logging off to tune in
In Which We Define Soulwork, Expose Our Screen Time, And Make An Announcement
I know I’m good at worrying. This year, I want to see if I can embrace the fear that comes with doing the work my soul must have.
Fear often paralyzes me, but I’m learning that the best kind of fear doesn’t immobilize; it sets you on fire in the best way. I want to chase that fire, even when it burns a little.
Last year was hard. But I still accomplished so much. I finished my first semester of college with straight A’s. I went in as a business major, but I quickly realized I was still following The Plan™ instead of my heart.
I love to write, and it doesn’t matter to me that journalism isn’t seen as a “valuable” major by the masses. That’s not why I went back to school. I went back so I could stop beating myself up about not finishing. I went back to reclaim my space—the space that was taken from me by the shame of sharing a campus with my rapist.
I don’t carry that shame anymore. And that’s that on Gisele Pelicot.
SOULWORK:
the radical, intentional practice of aligning our emotional, intellectual, spiritual, and physical labor with or liberation and flourishing. It is both a philosophy and a praxis, rooted in the understanding that Black people, and especially Black people of marginalized genders (MaGes), are carriers of culture, keepers of history, and the architects of resistance.
At its core, Soulwork insists on the sanctity of the soul as a site of freedom. It challenges the commodification of our bodies, minds, and time by systems of oppression, and instead calls us to reclaim these as sacred, sovereign, and purposeful. This reclamation is an act of defiance, a refusal to be reduced to tools of labor or consumption.
2025 will probably be harder than the years that preceded it. But if I’m going to lean in to my own soulwork …
I need to get a grip on my social media intake.
I was talking with a good friend recently about how out of control my screen time has gotten. Earlier in 2024, I successfully deleted several social media apps from my phone—only to somehow double the time I spent doomscrolling. It’s absurd.
My problem app is Threads.
My algorithm there is mostly Black women and queer folks—writers, thinkers, and brilliant humans. I’ve found engagement and community without dancing, pointing at text bubbles, or uploading tons of photos.
But Threads is still free labor and I am really dragging it.
This is so antithetical to revolution. All that time. For free. Bethany, be so for real.
I’ve been thinking about what it means to curate an intentional relationship with social media, especially as a writer. I legit love going accidentally viral (mostly). But I’m not convinced I need to in order to make the kind of impact I want. In fact, I think so much of what the future calls for is going to happen offline.1
Maybe that’s what they meant by “the revolution will not be televised.” Maybe the revolution won’t be viral either.
To refocus my energy, I’m turning to books and other readings that challenge me to think deeper about digital resistance and liberation. Here are a few I’m reading (or rereading) to gain a foundational understanding:2
All this to say: I’m rebranding my consultancy,3 dusting off my blog website, & starting a video podcast. This is the year I do my own Soulwork.
If I let myself dream aloud, I’d admit that what I really want to do is turn Soulwork into something tangible.
A place that functions like a community center, a church, and a coworking space all in one. There would be community programming and Soulwork Circles. Workshops and retreats. Advocacy initiatives and safe spaces. We would collaborate with local artists, activists, and spiritual leaders to create a diverse programming lineup.
But to do any of that, I need to get my ass off Threads and lean in here.
These reflections on social media and its impact aren’t new for me—they connect directly to themes I’ve explored in my recent writing:
“How Not to Be Depressed This Time” was a raw piece I wrote after a month-long hiatus. That season of depression was directly tied to my increased social media use—screen time became both a crutch and a trap.
“Digital Blackface,” critiqued Meta’s AI-generated Black women and the exploitation of Blackness online. That post was a call to action, but it was also a reminder to myself about the power of intentional engagement and the importance of owning my narrative.
“Heroes Are People Too” was a softer, more reflective piece on Black icons at rest, challenging the way we flatten people into narrow molds of heroism
Each post reminded me of the power of intentional engagement. If I’m going to be online, I want to get more free and have more control over my intellectual property.
Social media is a tool, but it can’t consume me.
Balance is non-negotiable.
Love y’all. Mean it. If you love me back, Buy Me A Book
given the blatant disregard for Black women on these platforms and the desperate need for us to build with each other, protect our peace, and pour into ourselves
I once said in an article that being friends w
means a lot of trips to the bookstore — she is personally responsible for a good potion of this list. I am eternally grateful.