by Hope Venetta | Jul 12, 2025 | Maximized Hope, Uncategorized
A few years ago, I found out my husband can trace his lineage back to 1650.
His family’s roots reach deep into the soil of Collelongo, a mountain village in southern Italy. There are records, names, and stories of his people. When he was a kid growing up in a small midwestern town, the community would gather each year for the St. Rocco’s picnic — a yearly celebration that brought together descendants of Collelongo. Whether they realized it or not, that shared tradition served as a grounding force in their lives. Their roots were visible, celebrated, intact.
When I learned this, I was happy for my husband but also heartbroken over my own heritage. At the time, I barely knew who my grandparents were. I couldn’t name more than one great-grandparent. There were no dusty documents or home videos connecting me to a homeland. No saints, no picnics, no lineages printed out on the back church programs. Just gaps, silence, and loss.
I felt like an orphan. Actually, more truthfully, I felt robbed. Because, literally, my people were taken from their land, stripped of their language and culture, renamed, and sold. My ancestors endured the dehumanizing brutality of slavery and carried its legacy for generations. Not only that, but somewhere in the midst of all that suffering and survival, records were lost, some were never even written at all.
What do you do when your roots are hidden? What do you do when you long to belong, but you don’t know where — or who — you come from?
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by Hope Venetta | Jun 19, 2025 | Maximized Hope
For the woman who’s tired but still pushing.
Who’s faithful but still wrestling.
Who’s accomplished so much but still feels like something’s missing.
I wrote it because oppression was never our full story.
Because what the world calls “disorder” is often a perfectly reasonable response to centuries of trauma.
Because our symptoms are often signals, not sickness.
Because your nervous system is not betraying you—it’s protecting you, like it was taught to do.
Yes, I use clinical terms like CPTSD and intergenerational trauma—but not to label you.
To name the pain, so you can stop blaming yourself for it.
Naming is part of reclaiming. And you deserve a language that speaks to both the science and the spirit of your healing.
I created Mama Feely as a guide—a literary device, yes, but also a soulful griot who holds the stories you weren’t taught and the truths you forgot you knew.
She’s here to remind you:
🕯️ You are not broken.
🕯️ You come from strength.
🕯️ And you can come home to yourself.
This isn’t just a book.
It’s a map.
And a hand on your back whispering, “Keep going, baby. You’re not alone.”
At Mama Feely’s Feet: Trauma, Truth, and the Journey Back to Ourselves is available for preorder starting on Juneteenth 2025.
I can’t wait for you to meet her.
With love and rooted resilience,
—Hope
by Hope Venetta | May 16, 2025 | Maximized Hope, Uncategorized
The recent fire that destroyed the Nottoway Plantation mansion—the largest antebellum “Big House” in the South—sparked waves of reaction online. Some mourned the historic loss. Others celebrated the symbolic destruction of a monument to enslavement.
But as a Black therapist who works with intergenerational trauma, I’m less interested in the headlines and more concerned with something quieter:
What is happening in the bodies of those descended from the enslaved who once lived—and died—in its shadow?
The nervous system holds memory. Whether we’ve personally visited these sites or not, our bodies can carry the residue of what they represent: forced labor, stolen children, erased names, sanctioned terror. These aren’t just historical facts. They are lived experiences passed down in blood, behavior, and bone.
So when the “Big House” burns, it might awaken something deep and layered.
Some may feel joy. Others, unease. Some may cry without knowing why. Others may feel a strange calm. These are not overreactions. These are somatic echoes of stories our families may not have had the safety or language to tell.
And for those of us navigating Complex PTSD or racialized trauma, moments like this can offer more than just a visceral response—they can offer a crack in the foundation of silence. A place to pause. A chance to check in with ourselves.
So here’s your invitation:
Take a breath. Notice your body. Where are you holding tension? Is there a part of you asking to be seen? What happens if you place a gentle hand there?
This is not about whether we should celebrate or grieve the fire. It’s about honoring what your body remembers—and making room for what it might finally be able to let go.
Sometimes, healing doesn’t look like closure. Sometimes, it looks like fire.
by Hope Venetta | Apr 17, 2025 | Maximized Hope
That’s what it took to write At Mama Feely’s Feet: Trauma, Truth, and the Journey Back to Ourselves.
This wasn’t just a writing project. It was a pilgrimage.
A reckoning with history.
A wrestling with memory.
A sacred conversation with God, my ancestors, and the parts of myself I thought were too broken to speak.
There were drafts I deleted through tears.
Chapters I rewrote when I healed just a little more.
Moments I questioned whether I was qualified to tell this story at all.
But every time I came close to giving up, I remembered:
This story isn’t just mine. It belongs to every Black woman who’s ever asked, “Who am I beneath the survival?”
At Mama Feely’s Feet took five years because healing takes time.
Because telling the truth with tenderness takes time.
Because I wanted to get it right—not just factual, but faithful.
📖 The book is finally done.
Preorders begin Juneteenth 2025.
And I can’t wait to place it in the hands of those who need it most.
by Hope Venetta | Mar 4, 2025 | Maximized Hope, Uncategorized
I saw this meme the other day, and I agree, but it’s missing something.
Because yes—falling apart doesn’t mean we’re broken beyond repair. Sometimes, it’s precisely what we need for healing to begin.
But here’s what the meme doesn’t say: tacos have a plate. If not a plate, then a wrapper, a napkin, a tray, or even your hand. It has something that holds it.
So my caveat is this—yes, we can fall apart and still be amazing. But we need a safe place to do it.
Who or what holds us when we fall apart? Who gives us the space to not be okay for a minute—or a while? Is it a trusted friend? A therapist? A favorite podcast? A worn and underlined inspirational book that feels like home?
And what about when you don’t have any of that?
No group chat. No church auntie. No therapist on speed dial.
We still need space.
Space to feel.
To grieve.
To rage.
To rest.
To reflect.
To rebuild.
And if no one else is holding that space for us… We have to learn how to hold it for ourselves.
Maybe it’s journaling. A voice note to your future self. A breath prayer. A quiet walk.
Whatever it looks like, you are worthy of a soft place to land.
