The State of Black Voices in Media

Hey honeys and hustlers,

We've been here before. Long before distribution became mainstream and unencumbered by the internet, it was communal and local. Film screenings happened in parks and backyards. Mini film festivals took over college campuses and living rooms. Books were passed between friends with handwritten inscriptions in the margins. Unannounced visits punctuated the week. Conversations unfolded over shared meals. There was something sacred about that intimacy, that directness of connection between creator and community.

Now, it feels like we're watching that same intimacy get stripped away in real time, packaged and sold back to us through AI-generated content, social media algorithms, and media outlets disincentivizing journalism in favor of sensationalism done in bad taste (and faith). But this time, the stakes feel different. The silence feels louder. Mainstream media across TV and film, news, and journalism are prolific in their exploitation of Black stories yet profound in their silence amid outcries for greater access, accuracy, inclusivity, and relevance.

In recent months and years, we've witnessed a cascade of layoffs and downsizing that has disproportionately affected Black voices in media. The Washington Post laid off a slew of journalists. Eater downsized its staff. Boardroom—co-founded by Kevin Durant—laid off its entire editorial staff. Axios conducted yet another round of cuts. These aren't just statistics; they're people, perspectives, and stories that will no longer reach the audiences who need them.

And then there was the BAFTA incident, where a racial slur was aired on live television, a stark reminder that even in spaces that claim to celebrate excellence and diversity, Black voices are still subjected to degradation and erasure. The pattern is clear: it is prolific in its exploitation, it is profound in its silence.

The question we're grappling with now isn't just about job security or institutional support—though those matter immensely. It's about whether the future of Black voices in media lies with independents or institutions. And honestly? I'm not sure the institutions have earned our trust.

Institutions have always had a complicated relationship with Black creators. They'll court us when it's trendy, when the optics demand it, when there's a PR crisis to manage or a diversity quota to fill. But when budgets tighten, when priorities shift, when the uncomfortable conversations start happening, we're often the first to go. So no, the boycott is not over, Target. A shift in buying habits has already been made by far too many.

The media layoffs we're seeing aren't random acts of economic necessity. They're choices. Choices about whose voices matter, whose stories deserve resources, whose perspectives are considered essential versus expendable. And time and time again, Black journalists, writers, editors, and creators find themselves on the wrong side of those choices.

While the Oscars didn't feature the Sinners sweep I hoped for, I was still happy to see them take home the awards they did. I had already braced myself for the original screenplay from Ryan Coogler to fall short. That preemptive bracing for disappointment has become second nature for those of us who watch institutions claim to value diversity while consistently undervaluing Black excellence.

While media institutions crumble and consolidate at an alarming rate, independent Black creators are thriving in ways that would have seemed impossible even a decade ago. Podcasts, newsletters, and YouTube channels—these platforms have democratized distribution. Audio, in particular, feels like a return to something ancestral. It's participatory. Intimate. The medium in which voice first appeared and has since made its way into other forms of expression. There's something powerful about hearing someone's actual voice, unmediated by corporate sanitization. Video has a sense of urgency and vibrancy. Writing is slower, less viral perhaps, but equally transformative in its ability to create lasting impact.

I spent some time recently at the Hayti Film Festival, watching the Toni Cade Bombara documentary, and it reminded me of something essential: the collectivism that allowed Black people to reimagine their personhood outside of our participation in society as freed people, but just as people through culture, art, music, theater, food, and writing. That same collectivism is what's powering the independent creator economy now (though it appears many people on Threads are resistant to the idea of creator and business collectives).

The old model—where institutions served as the primary gatekeepers and distributors of Black voices—is clearly broken. But the new model—where individual creators bear all the risk and responsibility—isn't sustainable for everyone either. What we need is something in between. We need new kinds of institutions, built by and for Black creators, that provide support without demanding conformity. We need collective structures that pool resources while preserving individual autonomy. We need distribution networks that amplify without extracting.

Some of this is already happening. Creator collectives, incubator hubs for builders, membership platforms, community-funded media projects—these experiments are pointing toward new possibilities. They're not perfect, but they're learning from both the institutional failures and the independent successes.

We've been here before, yes. But we've also never been here before. The tools have changed. The platforms have changed. The possibilities have changed. What hasn't changed is the fundamental need for Black voices (and all underrepresented voices) to tell our own stories, on our own terms, to our own communities.

The question isn't whether institutions will save us. They won't. The question is whether we can build something better, something that honors both the ancestral collectivism that sustained us through generations and the innovative independence that's defining this moment.

I think we can. I think we must. And I think it's already beginning. That's the future I'm working toward. I hope you'll join me.

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I put together a playlist with all the books featured in the 2026 Honey & Hustle Book Club. But, I realize not everyone has 10.5 hours to binge the whole thing, so I cut that down to a 90-minute highlight episode with the best moments, stories, and top lessons for creators and entrepreneurs building something they want to last. Some of the most popular episodes from the series were

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