One of my sharpest memories of Portland is of a stranger.

I was sitting in the back of an Uber, crying so hard snot ran down my face. Heartbroken. Unmoored. Trying to figure out where to go and how to start again. As I opened the door to step out, the driver — a woman who hadn’t said a word the entire ride — turned to me and said, “You deserve better. I hope you find it.”

I left Portland a few days later with one suitcase and no real plan.

In the first days after everything collapsed, I texted a friend “911.” She rescued me, pulling up without hesitation. She opened her home to me, giving me space to cry, to collapse, to plan my departure.

I wasn’t sleeping. I existed in a fog. Grief had stolen my appetite as well as my dreams.

But she knew how to lure me back toward life: good sourdough grilled in a pan with salty butter, edges crispy. I’m a sucker for carbs and I could never resist that smell, which screams of home and comfort. That toast became a lifeline. Proof that even in the ruins, care and community still existed.

Not for the pain. Not for the loss. But for community.

I had moved to Portland chasing a dream. A family, a home, a future I thought I could build. But the reality was filled with rain, anxiety, and loss so deep that it still echoes in my chest. When my marriage ended, the idea of staying in Portland felt impossible. If you’d asked me then whether I’d ever return, I would have laughed through tears: ain’t no fucking way.

But time has a way of softening things.

Slowly, my memories shifted. From my rage and sense of grievance to the community and delicious food I found there. From my tears to the Uber driver who saw me and chose to try to build me up however she could.

American Soul: The Black History of Food in the United States is about what we’ve built, what we’ve passed down, how food has always been a tool for survival, power, and community. I can’t think of a better place to celebrate it.

And this event has been planned in collaboration with that same friend who helped nurse me back to life with her toast. This feels like a truly full circle moment and a fuck you to the grievances of my past.

While I’m in town, we’ll be filming an episode of our web series, digging into Black communities, Black food, and more. This is the kind of work I dreamed of when I lived in Portland. Now, I finally get to do it right, with your help. Tap in and send us your suggestions for Black people, places, and organizations doing the dope shit that we need to know about, to share about.

Portland is where it all fell apart. But now, I get to tackle the city on my own terms. Maybe you have a place like that, too. A city, a corner, even a kitchen table where your world cracked open. What would it mean to return?