Finding Your Fire

Today marks the first day of Black History Month. Those who genuinely honor this month understand that Black pride, excellence, and contribution do not begin on February 1 nor end on February 28. Still, starting here felt intentional. It felt necessary.

Many of you have likely seen the film Sinners. If you have not, you should. Recently, the film returned to the public conversation following the Golden Globe Awards. Sinners earned seven Golden Globe nominations, a significant acknowledgment of its reach and resonance. Of those seven, the film received two awards. One was for Best Original Score, an honor that was not aired during the broadcast. The other was for Cinematic and Box Office Achievement, a category tied largely to revenue and audience turnout rather than artistic evaluation.

For many, those outcomes felt unsatisfying. Not because recognition did not occur, but because of how it occurred. The film was present in the conversation, yet absent when the major artistic categories were celebrated. That frustration was not about trophies. It was about a pattern that feels all too familiar.

During the backlash and commentary that followed, I came across a post that resonated deeply. Those of us who experienced the film know its power never depended on awards. We walked out of the theatre with something burning inside us long before nominations were announced. The affirmation existed before the institutions weighed in.

And yet, how often do we allow others to define our success? How often do we let external validation become the measure of our worth? How often do we allow someone else’s indifference or dismissal to diminish what we have created? How often do we let that fire fade?

I ask because a few nights ago I had a dream.

The details are fuzzy, but the feeling was unmistakable. In the dream, I wandered into an old country store and noticed the guitar from the film hanging on the wall. I asked if it was the one. The shop owner smiled and asked if I wanted to hear it. Before I could respond, someone walked in, picked it up, and began to play.

Suddenly, I was inside THE montage. The deep, soulful hum of Miles Canton filled the space. The rhythm wrapped around me. The energy was undeniable. It was powerful, grounding, and alive. I woke up with that same fire burning again.

Since then, I have felt it at the edges of my awareness. Sometimes it lingers quietly, just out of reach. Other times it crashes in fully, a rush of rhythm, emotion, and resolve.

We are living in a political and cultural climate that is dangerous, exhausting, and frustrating. The repeated minimization of our stories and the constant attempts to reframe or erase our contributions can wear you down if you let them. That is by design.

But the power behind our stories did not begin with plaques, statues, or ceremonies. It existed long before those things were ever imagined. It exists in our creativity, our resistance, our joy, and our persistence. Recognition has never been the source of that power.

This month, do not wait for permission to feel proud. Do not wait for institutions to affirm what you already know to be true. Find your fire. Tend to it. Protect it. Let it fuel you.

Because as long as even a single ember remains, the fire can always be brought back to life.