Pretty Wings

A month ago today, I moved back to Detroit.

In the month leading up to my departure for the John S. Knight Journalism Fellowship at Stanford University, I kept getting the same question: Are you coming home when it’s over?

Some people asked out of care. Some out of pure nosiness. And some asked in a way that made me feel like they knew something I didn’t. Like, I could not possibly understand what would happen to my life once I left.

For those sages, I am grateful. They were mostly older Black women who had already lived this chapter. They knew my wings needed room to stretch. They knew I needed air. They wanted me to get what I needed.

The week before I left, a group of those women randomly prayed over me in the middle of Flo Boutique. A powerful moment that made leaving this place I love even harder, because I knew I would be stepping away from that kind of communal care.

“Protect our daughter as she flies away and bring her back to us if that is what you would have.” Amen.

A lot of people had opinions too. “Don’t even look back.” I heard that often, especially from folks who see Detroit, or any hometown, as a trap. A place where possibility has a ceiling. We disagree there.

When I got on that plane at DTW in August 2024, I had no idea what I would do ten months later.

I had spent most of my life following an invisible script. A play of my own life. Do this, then that. Much of it written to make others, the audience, comfortable with my choices.

Most of us live some version of our lives as a performance. We follow a script of adulthood, with a quiet voice, directing from the wings, telling us what our life should be at a certain age, in a certain place, at a certain stage. As if it were all written in permanent marker.

This moment was different.

I was moving in the silence of not knowing what was next.

The voice that had always guided me went quiet.

At the time, it felt unsettling. Now, I understand it as a gift. No script. No writers. No directors. No producers.

The fellowship ended, and the silence stayed. So I stayed too. I spent the summer in California, house-sitting for a friend. Then another friend invited me to Texas. I said no at first. But the voice still hadn’t returned, so I packed up my car and shipped it off for another adventure.

One day, I’ll write about Texas. Today is not that day.

What I can say is this: the last 19 months have felt like one long Choose Your Own Adventure book. The kind I used to buy with my Scholastic Book Fair money.

For the first time in a long time, I was writing the story in pencil. I could erase what wasn’t working. I could try again, and again, and add plot lines I had never even considered.

And slowly, the story started to take shape.

It led me here.

Back home. Back to Detroit.

Someone asked me how long I’m staying. I said, I’m here until I’m not.

My pencil remains sharp.