Today, on my mother Marjorie Reed’s birthday, I am reminded of how deeply God favored me by allowing her to be my mother. Not just because she gave birth to me. Not just because she raised me. But because she believed in me. She saw something in me early. She nurtured what was there. She paid attention to the things that made me come alive.

One of the things people rarely talk about is how many mothers carried entire families while silently battling their own exhaustion, heartbreak, disappointment, and fear. Many smiled publicly while privately praying for strength just to make it through another day. They sacrificed dreams, postponed healing, ignored their own pain, and continued showing up because somebody depended on them.

When God favors us with mothers and mother figures, He gives us something powerful. He gives us nurture. He gives us covering. He gives us wisdom. He gives us correction. He gives us warmth. He gives us somebody who can see what we need before we know how to ask for it. And even when the relationship is imperfect, complicated or absent, the need for mothering still speaks to something God placed deep within the human heart.

That is why today’s Tony’s Superhero Saturdays™ spotlight is not just about the characters printed on the page. It is about the people who make sure those pages still reach the hands of readers. Comic book shop owners may not wear capes, but they guard one of the most important parts of comic book culture: the local shop, the community space and the place where fandom becomes family.

Multigenerational storytelling forces you to think differently as a writer. You’re no longer asking, “What is this character going through?” You’re asking, “What has this family, this community, this bloodline already endured—and how is that shaping this moment?” That question alone adds layers of emotional and narrative complexity that a single-generation story simply cannot reach.

What makes the Lone Ranger powerful is not just his skill or his reputation, but his restraint. He does not seek vengeance. He seeks justice. He does not act out of anger. He acts out of principle. In a world often defined by chaos and violence, he represents order grounded in integrity. That consistency is what turned him from a character into a standard.

What made Michonne so compelling was never just that she could fight. Plenty of characters in apocalyptic fiction can swing weapons, survive danger, and stare down death. Michonne stood apart because every part of her presence suggested history. She looked like a woman who had already seen too much, buried too much, and lost too much to waste even one word. Her silence was not emptiness. It was weight. It was memory. It was survival.

Supergirl (1984) wasn’t just trying to follow in the footsteps of Superman: The Movie—it was trying to expand that world in a way that centered a different kind of hero. And while the execution didn’t land for everyone at the time, what the film attempted deserves far more credit than it has historically received.

Because some of the strongest women in history—especially Black women—did not fight in front of cameras, crowds, or applause. They fought in kitchens. In classrooms. In churches. In fields. In homes. In silence. And yet… they were still fighting.

If we slow down and really think about it…some of the greatest superheroes we’ve ever known didn’t do any of that. They didn’t wear capes. They wore responsibility. They wore sacrifice. They wore strength so quietly that it almost went unnoticed. And many of them were women.

This 27th day of Women’s History Month, I found myself thinking about that kind of impact. Not just the women we celebrate publicly—the pioneers, the trailblazers, the ones whose names are etched into history—but the women whose influence is personal. The ones whose presence didn’t just pass through your life… It stayed. It shaped. It settled into who you became.

Directed by F. Gary Gray, Set It Off is grounded in a harsh truth: when systems fail people—especially Black women—those individuals are often left to create their own paths, even if those paths lead somewhere dangerous. This film doesn’t ask for sympathy in a traditional sense. It asks for understanding. It challenges viewers to sit with discomfort and recognize that the line between right and wrong can blur when survival is on the line.

Born in 1906 in St. Louis, Missouri, Josephine Baker grew up in extreme poverty, navigating a world shaped by segregation and racial violence. Her early life was marked by instability, survival, and limited opportunity—circumstances that could have easily defined her future.

This Favor Fridays with Tony™, and on the 20th day of Women’s History Month, we spotlight a woman who refused to wait for permission from a world that told her “no.” A woman who didn’t just chase her dreams… She flew above every barrier placed in her way. Her name was Bessie Coleman and her story is a masterclass in what it looks like when favor meets fearless faith.

Many know the famous names of the Civil Rights Movement—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, and others. But behind those towering figures were countless men and women whose courage fueled the movement from the ground up. Among them was a woman born into poverty in Mississippi who would one day speak words that shook the conscience of a nation. Her name was Fannie Lou Hamer, and she embodied the kind of courage that Soldiers of Light Against Darkness™ must carr

It shines a spotlight on a chapter of history many people The Woman King accomplished when it debuted in theaters. The film tells the remarkable story of the Agojie—an elite unit of female warriors who protected the African Kingdom of Dahomey during the 18th and 19th centuries. This 12th day of Women’s History Month, The Woman King stands as a perfect reminder that history is filled with extraordinary women whose courage shaped the world—even if their stories were overlooke

Some seasons feel like they happen in darkness — seasons where we are hidden, confined, waiting for the right moment to move. There was a woman in American history who knew that kind of waiting intimately. Her name was Harriet Jacobs. For seven long years, she lived hidden in darkness — confined to a crawlspace barely large enough to sit upright — while the world moved on outside. But her story reminds us of something powerful: Hidden does not mean forgotten.

One of the most powerful films that brings these hidden legacies into the light is Hidden Figures, the remarkable story of three African American women whose mathematical brilliance helped propel NASA’s early space program. For Women’s History Month, this film stands as more than entertainment—it is a reminder of what happens when brilliance meets perseverance, even in the face of discrimination, doubt, and systemic barriers.

Truth is a seed. Obedience is a seed. Identity is a seed. And even suffering, when surrendered to God, becomes fertile ground. Sojourner Truth’s life was not accidental. It was agricultural.

Born into slavery in Maryland around 1822 as Araminta Ross, she endured brutality, forced labor, family separation, and a severe head injury inflicted by an overseer. That injury caused lifelong seizures and vivid spiritual visions. But what some might have labeled disability became, in her testimony, divine sensitivity. She believed God spoke to her. And when she believed God spoke — she moved.