It didn’t happen at the airport. It didn’t happen when I dropped my bags at my place or when I had my first coffee looking out over the city. It happened at 8:47pm on a hill in Lisbon with a dead phone, the sun going down, and absolutely no idea how to get home.

This is the first Field Note from Lisbon.

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Not adjusted them. Not tweaked them. Doubled them.

That's how today started. And because I have apparently become a person who processes things by writing to the internet, here we are.

New laws, tweaked plan

Here's what happened, for those just tuning in to the Portugal immigration conversation: earlier this spring, Portugal's Parliament passed a significant revision to its Nationality Law. The minimum residency requirement for citizenship — the amount of time you have to live legally in Portugal before you can apply for a passport — has been extended from five years to ten for most non-EU foreign nationals. That means Americans, Canadians, Brits, and most other non-European immigrants are now looking at a decade of residency before citizenship is even on the table. EU citizens go from three years to seven. CPLP nationals — people from Portuguese-speaking countries like Brazil, Cape Verde, Angola — go from three to seven as well. The law was signed in early May and is waiting to be published in Portugal's official gazette before it formally takes effect.

The stated reason is pressure. Portugal now has approximately 1.5 million foreign residents, accounting for nearly 15 percent of its total population — a number that has grown dramatically in the last several years as the country became a destination for remote workers, retirees, and people like me who looked at their lives and decided Europe made more sense. The infrastructure, the public services, the housing market — all of it has felt the strain. Doubling the citizenship timeline is the government's answer to that.

Whether it's the right answer is a longer conversation. What I know is what it means for me personally: I am one and a half years into this process. I have been dreaming about this move for thirteen years. And this morning I had to sit with the news that the finish line I had been running toward just got moved five years further away.

I want to talk about something that doesn't come up enough in the immigration content I consume, which is mostly practical and optimistic and full of people who figured it out and are now posting aesthetically from their Lisbon apartments.

I want to talk about how alone this process makes me feel.

Not the logistics. The logistics are hard but they are solvable — you make the spreadsheet, you read the forums, you find the lawyer, you figure it out.

What's harder to solve is the feeling of doing something this significant in near-total isolation. Not geographical isolation — I am surrounded by people I love.

But there is a particular kind of alone that comes from wanting something that the people around you can't quite see or follow.

My friends are good people. They are also busy with their lives, their partners, their children, their jobs, their own interior worlds that have nothing to do with Portuguese residency law. And I don't fault them for that — I don't think I should be the center of anyone's attention, and I'm not looking for that. But there is a difference between not being the center of attention and feeling like what you're building simply doesn't register.

When I got turned away in New York in January, I came home and nobody really asked. When I spent six weeks in Mexico trying to recover from that and figure out if I still had the energy to do this, most people didn't know that was what I was doing. When I renewed my passport in March and drove to Miami and felt that quiet, stubborn little surge of I'm still going — I told almost no one, because there was almost no one to tell who would understand what it meant.

That's not a complaint. It's just the truth of doing something that lives mostly inside you.

Immigration isn't like getting a promotion or having a baby — there's no moment that maps onto a shape people already recognize. There's no announcement that makes sense.

It's just years of invisible work and invisible setbacks and invisible decisions

The community of people who actually get it exists mostly online, in comment sections and Substack posts and DMs from strangers who are also waiting on appointments in the right jurisdiction.

Which is why, when I read this news two weeks ago, the first thing I felt wasn't logistical panic. It was grief. And the second thing I felt was that I had nowhere obvious to put it. I couldn't call someone and expect them to understand why five years becoming ten matters so much, why after everything — the preparation, the wrong city, the Mexico detour, the slow crawl back to believing in this — this particular piece of news lands the way it does. Like something quietly breaking. Like the universe asking, again, how much do you actually want this.

So I came here instead. To the only place where I know the answer to that question matters to someone other than me.

I have a lot more to say about all of this — what the new law actually means for people who are already mid-process like me, the visa routes I'm eligible for and how this changes the math on each of them, and what I'm actually choosing and why. I'll break all of that down properly, on camera, when I land.

For now I just needed to show up and be honest with you. This one hurt. And I'm still getting on that plane.

— Samantha

Next up when I'm back in Lisbon: the full visa breakdown, what the 10-year rule means if you're already in process, and the longer story of what I'm building there. Thank you for being the people who get it. This is Well & Wild.

I don’t say this a lot out loud but, I have been to some really incredible experiences.

I’ve had credentials around my neck at events most people only see on TV.

I’ve stood in rooms where history was being made — culturally, athletically, creatively — and filed the story, posted the content, and quietly moved on to the next thing without ever fully sitting in what that access actually means.

If feels like a good time to change that now.

Guest Pass is the section of Well & Wild where I share my access with you. Where I bring you into the press boxes, the paddocks, the festival grounds, the courtside moments, and the cultural events that shape how we see ourselves as a global diaspora. Not as a highlight reel— but as a dispatch. As a cultural document. As an archive. As your plus one to the moments worth showing up for.

Here’s the thing about covering luxury sports and culture as a Black woman journalist — the access exists, but it still comes with standard corporate practices of gatekeeping and microaggressions. That access also comes with perspectives like mine, which, in media, is still rare.

I’ve been to large, cultural portals like Essence Festival, the elevated sporting events like Miami Open F1 Grand Prix and I can tell you that the stories that don’t make it into the official press release are almost always the most interesting ones.

Stories about Black and brown athletes navigating predominantly white spaces. The energy that takes over a city during a major event. The economic impact of Black and diasporic attendees spending money on outfits, hotels, and supporting small businesses. The food, the fashion, the conversations happening in the margins of the main stage. And, of course, the games and the matches themselves, where folks from the global diaspora continue to shine on and off the court. That’s what I’m here to document.

This year alone I’m planning to cover F1 Miami & Monaco GP, Wimbledon, the US Open, FIFA in Mexico City, AfroNation, and possibly a fall fashion week. I’ll be in Japan in the fall. And everywhere I go, I’ll be looking for the cultural story underneath the story — the one that feels like something you’d want your most well-traveled, culturally fluent friend to add you to the invite list to for next year.

That friend is me. And this is your Guest Pass.

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What to expect here: event dispatches, cultural guides, press access moments, and the stories that don’t always make it to print — told from a Black woman’s lens, at the intersection of sport, luxury, and diaspora culture.

First up: Miami Open 2026 recap.

Sri Lanka was a no, Portugal was a yes, my visa appointment was days away and I felt like I was no longer manifesting but moving.

And then New York happened.

I got to the Portugal visa office in New York City January 15th with a folder full of paperwork, months of preparation, an FBI background check, fingerprints — all of it done, all of it organized, all of it ready.

Things were feeling good and moving along fine but changed faster than I could comprehend. After waiting to head into a private office for my appointment, a man behind the desk told me he couldn’t even see me.

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Over the past few years, I’ve taken and taught Pilates classes everywhere—from major cities to quiet corners of the world. Some studios felt transactional while some are pretty boring and easily forgettable.

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For Black History Month, I’m sharing Flows from the Wild— a seven-day somatic Pilates practice grounded in one truth:

Black futures are bodily.

How we survive, remember, a…

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I know what it means to live on land where ancestors are still close, where memory isn’t tucked away in museums but lives in the trees, in the earth and especially in the body. My ancestral land, Mississippi, was the place I learned that wellness is the future, as well as part of our collective history.

That’s part of why I felt pulled to Mexico — to Oaxaca specifically. Old land recognizes old land.

There’s a familiarity here.

Not sameness — but resonance. Indigenous rhythms. Rituals that never stopped. A relationship to the body that isn’t rushed or extracted, but lived with. Honored. Passed down.

Today is February 1, the first day of Black History Month, and this year marks 100 years since it was formally recognized in the United States.

I’m beginning this month with movement, not performance. With presence. With a sunrise flow over Centro Oaxaca, on a Sunday morning, barefoot on land that remembers.

Flows from the Wild is my practice.

It’s rooted in the inner-standing that Black history doesn’t live only in books or speeches. It lives in breath patterns. In nervous systems shaped by survival, by violence, by fear, by oppression.

Despite it all, Black bodies have always preserved and created joy and healing. When regulated, our body learns when to brace, and when it’s finally safe to soften.

This months’s flows are about regulation. About letting the body arrive without needing to explain itself and about beginning the month from a place of internal grounding, rather than obligation.

I’m here, listening closely — to land, to ancestry, to what the body knows before language gets involved.

Preparing to move overseas has only sharpened that listening— What do I take with me? What do I release? What needs to stay rooted? What parts of me are ready for more and where can I do more for myself and my community?

This month, Flows from the Wild will move through those questions slowly — through somatic Pilates, ancestral awareness, and wellness practices that respect where we come from and where we’re going.

This is how I’m entering February.

In motion. In lineage. In my body.

Flows From the Wild: OAX

The full Flows from the Wild sunrise practice is available to paid members.

Come inside to move slowly and with intention.

Leaving the United States has a way of clarifying it. Distance doesn’t soften the view—it sharpens it. After two weeks in Mexico City, what’s become unmistakable is not simply c…

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Last Monday, I turned down a 3-month teaching contract in southern Sri Lanka.

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I think it’s asking us to grow up.

After years of optimization, branding, and performance, something is shifting. Quietly, but clearly. In studios. In travel choices. In how people talk about their bodies when no one’s recording.

Wellness is becoming less about access and more about discernment. Less about what’s new, and more about what actually works — and what people can sustain.

Here’s what I’ve been watching and what I see on the horizon as we head into 2026.

1. Nervous system care is no longer optional

This isn’t a trend. It’s a correction.

I made an Instagram post about this last spring in April after weeks of covering immigration protests across Florida. I noticed that over the past two years, the way I down regulated my nervous system after stress-filled work situations, had been the most impactful part of my entire wellbeing.

Nervous System Regulation is Activism

The most powerful thing you can do is regulate your nervous system.
I learned this not in a studio or even on my mat, but in a newsroom.

People are done pushing through exhaustion and calling it discipline. The language has changed. So have the practices. Breath, slow movement, regulated environments, predictable routines — these are becoming the foundation, not the add-on.

The most effective wellness spaces I’m seeing don’t overwhelm the body. They calm it. They feel safe. They feel consistent. And people keep coming back.

That matters more than novelty now.

2. Wellness is moving offline — on purpose

A lot of meaningful care is leaving the algorithm.

Healing doesn’t need an audience, and more people are realizing that in real time. I’ve been asked for a year “where do you teach Pilates” by women and men of all walk of life and every answer I give is the same: “wherever the people and the money reside.’

Small group classes. Private sessions. Community studios. Spaces that don’t need to be documented to be validated. This has always been my pocket.

With my philanthropic network, I’ve always been community-rooted and collaborative-minded and I think this year there will be less viral-worthy events and a significant rise in the fundraiser/give-back/philanthropy Pilates and wellness events.

Here’s a look at my wellness workshop in Sarasota, Florida in 2023.

In 2026, the most impactful wellness work will likely be referral-based, local, and quietly booked out. Not viral. Not loud. Just effective.

3. Longevity > Aesthetic fitness

The body ideal of the last decade is losing its grip on the masses, especially fitness and wellness minded folks.

What’s replacing it is softer, stronger, and more realistic.

Mobility. Joint health. Breath capacity. Strength that supports real life, not just photos.

People are asking better questions now:
Can I move without pain?
Can I keep doing this as I age?
Does this support my nervous system or fight it?

That shift is cultural and deeply needed in the BIPOC and marginalized communities — it’s not just cosmetic.

4. Wellness travel is the future

I clocked this around fall 2016. I found myself only traveling to places that healed me. Places that were serene, nature-heavy, wellness-centric, with quiet luxury and scenic views. I’ve always been a hiker so over the years I’ve ticked off many national parks, but it was a hiking trip to Utah a decade ago in 2016 that was the catalyst for my travel writing, and Well & Wild itself.

Travel is no longer just about escape. It’s about repair.

People are choosing destinations that help their bodies reset — mountain towns, coastal villages, places with slower rhythms and a relationship to land and community. Time zones matter. Nature matters. Cultural pace matters.

In 2026, the most powerful wellness trips won’t be about luxury. They’ll be about how you feel when you return home.

5. Cultural wellness is being taken seriously, finally

Ancestral and land-based practices are no longer being treated as “alternative” or aesthetic inspiration.

Context matters now. Lineage matters. Credit matters to people now.

In 2025, millions of people were educated about the origins of classical Pilates and one of the first people to be certified— an injured ballerina and Black woman, Kathy Grant. She was one of the first to be trained under Joseph Pilates himself. That fact alone pushes directly against ongoing discourse around accessibility, gatekeeping, access, body image beliefs, and who is “deserving” of not only the practice of Pilates but of wellness itself.

Wellness without cultural memory feels hollow, and audiences are far less willing to accept that than they used to be.

People can tell when a practice is rooted versus repackaged. This shift isn’t about trends — it’s about respect.

6. Community is re-emerging as both necessity and intervention

Healing is returning to living room couches, pool decks, girls trips, and brunch tables. Anywhere vulnerability is happening, humans are beginning to openly build and protect community.

Group movement. Shared meals. Familiar faces. Consistency. In a world saturated with digital connection, people are craving something embodied and real.

Community isn’t a bonus anymore but the goal for a growing number of wellness-seekers.

And for many, it’s the difference between coping and actually healing.

7. Burnout is being recognized as a boundary issue

The way we view burnout is no longer being framed as a personal failure over the last year.

More people are naming it for what it is: a sign that boundaries have been crossed too many times for too long. Rest is becoming less aspirational and more structural.

Millennials especially are using their PTO hours, ditching late nights at the office and finding ways to make money and earn a living through passive income. No more rat race for many workers as folks are beginning to wake up from the hamster wheel to find creative outlets that not only heal burnout, but oftentimes, earn income too.

In 2026, sustainability — in work, in movement, in life — is starting to matter more than speed. That’s a cultural recalibration worth paying attention to.

For those paying attention, this isn’t a new direction.

2026 doesn’t feel like a year of excess. It feels like a year of editing.

Doing less, but doing it better. Choosing what’s sustainable. Better beliefs and mindsets. Returning to practices that support the body, honor culture, and make room for real connection.

This year is wellness-coded. And, as I’ve been saying for the past 10 years, wellness is the future.

As we start this new year I have a final thought for you—

what if 2026 isn’t a restart, what if it’s a remembering?

Over the years, I’ve documented food, music, film, and community through cities that shaped me: from Miami’s culinary playgrounds to Brooklyn block parties and New Orleans streets where history hums.

These aren’t just festivals — I like to think of them as portals. They transport to collective belonging and remind you that Black joy, diaspora brilliance, and cultural lineage are global and accessible.

Some of these I’ve attended more than once. Others are on my media list for 2026 as I continue documenting global wellness, community, and culture through my travels. All of them celebrate Black joy, global connection, and the power of gathering.

2026 already feels like a year where culture, creativity, and community are pulling us back into the world—and into each other. The year ahead is stacked with ‘portals’ shaped by food, music, diaspora, movement, art, and the shared desire to experience something unforgettable with people who feel like family.

So, in the spirit of cousins/sisters/aunties & uncles across the U.S. and global diaspora, here’s a roadmap to next year’s cultural ‘portals’ worth planning for right now.

(🤎 = I’ve personally attended and can vouch for the vibes.)

SOBEWFF | Sunshine x Caribbean Flavor (February, Miami, FL) 🤎

The South Beach Wine & Food Festival is one of the country’s most influential culinary events, blending oceanside tasting tents, celebrity chef experiences, and Miami’s signature mix of luxury and flavor. From Caribbean-forward bites to beachfront brunches, SOBEWFF consistently delivers some of the best event programming in food culture. I return almost every year because the weather is perfection, the energy is high, and Miami knows how to host a proper culinary celebration. Feb. 19-22, 2026. Explore the festival.

Houston Rodeo: Black Heritage Weekend | Southern Swagger (March, Houston, TX) 🤎

The Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo’s Black Heritage Weekend is a cultural anchor, blending cowboy tradition with Southern Black identity and major musical performances. The food hall, the fashion, the community—it all creates an atmosphere that’s joyful and distinctly Texan. When I attended earlier this with Visit Houston, it felt like a reminder of how deeply the South shapes American culture. Don’t forget to spend time in the city, away from Rodeo grounds, too. Houston has a culinary world that is a big and bold as the state itself. Black chefs are doing it BIG across the city, from Chef Ope’s Chop’n’Block, to James Beard-nominated Chef Chris Williams’ legendary restaurant, Lucille’s. You’d be doing yourself an injustice not visiting these culinary crowned jewels in the city while in town. Black Heritage day is set for March 6, 2026, but the Rodeo runs all month long. Learn more here.

New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival | Culture x Music x Food Mecca (April–May, New Orleans, LA) 🤎

The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival remains one of the most iconic cultural festivals in the world, uniting zydeco, blues, gospel, jazz, global music, Creole foodways, and community storytelling. It’s a LIFE-CHANGING experience. Jazz Fest is a full-body experience—music drifting from every corner, food that feels ancestral, and a city that welcomes you into its history. I’ve been multiple times, and it continues to be the festival that explains New Orleans better than words ever could. Spilt over two weekends, Thu, Apr 23, 2026 – Sun, May 3, 2026 Details here.

BAM DanceAfrica | Diaspora in Motion (May, Brooklyn, NY) 🤎

DanceAfrica is Brooklyn’s longest-running celebration of African and diasporic culture, merging drum, dance, vendors, craftsmanship, and community energy. When I went, it was the best reason to be in New York in May—sunlight, music, culture, food, and a vibrant display of Black creativity that felt like a summer blessing straight from the ancestors. Think open air festival with hundreds of vendors, dozens of visual performances and vibes like no other— it is Brooklyn in early summer after all. May 22—May 25, 2026. Read more here.

Miami Black Film Festival | Black Storytelling on the Sand (May, Miami, FL) 🤎

The Miami Black Film Festival showcases Black filmmakers, directors, and storytellers from across the diaspora, with screenings, panels, and intimate industry gatherings. It’s a rising festival with a strong creative pulse—intimate, polished, and rooted in community. Last year’s festival was directed by none other than (my best friend in my brain) Issa Rae. This years dates were moved up a tad but expect big things from this young cultural event. May 27–31, 2026 Festival info here.

Essence Festival of Culture | Black American Homecoming (July, New Orleans, LA) 🤎

The Essence Festival of Culture is the largest celebration of Black womanhood, creativity, music, entrepreneurship, and community. It’s a citywide homecoming where generations gather to recharge and reconnect. I’ve been going on and off since my early 20s, and it continues to feel like a reunion, a wellness retreat, and a celebration of identity all in one. It’s the best way, in my opinion, to boycott the Fourth of July— a sea of BEAUTIFUL black folks in one of the most historic and cultural cities amplifying our creativity, genius, art, and community. Every Black American should experience Essence Festival at least once in their life. July 2–5, 2026 | Explore Essence Fest.

Afro Nation Portugal | Afro heat by the Sea (July, Portugal)🤎

I stumbled upon Afro Nation Portugal while preparing for my move to the country of Portugal a few months back in July 2025. It was a happy coincidence that I was in Portugal during this event and was able to experience it for the very first time. It was quite literally the best festival I’ve been to in five years, at least. Afro Nation Portugal brings Afrobeats, amapiano, dancehall, and global Black music to one of Europe’s most adored coastlines. It’s sun, energy, massive crowds, and diasporic celebration by the water—one of the most visually cinematic festivals happening in Europe. July 3-5, 2026. | See lineup here.

Caribana | Carnival in the North (August, Toronto, Canada)

Caribana transforms Toronto into a Caribbean cultural explosion—mas crews, fetes, feathers, sound systems, and road march energy. It’s the biggest and most beloved carnivals in North America and pulls revelers from across the United States, Caribbean and Europe. I’ve been told that Toronto feels totally alive in a way only Carnival can create during Caribana weekend. Because I was in Portugal all of July and August, I missed it in 2025 but it’s on my list as the only Carnival I’ll attend in 2026. July 30–August 3, 2026 | More information here

Martha’s Vineyard African American Film Festival | The Black Sundance (August, Oak Bluffs, MA)

The Martha’s Vineyard African American Film Festival—often called “The Black Sundance”—is a premier showcase for film, documentary, and storytelling excellence. Its blend of art, industry presence, and the Vineyard’s coastal calm makes it one of the most sophisticated film events of the year. In 2026, the festival will celebrate 24 years of Black film and cinema as summer starts winding down on the East Coast. I’ll be attending as press this year for the first time and I’m looking forward to meeting filmmakers and taking in the historic Oaks Bluff region. August 7–15, 2026 | Learn more.

The Family Reunion | Black Hospitality x Culinary Elevated (August, Middleburg, VA)

The Family Reunion, is a younger culinary festival that just reached it 5 year milestone this summer. It’s hosted at Salamander Resort, owned by mogul Shelia Johnson, and curated by Bronx-native and James Beard Award-winning chef, Kwame Onwuachi. The four-day festival not only celebrates Black hospitality, foodways, and community gathering, but elevates it to a level unheard of in the U.S. until its inception. With chef dinners, fireside conversations, and intimate panels, it’s one of the Black-est (and most expensive, as tickets start around $1,500) culinary festivals in the country. Mid-August 2026, dates not yet released. Learn more about the event.

Día de los Muertos | Ancestral Remembrance (November, Oaxaca, Mexico)

Día de los Muertos in Oaxaca is one of the most powerful cultural events in the world, with altars, marigold paths, parades, and ancestral celebration at the center of city life. Experiencing it in Oaxaca is transformative—one of the most moving cultural journeys someone could ever take, but it does take a bit of coordinating. Nov. 1- 3, 2026 | Details here.

AfroFuture Fest — The Diaspora’s Future (December, Accra, Ghana)

AfroFuture Fest is fashion, futurism, music, art, innovation, and Afrocentric imagination concentrated into a December celebration. Accra becomes the heartbeat of the diaspora, with creative energy that stretches across borders. Late Dec. 2026 | Plan for AfroFuture.

Cultural travel is more than a passport stamp — it’s a way of remembering who you are across borders. These festivals and experiences have fed me, stretched me, healed me, and connected me to communities that feel like home no matter where I land. As I build a new life in Portugal and continue the Well & Wild global tour, these moments of gathering remind me that the diaspora is everywhere — and so is belonging.

Next year, in 2026, I’m expanding my partnership with Viator to curate lists of best cultural experiences in some of these destinations, too: Cultural Side Quests 2026

Wherever you choose to show up in 2026, show up fully, joyfully, and ready to be changed.

I’ve been in limbo lately — that strange space between what’s ending and what’s not quite ready to begin.

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The Puerto Rican megastar — born Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio — has been announced as the Super Bowl LIX halftime headliner, set for Feb. 9, 2026, at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, California.

The Grammy-winning artist will be the first Spanish-language performer to headline the show solo, marking a milestone moment for Latin music, art, and culture on one of the world’s largest platforms.

Bad Bunny performs to a sold-out Tampa, Florida crowd in May 2024.

“What I’m feeling goes beyond myself,” Bad Bunny said in a statement. “It’s for those who came before me and ran countless yards so I could come in and score a touchdown… this is for my people, my culture, and our history. Ve y dile a tu abuela, que seremos el HALFTIME SHOW DEL SUPER BOWL.”

For Florida, where more than 1.1 million Puerto Ricans now call the state home — the largest concentration outside the island — the announcement landed with special weight. After Hurricane Maria in 2017, Florida surpassed New York as the state with the largest Puerto Rican population, reshaping cultural and political life across Central and Southwest Florida.

Why did Bad Bunny move his tour to Puerto Rico instead of performing in Florida?

Bad Bunny has played to packed arenas across the Sunshine State — including multiple sold-out shows at Tampa’s Amalie Arena in May 2024. But earlier this year, he shifted his tour residency to Puerto Rico, choosing the island’s venues over mainland arenas to ensure fans wouldn’t face ICE checkpoints or deportation risks. That decision underscored his reputation for making art inseparable from politics and identity.

How does Puerto Rican music connect people across cultures?

In Florida, Latino-led arts organizations are tapping into those same themes of resilience and visibility.

Carolina Franco, co-founder and board chair of CreArte Latino Cultural Center, said moments like Bad Bunny’s halftime spotlight resonate far beyond the stage. Though Colombian, Franco emphasizes that the heartbeat of Latino culture is shared across borders.

“So much of our music carries African percussion at its core — it’s the rhythm that connects us all,” she said. “Even if language can be a barrier, those rhythms speak to everyone.”

Franco, co-founder and board chair of CreArte Latino Cultural Center, said moments like this remind her why visibility matters. She believes that the rhythm of Latino culture, the beauty of Spanish artists, and the connection between cultures are what makes her job (and Bad Bunny’s upcoming performance) special.

“I always say it represents the fun flavor, the fun rhythms of Puerto Rican music. But overall, its Latin music, right? I think for most of Latin America, we have a lot of African influence. So there’s a lot of percussion. I always say, percussion goes right to our hearts. Everyone’s heart is beating, so everyone can connect through music,” Franco said.

“It’s contagious — the rhythm, the energy. But it’s also the fusion of tradition and modern sound that shows who we are as Latinos...That’s the beauty of what he’s going to do — what we try to do every day here: connect people through art, across cultures and communities.”

For local Hispanic leaders like Franco, Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl stage is less about pop spectacle and more about validation.

“When people come to our center, Spanish speakers feel at home. But what’s beautiful is seeing non-Spanish speakers come out of curiosity, to learn, to connect. That’s what we need more of. That’s what visibility at this scale can do,” Franco said.

Not entertainment; art, visibility, and politics

In case you missed it: NFL Teams Amplify DEI In Florida’s Marginalized Communities Amid Corporate Rollbacks

The halftime show has often been a flashpoint for debates about culture and politics. Shakira and Jennifer Lopez’s 2020 performance drew fire from conservative commentators. Bad Bunny’s announcement has already prompted backlash from MAGA voices online. Yet the NFL has doubled down on diversity in recent years through its Inspire Change initiative, which channels millions into education, economic empowerment, and social justice programming.

Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl slot places Latino artistry at the center of one of America’s most-watched broadcasts — a signal that Latino culture is no longer on the margins of U.S. culture but woven into its mainstream fabric.

For many Latino families in Florida, the halftime show is arriving in a charged moment: state debates over education, immigration, and representation are colliding with national conversations about belonging. Bad Bunny’s presence on football’s biggest stage offers both escape and affirmation.

By February, Bad Bunny won’t just be performing hits like Tití Me Preguntó — he’ll be embodying a history of migration, resilience, and artistry that resonates from San Juan to the Super Bowl 60 stage in Santa Clara and all the way back to Sarasota.

But outside my window, the sky was shifting. The winds weren’t a party trick. They were a warning. And before the day was over, Hurricane Katrina would rip through the Gulf, rewriting the map of the region—and the map of my life.

The Birthday That Split My Life in Two

It was August 29, my 20th birthday.

I wandered out to the living room and stretched across the couch, half-watching the storm unfold through the windows. About thirty minutes later, my mom emerged from my parents’ bedroom. She walked over, kissed me on the forehead, and with a weary smile said, “Well, this is a happy birthday for you, huh?” We both laughed. Neither of us could imagine then the damage Katrina would leave behind—or that it would be nearly two months before I finally had a birthday cake.

Around 9:30, my younger sister—the gold-medal late sleeper of the family—stumbled out of her room and joined us. By then, all four of us were gathered in the living room, trying to pass the morning in the only ways we could: board games, an old AM/FM radio, and nervous small talk.

At some point that morning, I snuck back into my room, cracked my bedroom window less than an inch just to breathe. The air was thick inside the house, and I needed relief from the nausea that had been dogging me for weeks. I was twelve weeks pregnant then, though my parents didn’t know it. I still can’t remember if the waves of sickness in my stomach came from morning sickness or from the anxiety of Katrina pounding our walls hour after hour. Maybe both. Sitting there, at twenty years old, on my birthday, I carried that secret inside me while the storm carried its own over our roof.

We lived in Petal, Mississippi—just an hour and fifteen minutes northeast of New Orleans, right across the state line. Though the levee failures and flooding in the Lower Ninth Ward would come to define Katrina for the nation, South Mississippi was left in ruins of its own. For us, the immediate threat was the Leaf River, just three miles from our home. By late morning, the water was rising, inching closer with every hour. I remember peeking out the front door again and again, watching it creep through the yard until it nearly touched the porch.

At one point, my father—6’5” in his old Dickies jumpsuit and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots—forced the door open against the 100-mph winds. He wanted to see for himself how close the water had come and whether the giant oak tree in our front yard would hold. It swayed dangerously, groaning under the force of the storm. My dad stood there, watching that tree for what feltt like an hour. I could tell, even through the glass in our front door, that he was silently preparing for the possibility that the tree would give way and crush our home.

A few minutes later, he grabbed the front door knob and turned it— he was almost shoved back inside the house by the wind. He looked at my mom and I’ll never forget the look on his face. He looked helpless but also alarmed and he started pacing the living room for a while before he told my mom he was going back outside again.

“If we don’t move the cars, that tree is going to snap and fall on one of them,” he said to my mom. She looked concerned and almost tried to stop him, but before she could, he was already putting on his cowboy boots and Dickies back on.

I watched him slosh through the water almost up to his shins through the door. My old Toyota Camry, my sister’s car, and my dad’s pickup were all parked in the circular driveway— one by one, he ran from car to car, driving each one to the other side of our yard and up against the garage door. It felt like another hour, watching the winds pounding against him and the cars inching from one side of the house to the other. A few minutes later, I saw my dad appear from the side of the house, sloshing through the yard and up the driveway. The wind flung the door open again, and he hopped into the house for the last time that morning.

After a few more hours of howling winds, nonstop rain, and trees cracking all around us, I was anxious. I remember thinking that the storm would never end, it felt like it wouldn’t. By the early evening, the winds began to slow down and we started lighting all the candles in the house. It was so dark out, even darker than normal in the country, the heat was unbearable, and my nausea had finally subsided.

We made it through that day, but nothing around us was the same.

Learning to See: How Katrina Made Me a Journalist

In the days after the storm, our house still stood thankfully, but our world felt gutted. South Mississippi was shredded. No power. No water. No sense of time. I was 20 years old, pregnant, and trying to figure out what it meant to start a life when everything around me felt broken.

For a couple of days, my dad and neighbors worked to saw up and pull dozens of trees off our little country road to get to the main highway— we had no idea what destruction waited for us. By that Sunday, he had made it into town and came back almost speechless at the damage he saw in Hattiesburg.

And then the images started to appear.

My parents owned a transportation company, so my dad was granted FEMA authorization a few days after the storm had passed. He made three trips in his semi truck to Memphis, a four-hour drive, to bring back water, supplies, and emergency needs for us and the folks around our old neighborhood. On the second trip, he showed up with a generator. I remember almost crying because it was so hot, and the thought of a fan sent me into a spiral.

My mom had an old analog television we had been watching, but it all came back on in fragments. The radio carried voices from New Orleans and beyond. The world was watching the Lower Ninth Ward, the Superdome, and the levees failing.

When I saw the first images of babies being carried through waters in the 9th Ward, I felt a flood of fear first, then anger, as I listened to the pleas of mothers, fathers, and grandmothers left to die in New Orleans.

But where I lived—Petal, Hattiesburg, all of South Mississippi—barely registered.

That silence did something to me. It felt like erasure. We had survived a storm that cracked trees in half, swelled rivers into our front yards, and left families stranded. Yet our story wasn’t being told.

Somewhere in those days, sitting on a hot couch in a house still humming with generator noise, I made a decision: if no one else was going to tell our stories, I would. That seed became the life I’ve lived ever since. Katrina didn’t just shape my survival. It shaped my calling.

The Double Anniversary: 20 Years of Katrina, 40 Years of Me

This year, Katrina turns 20. So do I—only in a different way. I am turning 40, a milestone that feels impossible and holy all at once.

Carrying both anniversaries in my body is heavier than I expected. I can still hear the sound of that oak tree groaning in the wind. I can still feel the tightness in my stomach, unsure if it was morning sickness or fear. I can still see my dad in his boots, holding the storm back with nothing but his height and stubbornness.

I still remember how my mom got teary-eyed when the server at Applebee’s brought a cup of ice water in late October to our table— it was the first time restaurants were opening back up, two months after the storm. We had been eating at home for weeks, rotating between an outdoor grill and a gas cooktop range we could only run once every couple of days to conserve the fuel.

And I still remember the day I finally got my 20th birthday cake— a full 7 weeks after the storm in mid-October, after the only Walmart in town reopened its bakery.

But I can also see what came after: nearly two decades of journalism, of telling hard stories, of holding space for communities that—like mine—were too often overlooked.

I have lived through trauma, yes. But I have also lived into healing: through my work, through my body, through the practice of writing, movement, and remembering.

Saying What I’ve Never Said Aloud

Saying What I’ve Never Said Aloud

For years, I never called myself a Katrina survivor.

Maybe because I wasn’t in New Orleans, maybe because my story felt small compared to others, maybe because saying it out loud made it too real.

But here it is: I survived Katrina. Not in the place people picture, but in South Mississippi, where the storm left scars that shaped me as surely as the floodwaters did in Louisiana. I survived as a 20-year-old, pregnant and scared, unsure of what my life would become. And I survived long enough to turn that storm into a reason to bear witness, to write, to tell the truth.

Now, on the 20th anniversary of Katrina and my 40th birthday, I choose to say it plainly: survival is not small. It is not silent. It is not invisible. It is the root of who I am.

And today, I carry it forward.

Chef Mawa McQueen wears both with grace.

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I almost didn’t get on the plane.

This whole thing felt too big, too far away — until I was actually doing it. I walked through customs with shaky hands and a racing heart, wondering if I’d made a huge mistake. But then the Lisbon air hit me: warm, heavy with the smell of the river and the city’s hum, and I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

This isn’t just travel. It’s me proving to myself that I can build the life I’ve been dreaming about.

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Here are six postcard moments from my time in Aspen this Juneteenth weekend.

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About being thousands of miles from what’s familiar… yet somehow more rooted in yourself than ever before. That’s the feeling I want to bottle and send you—each time I land somewhere new.
That’s what Postcards from the Wild is made of.

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