If Salvador is blue (water) and Sao Paulo is green (foliage), what does being Black in these spaces look like? Maybe it’s a Diasporic daydream.

There is something sacred about moving through the world alone. The way solo travel stretches and reshapes you, calling you into a deeper communion with yourself, your ancestors, and the unknown. It’s not just about seeing new places - it’s about becoming someone new, or rather, remembering who you’ve always been.

Then to travel alone as a Black woman, a child of the Diaspora, is to step into the footsteps of those who came before you. Eatch journey is an act of reclamation, a way of saying:

I belong everywhere and nowhere, and that is its own kind of freedom. Brazil, with its echoes of ancestors in the tides, has been one of those places for me. Moving through Salvador, feeling the drumbeats of history beneath my feet, I was reminded that I was not alone. The ocean, the same one that carried my people across the Atlantic, now carried me toward something deeper - a knowing that I am both the descendant and the dream. In São Paulo, I moved through the rhythm of a familiar city filled with creativity, where Black Brazilians are shaping culture and reclaiming space daily. There, I was reminded that home can look like many places when I quiet the external noise enough so that my spirit can recognize a kindred rhythm.

There (was) is a particular kind of double consciousness that comes with being a Black traveler in a country that is so deeply Black, yet does not often see Black travelers from the U.S. My hair braider, Neilane, shared this with me towards the end of making me a blonde again, and I started to wonder out loud as to why that was. This is a larger and separate inquiry that I’m still pondering on, by the way, but my short answer, for now, is that if Black North Americans knew our fuller history, and then that of our kindred across the Western Hemisphere, that the flight paths might look a little different (among other things).

While there is a familiarity, an unspoken recognition in the eyes of people who look like me, and at the same time, an otherness - a reminder that my Blackness, shaped by the U.S., moves differently here. I simultaneously blend in and stand out, held by a shared lineage yet marked by a different history. I am seen but not always understood (sometimes literally, due to years of taking Spanish). This duality is its own lesson: that Blackness is not a monolith - which I already embody through my Caribbean and Southern heritage - that our connections stretch beyond borders, and that in every place I set foot, I am adding another thread to an ancestral ecosystem still being woven.

What’s even more striking is how much of what the world loves about Brazil - samba, capoeira, the very rhythm and soul of the nation - is Black. These traditions, born of resistance, were once outlawed, demonized, and suppressed, yet they persist. Samba, now a symbol of Brazilian identity that draws tourists by the millions, was once criminalized, and its gatherings raided by police. Capoeira, a martial art disguised as dance, was banned for decades because of its origin with enslaved Africans and its association with rebellion. And yet, both of these Black cultural expressions survived. They are celebrated now and exported worldwide, but their Black origins, and what it took for these traditions to survive, are often erased or downplayed.

This is why, in another timeline where I completed my batizado in Capoeira Regional, my name would have been heranḉa (heritage) because as a Black person, I had more of a claim to capoeira than my non-Black counterparts. Simply yet profoundly through a shared legacy. To move through Brazil as a Black traveler is to witness this paradox in real-time - to see how deeply Blackness shapes the culture while also being keenly aware of the historical and ongoing struggles of Black Brazilians. Brazil’s cultural heartbeat - samba, capoeira, and other rhythms that once were outlawed - reminds me that joy is a form of resistance, and Blackness is a force that endures.

Another duality emerges when I think about my quality of life here. As a North American, my dollar stretches further, allowing me access to a lifestyle that feels more abundant in climate, food, and energy. I eat fresh, locally grown food, I move through warmth and sunshine, and I feel a different kind of ease in my body. But I know that this ease is not afforded to many who look like me. Black Brazilians, whose ancestors built their country, often have to work five times as hard to access even a fraction of the comfort that I, as a visitor, can experience without effort. The cost of living disparity is not just an economic reality - it is a reflection of a global anti-Blackness that shapes who is allowed to rest, to thrive, to simply be. It is a sobering reminder that privilege is not just about wealth but about mobility, about being able to choose where and how to exist in the world.

Every time I touch down, I move through this space with care, knowing that I am a guest in a land shaped by struggle, resilience, and survival. I choose to listen more than I speak, to support local businesses (especially Black ones), and to learn from the people whose histories and present realities make this place what it is. I do not take my presence here lightly; I understand that travel, especially as a foreigner with access to more resources, comes with responsibility. I aim to engage with intention - to honor rather than consume, to witness rather than impose, and to leave behind something more meaningful than just my footprints.

There is power in booking that flight, in packing a bag (or in my case several) with nothing but intention and possibility. There is power in walking through a place where no one knows your name, where you are free to redefine yourself as many times as you wish. There is power in deciding that you are worthy of the world’s wonders and letting those wonders transform you in return.

Too often, I hear people say, "I could never do that." This was particularly true when I went on a boat ride to Ilha dos Frades in Salvador, as folks of all backgrounds couldn’t imagine making that same journey solo. But what if you could? What if you allowed yourself the chance to be transformed, to move beyond fear and into possibility? In this geopolitical moment, when systems seek to limit our movements and our imaginations, reclaiming our agency is an act of defiance. It’s a privilege to be able to experience the world, and we do not have to talk ourselves out of opportunities due to the (valid) fears of others. Our ancestors crossed oceans - many by force historically - but if we; their descendants; can do so - we get to choose how we move. We owe it to ourselves to explore, to witness, and to take up space.

So, if your spirit team has been whisper-yelling for you to go, listen. Make a plan. Put it on your altar. The journey is waiting, and so is the version of you that it will reveal. Wherever we go, as people of the African Diaspora, we carry with us a sense of possibility, memory, and forward movement - just like the horizon is something you can’t fully reach, but always moves with you. The world is open to us despite everything, and maybe that is a Diasporic dream on the horizon line.

We Carry The Horizon: On Double Consciousness and Taking Up Space

If Salvador is blue (water) and Sao Paulo is green (foliage), what does being Black in these spaces look like? Maybe it’s a Diasporic daydream.

Then to travel alone as a Black woman, a child of the Diaspora, is to step into the footsteps of those who came before you. Eatch journey is an act of reclamation, a way of saying:

Meet the writer

We Carry The Horizon: On Double Consciousness and Taking Up Space

If Salvador is blue (water) and Sao Paulo is green (foliage), what does being Black in these spaces look like? Maybe it’s a Diasporic daydream.

Then to travel alone as a Black woman, a child of the Diaspora, is to step into the footsteps of those who came before you. Eatch journey is an act of reclamation, a way of saying:

Meet the writer

For Those Who Became the Tide