I arrived in Atlanta for my first National Association of Black Journalists (NABJ) Convention thinking about opportunity.

Who would I meet in real life? What could I learn? What doors might open by being surrounded by other journalists, publicists, producers, executives and storytellers who understand what it means to navigate this industry as Black professionals in the current climate?

I left thinking about something bigger: responsibility.

Throughout NABJ 2026, conversations about justice, entertainment, representation and accountability reinforced something I have come to understand through my own work in media: telling Black stories is both a privilege and an obligation.

Four moments, in particular, made that responsibility feel too real.

When Nolan Wells’ Parents Entered the Room, Journalism Became Personal

One of the convention’s most powerful moments came when the parents of 18-year-old Nolan Wells appeared alongside civil rights attorney Ben Crump and the Rev. Al Sharpton.

Wells disappeared following a July Fourth boating trip to Horn Island, Mississippi. His body was discovered two days later, and his family has continued to seek answers surrounding his death and is calling for further investigation.

But sitting in a room with his parents transformed the story from something I had read and heard about into a painful reality. 

I remember the way the room shifted the moment they walked in. You could hear a pen drop. Conversations quieted without anyone being told to stop. The audience stood as a symbol of respect. 

Wells’ mother walked the audience through how they arrived at this point, holding a tissue the entire time, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping her steady. She described Wells’ as the type of person that was “God fearing, God loving and he was our bright light.”

His father spoke slowly and carefully, as if every word had to pass through grief before it could come out. I found myself not just listening, but sitting with the weight of what it means to lose a child and still have to advocate for them publicly.

It did not feel like a panel. It felt like witnessing a family trying to keep their black son’s name from becoming just another headline or hashtag.

It also made me think about what happens when the cameras leave.

Black journalism has historically amplified people and communities whose voices institutions have ignored. Wells’ story reminded me that our responsibility cannot end when a headline stops trending.

Behind every story is a person. Behind Wells’ story are parents who lost their son and are still seeking answers, not to mention siblings who no longer have a brother. It is absolutely devastating.

It was also painful to learn how the family has been treated in the aftermath, including reports of threats directed at them, attempts to interfere with his mother’s employment and pressure placed on their legal representation, civil rights attorney Ben Crump and Reverend Al Sharpton.

We do not just report on that kind of pain; we carry a responsibility to ensure it does not disappear once the room empties.

A Full-Circle Moment: Running Into My Former UNT Dean

One of the most unexpected and grounding moments of the convention happened between sessions, in a passing hallway interaction I did not plan for.

I ran into my former dean, Dr. Bland from the Mayborn School of Journalism at the University of North Texas, where I earned my master’s degree.

For a second, everything around me slowed down. I was hoping to see her after finding out, she was recognized an awarded for her outstanding work. 

It felt like a full-circle moment in the most literal sense? standing in a space dedicated to Black journalism, looking at the person who played a role in opening the door for me to further my education and deepen my craft 4 years later. I was able to say thank you in real time, not just for the degree itself, but for the belief, structure and opportunity that helped shape the journalist I am becoming.

We do not always get to see the impact of mentorship while we are still in motion. But that moment reminded me that mentorship is not just about guidance in the present; it is about planting seeds for futures you may not live to see fully bloom.

It also made me think about the responsibility that comes with being on both sides of that exchange.

At NABJ, I was surrounded by people actively shaping the industry, but I was also reminded that we are all part of a larger relay. Someone once passed the torch to me. And now, whether I realize it in every moment or not, I am responsible for how I pass it forward to the next generation of journalists.

That is what mentorship really is: not just access, but continuation. Not just networking upward, but connecting across with peers and those who will lead in the future.

La La Anthony: Turning Influence Into Advocacy

During a live taping of Clock It, hosted by Symone Sanders Townsend and Eugene Daniels, La La Anthony discussed her work in prison reform and reentry.

It was a side of her public life that some in the room may not have expected.

The conversation made me think about the difference between simply having influence and choosing to use that influence in service of something larger than yourself.

Hearing her speak, I kept thinking about how intentional she was—not just in what she said, but in how grounded she was in the work. She did not present advocacy as a trend or talking point. She spoke about it as something she must remain committed to even when the cameras are gone and when it is not being applauded. There was a clarity in her tone that made it clear this was not about image; it was about impact.

Celebrity activism can easily become performative, particularly in an era when nearly every cause can become content. But meaningful advocacy requires more than posting. It requires proximity, consistency and a willingness to use access to create opportunities for people who may never have the same microphone.

That conversation reinforced one of my biggest takeaways from NABJ: a platform becomes more powerful when it creates room for someone else’s story, too.

The Drop: Black Stories Deserve More Than Representation

Entertainment was another major part of my NABJ experience.

A special screening of FX’s The Drop: A Snowfall Saga offered an early look at the continuation of a universe that has already sparked conversations about drugs, family, survival, ambition and the forces that shaped Black communities in the 1990s.

Watching that story unfold in a room filled with Black journalists added another layer to the experience.

What stood out to me was not just the storytelling on screen, but the reactions in the room. There were moments of laughter in recognition, moments where people leaned forward as if bracing themselves and moments of silence that felt like collective understanding. It reminded me that we do not just consume these stories; we process them together, often through shared memory and context.

It was also great to see music artist-turned-actor Buddy, who landed a role on the show. I met Buddy in 2018, and at the time I admired his ambition and drive. He spoke then about wanting to wear many hats—not just in music, but also in film—and seeing him years later achieving those goals was inspiring.

Representation matters, but representation alone is not enough.

Who gets to tell our stories? What gets sensationalized? What gets humanized? And when Black creatives tell complicated stories about Black communities, what responsibility comes with that?

As someone who covers culture, the screening reminded me that entertainment journalism should go beyond asking whether a show was good.

Culture deserves interrogation, too.

Stephen A. Smith and the Uncomfortable Side of Accountability

One of the convention’s most talked-about moments centered on someone who was not present to receive an honor most would want.

NABJ named Stephen A. Smith among its 2026 Thumbs Down Award recipients, citing what the organization described as a recurring pattern of disparaging commentary toward prominent Black women across politics, sports and media.

Smith immediately publicly rejected that characterization, fueling a broader conversation about criticism, accountability and how Black women are discussed in media.

Hearing that discussion unfold in real time felt less like a moment about one person and more like a mirror held up to the industry itself. People around me debated not just what was said, but what is considered acceptable commentary when the subject is a Black woman in the public eye. It was one of those conversations where you could feel the tension between free expression and responsibility in the same breath.

For me, the larger conversation extends beyond one personality.

Black women occupy an often unforgiving space in media. Their opinions, tone, appearance, confidence and mistakes can all become subjects of public dissection. There is a difference between legitimate criticism and commentary that leans into stereotypes that have followed Black women for generations.

I have seen how quickly a Black woman’s credibility can be questioned for being “too much” of something—too loud, too direct, too emotional?”, while others are praised for the same traits when framed differently. That double standard does not just exist in theory; it shows up in headlines, comment sections and industry conversations that are supposed to be about fairness.

Accountability cannot only apply to politicians, corporations and institutions. Those of us who hold microphones, bylines, cameras and platforms must also examine how we use them.

Journalism should absolutely leave room for disagreement.

But it should also leave room for accountability.

I Came Looking for Opportunity. I Left Thinking About Purpose.

The networking mattered.

The introductions mattered.

Running into familiar faces, meeting new people and sharing space with journalists, publicists and media professionals I respect mattered.

But those were not the only moments I carried home from Atlanta.

I keep thinking about Nolan Wells’ parents asking Black journalists to continue paying attention.

I think about La La Anthony demonstrating that influence can become advocacy.

I think about Black creatives telling complicated stories about our communities and the journalists responsible for examining those stories with the same complexity.

I think about running into my former dean and being reminded that mentorship is not abstract—it is personal, cyclical and ongoing. It is someone once opening a door for you, and you later becoming responsible for holding that same door open for someone else.

And I think about an organization of Black journalists being willing to have an uncomfortable conversation about accountability within our own community.

Different rooms. Different conversations.

But they all left me with the same question:

What are we doing with the platforms we have been granted?

By the time I left Atlanta, I realized the most valuable thing I gained from my first NABJ convention was not a new contact, a business card or even access to a room I once hoped to enter. It was a clearer understanding of the kind of storyteller I want to be—and the responsibility that comes with becoming one.

I came to Atlanta thinking about where my career could take me. I left thinking more deeply about what I want my work to mean.

I want to tell the stories that deserve a second look when the rest of the world has moved on. I want to use my platform to amplify voices that might otherwise go unheard. I want to celebrate our culture while still being willing to ask difficult questions of it. And as I continue growing in this industry, I want to remember the people who opened doors for me—and make sure I am holding those doors open for someone coming behind me.

That may be the biggest lesson I carried home from Atlanta: access creates opportunity, but purpose determines what we do with it.

My first NABJ did more than affirm that I belong in these rooms. It challenged me to be worthy of them.

Because the goal was never simply to have a seat at the table.

The goal is to make the seat matter.

The post When the Room Spoke Back: What My First NABJ Convention Taught Me About the Weight of Black Storytelling appeared first on Dallas Weekly.