Rosa Parks didn’t just refuse to give up her seat on a bus—she refused to give up her dignity, her identity, and her right to exist as she was. That moment wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. It was quiet, steady, and unmovable. And yet, it shook an entire system.

As an author, I see myself in that refusal.

There have been moments when I’ve felt pressure to “move”—to soften my words, to reshape my story, to fit my voice into what the church is more comfortable hearing. But like Rosa Parks, I’ve realized that my seat is not just a place I occupy. It’s a calling. It’s where my truth lives.

My writing isn’t meant to be relocated for the comfort of institutions. It’s meant to stand—or sit—right where it is, even when that makes people uncomfortable.

Rosa Parks reminds me that change doesn’t always come from shouting. Sometimes it comes from staying exactly where you are and saying, without words, I belong here.

And as an author, that’s my refusal: I will not give up my seat in my own story.