one's abilities. When this song plays, you can feel a shift in the ambiance. It's as if the music becomes Leroy's inner voice, motivating him to acknowledge his strength and potential. Hutch's music has the power to lift spirits, and "The Glow" song is a shining example of that. It's more than just a soundtrack. It's an anthem that resonates with real-life situations. Listening to it feels like a gentle nudge to tap into our inner light and resilience. The energy of the song is genuinely captivating.

At its core, The Last Dragon is about themes, self-exploration, and unlocking our inner power. Leroy's journey to achieve the "Glow" represents a profound quest within ourselves. Everybody possesses that spark that gives them a feeling of being unstoppable. The movie speaks to our desire to believe in our potential and the extraordinary aspects of ourselves. Let's admit it: seeing Leroy embrace his glow during the pivotal battle is unforgettable. There's a sense of joy in witnessing someone fully his or her abilities, especially when they come from a background similar to ours.

This film captures a time when Black visionaries fearlessly showcased their creativity. They broke free from societal norms, delving into uncharted territories and cherishing freedom of expression. It's a representation of Black culture crafted in a way, blending elements of kung fu style with a sprinkle of humor, all while evoking joy and showing appreciation for the undervalued individuals.

For me, The Last Dragon serves as a gentle reminder for each of us to embrace the radiance within ourselves.

It's not just a source of entertainment but also a source of motivation while proudly celebrating culture. This is why this film has carved out a special place in my heart.

At some point, I had to accept that I’m the villain in somebody else’s story. And no, not because I wanted to be, but because that’s how it played out in their head. In their version, I’m the problem—the obstacle, the one to blame when things didn’t go their way.

But here’s the thing: no one really chooses to be the villain. People act like it’s some choice you make one day, like you wake up and think, You know what, let me ruin their whole plotline. It’s not that deep. Sometimes, you just end up in a role you didn’t sign up for. And it’s wild, really, how they’ll paint you in all these ugly colors that don’t match who you are or what you’re even about.

Maybe I didn’t give them what they wanted. Maybe I said something they didn’t wanna hear. Or maybe, just maybe, I was the mirror they didn’t want to look into—reflecting something they weren’t ready to face. And guess what? That’s not my problem. But to them, it is. To them, I’m the issue.

The thing about being the villain? You don’t get to explain yourself. You’re not part of their happy ending or their story of growth. They need you to be the villain to justify their version. So what do you do? You wear it like a coat you never liked but got used to. Not because it fits, but because you’re done trying to change the narrative.

In the end, I know one thing—I’m never gonna be the hero in their story. And honestly, I don’t need to be. I’m busy being the lead in my own.

When I first met Whitley Gilbert from A Different World, I was hooked. She had this confidence, grace, and Southern charm that made her shine in every scene. Yeah, her outfits were on point, and her quick comebacks were iconic, but what stuck with me was her choice to major in art history. At the time, I didn’t fully get it—why would this glamorous Black woman be so into art history? What kind of future did that even lead to? But there was something about her studying art that made me pause because of Black women in that space. Rare.

A Southern Belle with a Love for Art

As I got older, it all clicked. Whitley wasn’t just about enjoying pretty paintings. She was digging deep into the stories that art told and how it captured the messiness of life, culture, and history. And here’s the thing—Whitley was carving out space in a world where Black women were hardly seen, especially in academia. She wasn’t just a pretty face; she was making sure that Black women were part of the conversation around art’s impact on society. Through her, I realized that we belong in those spaces, too—analyzing art, telling our own stories, and reclaiming our place in a world that often forgets us.

Art Ain’t Just a Pretty Picture

As I started my journey, I thought about Whitley more than expected. She wasn’t just a TV character who loved the finer things. She knew how art and history were intertwined and how important it was to understand that connection. Her passion for art history made me realize the importance of learning about Black artists whose work often gets erased or ignored. Art isn’t just something to look at—it’s alive; it tells stories of our culture, resilience, and struggles. Whitley made me want to dive deeper into the world of Black creativity to understand how art is a powerful tool for telling our truths.

A Trailblazer Beyond Glamour

Now, I carry Whitley’s influence with me as I work to uplift and celebrate the contributions of Black creatives worldwide. She showed me that Black creativity has always existed, even in places that didn’t value it. Thanks to her, I have the confidence to explore the rich legacy of Black art and the artists whose work has shaped culture. Whitley’s passion for art history became a lens for how I see my connection to Black culture, pushing me to explore where creativity, identity, and history meet with the same curiosity she had.

In the end, Whitley Gilbert wasn’t just a stylish Southern belle—she was a trailblazer, quietly showing us that Black women belong in every space, even the ones that tried to shut us out. Her journey in art history reminded us that we have the right to claim our space, both intellectually and culturally, in fields where we’ve been overlooked.

Whitley’s love for art history pushed me to follow a similar path, celebrating Black creativity in all its forms and recognizing its lasting impact on the world.

Until next time,

Stay bold, stay brilliant, and remember, as Jay-Z says, "You could be anywhere in the world, but you're here with me. I appreciate that!"

With love and creativity,

Shadé

Unfortunately, A Different World is no longer on any streaming services.

Further reading

‘A Different World’ Sequel Series About Whitley & Dwayne’s Daughter From Felicia Pride In Works At Netflix

The Early Days: Overexposure and Exhaustion

Let me take you back to elementary school when it seemed like my teachers had the same movies in their arsenal: Pinocchio, Bambi, Snow White, Cinderella—on and on it went. Every recess during the cold months or when it was raining outside, it was always the same cycle of Disney movies.

As a kid, I started by hating these movies from pure exhaustion. Imagine being made to sit and watch the same stories for days until you can recite all dialogue in your sleep. That's where my Disney fatigue first kicked off—a deep-seated annoyance that made me cringe when I would hear those titles mentioned. And truthfully, no matter how much time passes, you will never get me to like Pinocchio, Snow White, Cinderella, or Bambi.

Growing Up: The Realization of Exclusion

Years later, my annoyance evolved into something more profound. It wasn't a question of being fed up with the same stories told a hundred times; it was a question of what I wasn't seeing. I didn't see any characters who looked like me in those beloved Disney classics. None had brown skin, hair like mine, or family that looked anything like mine. I realized these fairy tales weren't written for me or anybody who looked like me. Stories that should have inspired and delighted now seemed alienating and far away.

And before anyone tries to bring up Uncle Remus from Song of the South, he doesn't count. That character, steeped in stereotypes and controversy, only highlights the problem. It wasn't until 1946 that Disney even introduced Uncle Remus, and let's be honest, that portrayal did more harm than good. The first actual Black character in a Disney animated movie didn't appear until The Princess and the Frog in 2009, with Princess Tiana, over 70 years after Disney's first animated feature, Snow White. Mind you, she was a damn frog for the majority of the movie, but I guess.

The Problem with Disney's "Magic

Disney has long been hailed for its "magic," but there is a catch. It's a very catered, sanitized version of life whereby only certain people can be the heroes, princesses, or kids having fun. For all its speech about dreams and wonder, Disney's classic lineup told me—without ever saying it outright—that my story didn't belong in their world.

Representation Matters: Why Diversity Is More Than a Buzzword

Diversity has become a buzzword, but representation means a great deal more. It's all about seeing oneself reflected not just in the movies people consume but also knowing their experiences, culture, and identity matter. Failing to offer this sort of representation sent an unmistakable message about who was allowed to have a happily ever after. Oh, and—spoiler alert—no one who looked like me.

Where Do We Go From Here?

In recent years, Disney has progressed towards more inclusive storytelling, but the classics still loom large in our cultural imagination. They're the ones still re-released, remastered, and rewatched. And even though they hold a special place with so many, they'll always remind me of what was missing from them—a fairytale that wasn't mine.

No, Disney classics weren't my fairy tale. That is quite alright, though, for I have learned to find magic in stories that include me—in tales where my skin, hair, and experiences are part of the narrative, not an afterthought.

Further Reading

Black Disney princesses are breaking the glass (slipper) ceiling for little kids.

Why Representation Matters: Disney’s First Black Princess

A New Ariel Inspires Joy for Young Black Girls: ‘She Looks Like Me’