This is not just a newsletter. It’s a ritual in real time, a living temple made of language. It is a space where grief and joy exist side by side, where memory and imagination dance, where every word arrives as an offering, every sentence is spellwork, and every post carries medicine for the parts of you still learning how to bloom.
I’m Faheemah, a Poet, Storyteller, Community Organizer, a Practitioner of Hoodoo, Palo Mayombe, and an initiated Priest of Ògún in the Lukumí Tradition of Ifá. I was born with one foot in the spirit world and the other planted firmly in the soil of the Black radical tradition. As a two-headed doctor, my writing lives at the crossroads of craft and ceremony, where language becomes a living thing. I come from people who made songs out of sorrow, who built homes out of bones, who knew the sky could still speak. A Consort Of Spirits I was born for this work, for this witnessing, this weaving of Black memory into futures that were forged with fire and faith.
I am a mother, gardener, and keeper of many altars, some made of wood, others made of word. My writing has always been how I pray, how I protest, how I piece myself back together. It is one of many weapons in my fight for freedom. Whether I’m holding a pen or a community, my aim is the same: to remember, reclaim, re-indigenize, and create spaces where Black People can breathe, grieve, and bloom.
This publication is a portal. A fire that forges and destroys.
Here at I Be Writing, I share what spirit gives me: the raw drafts, Ancestral messages, and reflections shaped by my experience. You’ll find essays, stories, poems, and behind-the-scenes glimpses into my writing process, along with truth-telling about what it means to live a creative life while raising babies, unpacking false beliefs, honoring Spirit, and not folding.
This space is for Black People who came to remember.
You are here because you felt the pull. The echo. The ancient call underneath your name.
Come as you are.
Breathe deep. Read slow.
You’re home now.
Stay as long as you like.
But know this: if you stay long enough, you will change.
That’s not a threat.
That’s a promise.
Welcome Home.
