Netflix’s Forever: The Hard Thing It Reveals About Black Love
Forever on Netflix is nothing short of extraordinary. This is Black storytelling at its finest: authentic, intentional, and deeply moving. Nothing about the series felt forced or reliant on tired stereotypes. Instead, it offered a genuine portrayal of Black men, women, and families, rooted in love, vulnerability, and truth. It felt honest, relatable, and incredibly refreshing.
My introduction to the show came through my friend Faith, who simply said, “As someone who studied Black love, you have to watch it.” At the time, I had just graduated with my PhD and had a long list of shows I planned to catch up on, so I wasn’t in a rush to add anything new. But within a couple of days, I received messages from several other people, all insisting I needed to watch Forever and that I needed to write about it.
So, I hit play around midnight, thinking I’d watch an episode or two, but I ended up watching four straight through. I wanted to watch more, but I’m trying to fix my already in shambles sleeping schedule. I woke up the next morning and finished the remaining episodes in one sitting. From the very first episode, I was hooked. It’s just that good. By the time I reached the end of the series, I was already tempted to hit play and start it all over again. Although the recent announcement of a second season is exciting, I honestly didn’t even need that confirmation to feel satisfied. The storytelling and the way it ended were so complete and compelling that I would have been content with just one season. Still, I’m genuinely thrilled to see where the story and characters go next.
There’s so much to unpack about this series and why I consider it one of the most powerful portrayals of Black love I’ve ever seen. While I’d love to dive deep into the individual characters, I’ve noticed that conversation is already thriving, and rightfully so. It’s beautiful to see so many people engaging with the characters in such meaningful ways. So instead, I want to highlight a theme that hit me like a ton of bricks, one I haven’t seen many people talk about yet but that speaks to a vital part of cultivating Black love:
Doing the hard thing.
To ground this conversation, I think it's important to acknowledge that many people carry their own definitions of love and specifically Black love, shaped by personal and lived experiences. Because of that, you might not fully agree with everything I’m about to say, and that’s okay. But let me cook.
Black love is many things, but one thing it is not is perfect. Cultivating love in any form—romantic, communal, platonic, familial, or self—requires work. And that work is not always easy. You can feel a sense of ease in doing that work depending on certain factors: who you trust, who supports you, who feels like a safe place for you, and how comfortable or experienced you are. But none of that erases the fact that effort is required. And sometimes, that effort is hard. Especially when it involves the addition and consideration of someone else alongside yourself.
In relationships, generally speaking, you are dealing with three entities: you, the other person, and the relationship itself. That means there is individual work you have to do for yourself, work the other person must do for themselves, and shared work that has to happen within the relationship. That is what makes relationships so complex. There are so many moving pieces influencing our decisions, including our relationship to ourselves and our relationships to others such as family, friends, partners, and even the expectations or perceptions of strangers.
Take, for example, Keisha. She didn’t want to tell her mom what she had been hiding. Why? Because when you are aware of how much someone you love is already sacrificing for you, the last thing you want is to feel like an additional burden. When you see them light up at simple things, have their own good news, and find joy and happiness through the struggle, the last thing you want to do is rain on their parade. At least, that’s what we often tell ourselves. We convince ourselves not to make things any more difficult or inconvenient for anyone else, so we keep in the things that are bothering us. We try to navigate them on our own, even if that means we are suffering in silence, struggling with our own existence, feeling overwhelmed, depressed, and alone.
This is an example of a hard thing.
We often convince ourselves that we must avoid the hard thing, whether that's a difficult conversation, facing our own truth, or choosing to live a life that's truly our own. We tell ourselves it’s not the right time. That people won’t understand. That we don't want to be a burden. So instead, we try to manage our inner turmoil by controlling our outer world. We keep busy. We stay distracted. We focus on the next destination.
But here’s the truth: the idea that happiness or peace of mind lives in the next place, the next job, or the next partner will not save us or free us. Our truth and reality will follow us. Until we give up the idea that happiness is somewhere else, it will never be where we are. Or as George, Keisha’s granddad, says when she keeps insisting she just needs to get to Howard: “You need to find your Howard now.”
Black love, in all its beauty and dimensions, is not just about the joy. It holds the hard things too. But more than that, it is about how we face and carry those hard things together. The cost of community, of partnership, of even the relationship you hold with yourself, is sometimes inconvenience. It is the annoyance, the discomfort, the sharing of space. It is knowing when to let people in, when to let people go, and always remembering to lean on your village.
Love is not just about making space when it’s easy. It is about showing up especially when it’s not. One day, every single one of us will need someone. And we are all worthy of being an inconvenience to the people in our lives. Because we know we would go out of our way to make life easier for them. They should be able to do the same for us.
At the core of being able to give and receive that kind of love is one simple, hard thing: vulnerability. And that vulnerability extends to every relationship dynamic. Romantic partnerships. Friendships. Parents and children. Everything in between.
The message hit me most at the end, when Eric, played by Wood Harris, was sharing good news with the family. Justin speaks up and shares how he feels about going to college. There’s this little interaction that spoke volumes to me.
Justin apologizes for ruining the moment:
“I didn’t want to say anything after your good news.”
And Eric responds,
“That’s life.”
That is life.
And with life, the storm always passes.
The hard moments are not just difficult for us. They are often hard for others too, though for reasons we may not fully understand. We cannot always predict how people will react in the moment, and that uncertainty can feel scary and overwhelming. But that is the point of having a village.
What truly defines love is not always how someone responds right away, but how they sit with what was said, how they process it, and how they choose to come back afterward. Black love, in its truest form, is not just about celebration or survival. It is about healing. It is about honesty. It is about interdependence. It is about vulnerability. And most of all, it is about holding space for one another, even when it is uncomfortable or inconvenient. The final moments of Forever center exactly these values.
When Justin finally opens up, not because the timing is perfect but because he is ready to speak his truth, and Eric simply responds with, “That’s life,” it says everything. That small line carries a big truth. It challenges the idea that love must always be easy or perfectly timed. It reminds us that love includes the messy, the emotional, and the unplanned. It shows that real love allows room for both joy and struggle at once.
That is life.
And that is love.
It is a quiet but clear representation of what Black love can be when it is grounded in emotional safety, shared care, and deep understanding.
The ending fully affirms the heart of Black love. It shows that Black love is not only found in surviving hardship or celebrating success. It is also found in the ordinary moments where truth is spoken and community leans in. It is not just about the big gestures. It is about the small, honest choices that make people feel safe and known.
Forever captures this beautifully. It does not need to make a grand statement because the truth lives in the way its characters care for each other.
Love,
Dr. Nigel Marcellus