“That’s what I survived on—that belief,” says Akil, who credits her mom’s mantra with all the success that came later. “I’ve been loved so well by th
“That’s what I survived on—that belief,” says Akil, who credits her mom’s mantra with all the success that came later. “I’ve been loved so well by the women in my life—my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, those three pillars. The community helped me feel safe enough to trust who I am, what I want, and what I like. So going back to that quote: ‘You think it’s all going to fall apart.’ And then you remember who you are and who loves you, and you get to work.”
Akil hopes to cultivate those same feelings with the next generation of Black writers through the Writers’ Colony, a Los Angeles–based nonprofit writing residency she founded in 2021 and expanded with an on-set shadowing program on Forever. “Writers’ Colony is an answer to the changes that are happening in our industry. There is no place to develop writers anymore,” says Akil. “It’s very difficult for showrunners to even get professional writers on set for their own script, let alone new voices.” Places like the Writers’ Colony foster community, as well as distinctive voices: “Don’t come here trying to be me. I’m still working on being me.”
All of this has led Akil to Forever—the second project under her overall deal with Netflix, following the 2024 Oscars shortlisted documentary Stamped From the Beginning, for which she served as an executive producer. That project was also based on a blacklisted book, this one by Ibram X. Kendi. “I’ve had no IP in my career, and with these two, I’m like, ‘Damn. Did I just back into being producer of the banned book?’” Akil laughs.
In truth, everything that made Forever such a contentious read in the 1970s has gotten more complicated in the decades since. Thanks to the internet, kids know more about sex at a younger age than ever; at the same time, access to reproductive healthcare has gotten scarcer than it once was. Blume and Akil discussed that during their first COVID-era Zoom about a potential collaboration, each one wearing blue, thick-framed glasses. “To meet someone that actually helped form my own voice was divine,” Akil says. She prefers not to share many details of their conversation, but adds, “I’m ultimately just grateful that we could have a real, substantive conversation about who we were as women, where we were in our lives, and why I wanted to adapt her book.”
Blume entrusted Akil with Forever and joined the series as an executive producer. “Come on, a Judy Blume green light?” Akil exclaims. “A little flex too is that I believe before I got to Netflix, they tried to get Judy Blumes—and they couldn’t land that deal,” she adds with a triumphant giggle. (Netflix did not respond to a request for comment.)
Blume allowed Akil to make significant changes to her story so long as Akil captured the essence of her book: “to allow young people to explore their feelings and curiosity around sexuality in a healthy way, and not jeopardize one’s future.” And devotees of the novel will be tickled to see that at least one infamous detail from the book remains: Our male protagonist still bestows an unforgettable name upon his penis. “I almost called him Jerome, a name traditionally associated with Black men,” says Akil. “But decided to honor the original and stayed with Ralph.”
Akil’s most personal touch on Forever can be found in the show’s matriarchs—particularly Justin’s mother Dawn, as played by Karen Pittman, a close friend of the showrunner who left the SATC spin-off And Just Like That… to shoot Forever. It’s a gift, as Akil phrases it, to “put some meat on the table” and know Pittman “is going to eat, as the kids say. The more she eats it up, the more you are inspired to give it.”
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