A writer’s manifesto on boundaries, creativity, and choosing resonance over noise
2025 was the year my creative world expanded in ways I didn’t anticipate. As a lifestyle and culture writer, I stretched beyond the familiar, covering finance, music, fashion, beauty, and even architecture. Each story pushed me into new rooms, new vocabularies, and new ways of seeing. With the guidance and trust of editors at Marie Claire, I learned how elastic my curiosity could be, and how far my voice could travel.
It was exhilarating work, and it was also clarifying. In stretching myself, I discovered something just as important as what I can write: what I no longer care to. Growth, I’ve learned, is not only about expansion. Sometimes, it is about subtraction. About choosing intention over output, resonance over relevance, and integrity over urgency.
So, from a writer’s desk, here’s what I will not be doing in 2026.
Writing and publishing stories without emotional conviction
I will not write or publish stories “just because.” Not because there’s a slot to fill, a deadline to beat, or a fear of silence hovering over my head. I have learned that writing through writer’s block — or worse, through emotional disconnection — produces work that feels hollow, even when it is technically sound.
In 2026, I am choosing depth over consistency for consistency’s sake. If I am not connected to the story, if it doesn’t move me, challenge me, or reveal something honest, I will let it rest. Silence, after all, is sometimes more truthful than words written out of obligation.
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Accepting pitches that do not empower women
I will not be accepting pitches that shrink women into caricatures or present their suffering as spectacle. Stories that do not leave women more seen, more whole, or more powerful — no matter how “clickable” — do not interest me.
This does not mean avoiding complexity. It means refusing narratives that extract pain without offering agency, context, or dignity in return. Empowerment does not always look like triumph, but it should never look like erasure.
Consuming stories that centre black women’s trauma without relief or imagination
I will not be reading stories that repeatedly rehearse how black women are traumatised by marriage, motherhood, or culture — at least not this year. While I understand the necessity of these narratives. I have read them, learned from them, and lived alongside them.
In 2026, I want to witness black women winning, resting, loving well, and building both soft and ambitious lives. I want stories that imagine joy as seriously as they have documented pain. My refusal is not denial; it is a recalibration of what I feed my spirit.
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Chasing relevance at the expense of meaning
I will not be chasing trends that require me to dilute my voice or abandon nuance. Not every conversation needs my commentary, and not every moment requires a hot take. I am no longer interested in writing to be seen everywhere; I am interested in being felt where it matters. Relevance fades quickly, but meaning lingers.
Writing stories that feel extractive to myself
I will not mine my personal life for content before I have fully lived, processed, or protected it. Some experiences deserve privacy, time, and distance before they are turned into prose. Others may never need to be written at all. In 2026, my boundaries are part of my craft.
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Confusing productivity with purpose
I will not equate a full byline list with a fulfilled creative life. Writing more does not always mean writing better. Rest, reading, and living richly are not interruptions to the work; they are the work. I am learning to trust that slowing down does not make me less of a writer — it makes me a more honest one.
As a writer, what I refuse is just as telling as what I create. These decisions are not rejections of opportunity; they are affirmations of intention. In 2026, I am choosing alignment over abundance, clarity over chaos, and stories that feel like home rather than noise. This is not a retreat. It is a return to myself, and to the kind of writing I want to stand behind strongly.
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