Not at graduations.

Not at weddings.

Not during life’s biggest milestones.

Sometimes they happen in the middle of childhood pain.

For Gwen Gaston Gray, those moments came when her siblings teased her relentlessly about her darker complexion. The names hurt most because they came from the people closest to her. The people who were supposed to love her.

Children often remember the wounds.

But they also remember who stepped in to heal them.

Whenever the teasing became too much, Gwen’s mother, Mary Janelle Adams Gaston, would stop what she was doing and address it. She corrected the behavior, but she didn’t stop there.

She turned to her daughter and reminded her who she was.

“You’re beautiful, Gwen.”

Simple words.

Yet powerful enough to echo across decades.

As Black women, many of us learn early that the world will have opinions about our skin, our hair, our features, our voices, and our worth. Sometimes those messages come from strangers. Sometimes they come from people we love.

What made Mary different was that she understood correction alone wasn’t enough.

A child needs reassurance.

A child needs someone to challenge the lie before it becomes a belief.

She taught Gwen to see herself through a different lens. She introduced her to Black history, Black excellence, and women who looked like her doing extraordinary things. She encouraged her writing, nurtured her gifts, and made sure her daughter understood that beauty wasn’t defined by someone else’s opinion.

Years later, Gwen reflects on those moments with gratitude.

The teasing eventually faded.

The insecurities softened.

But her mother’s voice remained.

That voice became stronger than the criticism.

Stronger than the doubt.

Stronger than the names.

Today, Gwen carries that lesson into every area of her life—as a wife, mother, business owner, mentor, and leader.

Because long after childhood ends, many of us continue living from the voices we heard when we were young.

Some voices break us down.

Others build us up.

The greatest gift a mother can leave behind is not simply love.

It is a voice that still speaks courage, confidence, and belonging long after she is gone.

And for Gwen, that voice still whispers the same truth today:

“You’re beautiful.”

Listen to the Full Episode here

I was blessed to grow up in a two parent household for most of my life. My parents didn’t divorce until I was about 19 years old. It was a difficult season because, if I’m being honest, I often found myself caught in the middle of it all.

Eventually, we found our way back to one another. But life has still brought its share of challenges for my father and me, especially during the times when health scares shifted our relationship and I became one of his primary caregivers.

It’s funny how life works.

One day we’re children, convinced adulthood is forever away. Then suddenly we’re adults ourselves. Before we know it, we’re getting older, raising children of our own, and watching our parents age before our eyes.

The days seem quieter for many of our elders. The roles begin to change. The people who once cared for us now need care themselves. The children become the caregivers.

It’s a lot.

And lately, it’s had me thinking about how the choices we make when our children are young can shape our later years. Will we have close relationships with our children when we’re older? Will they resent us? Will they want to care for us because of their upbringing or in spite of it?

When my father needed help, I was ready to jump in.

The thing I wasn’t prepared for was looking around and realizing I was often doing it alone.

There I was again, stepping into another caregiving role.

And if I’m honest, that scared me.

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Because lately, many of the funerals I’ve attended have celebrated people who “always put others before themselves” and “always prioritized family.” Those words are meant as praise, and they should be. But they’ve also made me think about the cost.

What happens when we’ve spent a lifetime caring for everyone else and never learned how to care for ourselves?

I do know the answer.

It’s boundaries.

And if I’m honest, boundaries are some of the hardest things many of us will ever have to set for ourselves.

Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that our value is tied to our sacrifice. That being a good daughter, mother, partner, friend, or caregiver means always putting ourselves last. That exhaustion is proof of love. That depletion is the price of being needed.

But I’ve learned that isn’t true.

This season of my life has been about letting go of those beliefs. It’s been about unlearning the idea that I am only valuable when I’m sacrificing for someone else.

My father and I have been through a lot together. There were moments when his health challenges required me to step in and help carry the load. Thankfully, he’s doing much better now. These days, we’re learning each other again, not as parent and child, but as adults.

And I still celebrate him.

For Father’s Day, I hosted a fish fry because that’s what family does. We gather. We laugh. We show up for one another. We create memories while we still can.

But I’ve also learned that showing up for others cannot come at the expense of showing up for myself.

So now I rest too.

I make space for my own needs, my own healing, and my own joy.

Because while I deeply value caring for my father and the people I love, I have to value my own life just as much. Maybe even more.

Not because I love them less.

But because I finally understand that caring for myself isn’t separate from caring for others. It’s part of it.

And On My Momma, I know that’s exactly what she’d want me to do

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Sometimes grief doesn’t arrive as tears.

Sometimes it arrives as exhaustion. As anger. As anxiety. As a body carrying more than it was ever meant to hold.

For Ke’Shawn Hill-Adamson, grief began long before she had language for it. At just seven years old, she lost her grandmother the woman she describes as the pillar of her family, a second mother, and a source of unconditional love. Her grandmother’s death was followed by years of additional losses as family members passed one after another.

Like many children, Ke’Shawn learned to keep moving.

School continued. Life continued. Expectations continued.

So she did what many of us do.

She pushed her grief aside.

Years later, that unspoken grief began showing up in unexpected ways. Despite doing everything she thought she should be doing, her health changed dramatically. Weight gain became a struggle she couldn’t explain. Medical tests revealed no clear answers.

The answer wasn’t in her body.

It was in her heart.

As she began journaling and eventually entered therapy, Ke’Shawn uncovered what had been buried beneath decades of survival: unresolved grief.

“When you don’t deal with grief, trauma, and loss,” she shared, “it’s like you’ve never moved from that place.”

Those words resonate deeply because grief is not something we simply “get over.” It asks to be acknowledged. Witnessed. Felt.

For Ke’Shawn, healing began when she stopped running from the pain and started giving it a voice.

She cried for the little girl who lost her grandmother.

She made space for the losses she had never fully mourned.

She allowed herself to be seen.

Today, that journey has become her life’s work. Through coaching, speaking, writing, and her grief community, she helps others do what she once struggled to do herself: become unstuck.

Her story is a reminder that healing doesn’t begin when grief disappears.

Healing begins when we stop pretending it isn’t there.

And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is ask ourselves a simple question:

How am I really doing?

The answer may be the first step toward healing.

Watch a Clip of Episode 9

Watch the Full Episode Here

On my Momma, we don’t see the same things we used to growing up. I used to see ladybugs. We used to catch lightning bugs and butterflies. Oh, the abundance of butterflies that were around growing up.

My mom taught us how to catch butterflies when we were kids. It took patience, quietness, and stealth. You had to wait until it landed and walk up on it quietly. Wait for it to close its wings, then go in and hold it by those closed wings.

She only let us hold them for a little while, then we would gently place them back on the flower or leaf they were perched on, leaving a dusty residue on our fingers.

People really sleep on how awesome butterflies are. The biggest thing is how they even come into existence. I’m sure you’ve heard, again and again, all the analogies about being a caterpillar and evolving into a butterfly.

But what gets lost in the process is that it’s not even what I’d call evolving, but rather a full rebirth.

You see, when they’re in the chrysalis, they don’t just sprout wings. They literally dissolve into liquid and rebuild themselves into a completely different creature.

What the hell am I talking about? Why does it matter?

Because there’s an analogy in that for life. And hell, for me honestly, I’m in such a transitional time in my life. I feel like everything around me is breaking down in that same way. Everything I’ve known is dissolving or changing.

And like the butterfly, I’m sure there’s fear in that dissolving of self. But it’s a necessary process. And though I don’t know where this leads, I can only hope to emerge a beautiful butterfly.

Here we were, these kids grabbing butterflies, the result of a full breakdown, unaware of what life, our very own chrysalis, would bring to us or even when. Not realizing it’s a journey that may happen again and again and again.

I don’t know how long this stage will last, but if you’re dealing with challenges and hoping to emerge anew, please be reminded that we are all in our own stages of rebirth.

I was reminded of this when, for the first time in many years, the largest monarch I’ve ever seen landed right beside me.

Remember….brace yourself, move quietly, be patient, with stealth and like the butterfly I caught my mother’s message to me.

“Transformation was never meant to feel comfortable.

Jana DeCristofaro insightfully shares how grief doesn’t always start with answers. Sometimes, it starts with a question. A small voice asking something simple: where is she, why did it happen, am I safe? And suddenly, everything feels heavy.

In one conversation, a mother shared how her child kept asking about death not because she wanted details, but because she was trying to understand her world again. Not the full story, just enough to feel steady.

That’s the part we don’t always talk about. How grief shows up in questions. Not big, dramatic ones, but quiet, everyday ones that catch you off guard. The kind that makes you pause because you realize you’re not just answering them, you’re holding them.

We think we need the perfect words, but sometimes what’s needed most is honesty in pieces, in moments, in language that meets them where they are.

Because children don’t always need the whole story. They need to know what happened, that it wasn’t their fault, and that they’re still safe. Insight that we don’t always think about or sometimes even consider.

Grief, especially for them, isn’t about understanding everything. It’s about feeling grounded in something. A voice, a truth, a presence that stays.

And maybe that’s the work. Not explaining grief away, but sitting in it long enough for someone else to feel less alone.

On my Momma , I have such a love for documentaries. It’s something I’ve always loved. I don’t know, just observing people, the way they think, and how other people live has always been a fixation of mine. I guess I’m just nosey, and if that’s the case, I definitely got it honestly from my mom. She literally left a permanent dent in the blinds from always peering through them.

Most recently, I watched The Crash on Netflix, which tells the story of Mackenzie Shirilla and the night she basically careened her car into a wall at 100 mph, killing her boyfriend, Dominic Russo, and friend, Davion Flanagan. It’s heartbreaking how so many lives were changed in one moment, especially considering Mackenzie is now serving 15 years to life in prison.

It honestly got me thinking deeper, and maybe because I’m a parent, it really made me look at the parents. My eldest is quickly approaching her teenage years, and I get it. There’s this shift, this hyper independence. She wants to try different things, she’s prioritizing friendships, and you’ve officially gone from Mommy to Mom or Ma.

There’s this strong desire to want to stay relevant, to connect differently, to stay present, and sometimes even to stay “cool.” But that can blur the line between parenthood and friendship. It can blur the line of accountability too, and that’s what I saw with her parents.

My mom was definitely one of those “I ain’t one of your little friends” parents, and honestly, I get it now. During those teenage years, I probably needed her to be a parent more than ever. Even though there was a shift in parenting as I got older, building trust and giving me certain freedoms, there was still a space where I was expected to be both responsible and accountable.

Now, once I became an adult, our relationship evolved into something deeper. We became more like friends in some ways, hanging out, talking about everything, even going to bars together at times.

I’m not here to psychoanalyze her parents. More than anything, this documentary reminded me how appreciative I am of my own parents. It reminded me that even when it’s difficult navigating things with my teen, I can’t ignore bad habits or make excuses for them just because parenting gets uncomfortable.

Because an unaccountable child can easily become an entitled adult who ignores rules, boundaries, and consequences. And situations like this remind us that when accountability is missing, people often end up hurting themselves or someone else.

Mother’s Day can hold so many emotions at once.

Love. Gratitude. Longing. Grief. Reflection.

For some, it’s a day filled with hugs and phone calls.

For others, it’s a day spent holding memories close and learning how to celebrate someone who is no longer here physically, but whose presence still shapes every part of who they are.

Through the stories shared on Echoes of Her, one thing remains true:

A mother’s impact does not end when her life does.

It lives on in traditions.

In strength.

In laughter.

In the way her children love others.

In the way they survive.

Danaé Reid remembers her mother as the kindest person she’s ever known — a woman whose generosity stretched far beyond her own family and into her community. Her mother believed in helping people, feeding people, and making sure others felt cared for. Even now, that spirit of service continues to guide Danaé’s life.

Tara described the bond with her mother as “soulfully connected.” Through illness, uncertainty, and loss, their relationship remained deeply rooted in love. Her story reminds us that even when grief changes us, love remains steady.

Marisa Renee Lee shared how her mother’s life and passing shaped her resilience. From learning independence at a young age to building a remarkable career and creating new traditions in the face of loss, Marisa carries her mother’s lessons with her in every room she enters.

Kenda Lawson honored her mother, Brenda, for her unwavering strength. After tremendous hardship, Brenda continued raising seven daughters with love, grace, and determination. Her ability to celebrate her children while carrying her own pain became part of the legacy she passed down.

Nikki Owens described her mother, Elizabeth Ann Shelton, as “five foot of pure fire.” Fierce, loving, resilient, and unforgettable — Nikki reflected on how adulthood allowed her to finally see the depth of her mother’s strength and humanity. Even through complexity, conflict, and hardship, love remained.

Andrea Cambron remembered her mother, Linda Durham, as both a guide and a teacher. Linda’s wisdom, grit, and determination became a roadmap Andrea still follows today. The lessons her mother taught continue to shape the woman she has become.

These mothers were different.

Different stories. Different journeys. Different lives.

But they all left something behind.

Courage.

Compassion.

Resilience.

Fire.

Wisdom.

Love.

This Mother’s Day, we honor the women who raised, protected, taught, comforted, sacrificed, and loved in the ways they knew how.

And for those grieving their mothers today, may you remember this:

Love does not disappear.

It echoes.

In memories.

In traditions.

In the stories we continue to tell.

And in the people we become because they were here.

Some moments are supposed to feel like everything.

A promotion.
A milestone.
Proof that all the hard work meant something.

But grief has a way of interrupting even the best days.

She did everything right.

Planned. Organized. Prepared.

She read the books. Asked the questions. Made the lists.
She tried to get ahead of the loss before it happened.

She thought if she stayed ready… she’d be okay.

She wasn’t.

Months later, life kept moving.

Work didn’t stop. Opportunities didn’t pause.
And one day, she got the news—
a promotion she had worked for, earned, deserved.

The kind of moment you’re supposed to celebrate.

But instead of celebrating, she left.

Walked out of the building.
Crossed the street.
Sat quietly in a church.

And cried.

Because the one person who would’ve understood..
who would’ve been the proudest, the loudest, the first call wasn’t there.

That’s the part no one tells you about grief. It doesn’t just live in the loss.
It lives in the moments that follow.

The wins.
The milestones.
The ordinary days that suddenly feel incomplete.

You think grief will show up at the funeral.

But it doesn’t always.

It waits.

For the quiet.
For the stillness.
For the moment you instinctively reach for someone who’s no longer there.

And somehow, you keep going.

You learn how to hold both the life you’re building and the absence you carry.

Not perfectly.
But honestly.

One moment at a time.

On my Momma…yesterday I had to take a mental health break. I don’t know what’s going on in the world, but it just feels like more than ever people are lacking heart, concern, compassion, empathy, and grace. The news of Dr. Cerina Fairfax being murdered by her husband while the children were home shook me. I had already heard of a few other stories, but it just seemed once that one happened, something broke, and the timelines were flooded with story after story after story of women losing their lives, most of whom to men who were their partners. April alone has been so many that we’ve heard about, and I’m sure there are more that we haven’t.

In April alone, nationally, we saw over 13 cases of Black women losing their lives.

• Dr. Cerina Fairfax (49): A dentist and mother of two, she was shot and killed by her estranged husband, former Virginia Lt. Gov. Justin Fairfax, in an apparent murder-suicide in their Virginia home.

• Nancy Metayer Bowen (38): A Florida Vice Mayor and trailblazer for her community, she was killed by her husband, Stephen Bowen, on April 1, 2026, in what was described as a premeditated murder-suicide.

• Pastor Tammy McCollum (58): A North Carolina pastor who was shot and killed by her husband, Eddie McCollum, shortly after preaching an Easter sermon.

• Ashlee Jenae (Ashly Robinson) (31): A Portland-based influencer who died in Zanzibar on April 9, 2026, while visiting with her fiancé, Joe McCann, under circumstances for which he was questioned by authorities.

• Qualeisha Barnes (36): A rapper who was reported to be 14 weeks pregnant when she was shot, according to reports in April 2026.

• Davonta Curtis (31): A Chicago trans woman, beaten to death by her boyfriend while she slept.

• Barbara Deer: A speech pathologist with Chicago Public Schools who was killed shortly before she was scheduled to lead an anti-violence walk.

• Ashanti Allen (23): Murdered while eight months pregnant. Reports indicate the perpetrator had previously been convicted of assaulting her.

• Victoria Alexander (38): A nurse who was shot by her estranged husband at her workplace.

• Gabryel Ayers (26): Shot in a case that also involved the endangerment of her child.

• Gladys Johnson (22): Reported to have been killed in a fire, with her death labeled a homicide, while she was five months pregnant.

• Daneshia Heller (30): Shot and found in a vacant apartment.

• Imani Dia Smith (26): A former child star who was stabbed to death.

• Bianca Huntley (34): Gunned down on an Atlanta highway.

• Tania Mangual (47) and her son, Jericho Mangual (12): Sitting in a driveway when a neighbor shot both of them.

• Tyrice Friday-Washington (44): Shot after filing for divorce from her husband, Keith Washington. She was killed in front of her 6 and 18 year old children.

These cases are part of a broader, well-documented crisis highlighted by organizations such as Ujima (The National Center on Violence Against Women in the Black Community). Research shows that for Black women, homicide is one of the leading causes of death during pregnancy, and they are significantly more likely to be killed by men than white women.

What’s heartbreaking is that even while writing this, I discovered even more Black women who lost their lives, and unfortunately I know there are even more stories I haven’t heard about. That is the problem. There shouldn’t be so many stories and so much violence against Black women.

Before people start hootin’ and hollerin’, no, there shouldn’t be any violence against anyone. People should not lose their lives. But we have to acknowledge how disproportionate it is specifically for Black women.

I’m so grieved for these families, for the children left behind, for the children who have had to bear witness to their moms losing their lives. The ones whose fathers took their mothers’ lives have now lost both their parents. It’s senseless and it’s devastating. I cannot put it into words. I apologize if it sounds like I’m rambling, but the news will wrap up, the stories will change, but the families will be impacted forever. I remember sharing with someone how heavy and emotionally exhausting this feels. But it makes sense, because this is something I’ve had to face in losing my mother at the hands of her partner.

Your mind trying to not just process the grief, but the trauma of what happened. The fear of having to face that person, the worry about your own safety, the realization that these things do happen. People actually…murder people. Then the person who died…my person, their person, their mom didn’t deserve that. Trying to wrap our minds around understanding how someone can do that to your mom is something that is constant. It doesn’t end. There’s never a resolve because no answer is ever going to make sense as to why it had to be this way.

The nightmares…the flashbacks…the PTSD all from this moment.

The feeling that there’s nothing you can do…the helplessness.

I wish I could tie this up in a pretty little bow and say everyone left behind will be okay, but I cannot. The road ahead is hard. Their lives will never be the same. And while there will be brighter days ahead…wayyyy wayyyy ahead…it’ll never shine as bright as it once did.

Not to be a downer, but it is. These acts of violence are unnecessary, completely avoidable, and they have to end.
I worry that until Black women are genuinely loved, protected, or at the very least left in peace, nothing will truly change.
As the daughter of a woman whose life was taken, I carry that reality with me every day. And as a mother raising two young girls, I know this cycle cannot continue.

To my black women…I love you…I love us. We are truly magical even if the world doesn’t want to ACKNOWLEDGE they see it.

A Walgreens, a long walk, a boxed-up Christmas tree. For Kenda, it was everything.

That year, she and her mom didn’t have a car. Even getting through the day required a kind of stretching, a quiet figuring things out as they went. But inside that Walgreens, surrounded by lights and decorations, something opened up. For a moment, Christmas felt possible. Not perfect, not easy, but possible.

Kenda saw the tree and said, let’s get one. Her mom paused. Not out of disinterest, but out of knowing what it would take. How are we getting it home? The question lived underneath everything. Logistics, distance, effort, the weight of it all. And still, Kenda answered with the kind of certainty only a child can hold. I’ll carry it.

And her mom said yes.

There’s something powerful in that kind of yes. Not because it makes sense, but because it makes space. Space for hope, for trying, for believing something can happen even when the path isn’t clear.

Kenda lifted the box and started walking. At first, it felt manageable. She held it with determination, maybe even a little pride. This was hers to carry, her idea, her contribution to making something feel like Christmas. But the longer she walked, the heavier it became. The distance stretched. Her hands started to ache. The confidence she began with slowly gave way to the reality of the weight.

And somewhere along that walk, it became too much.

About a mile in, when her arms could no longer hold what her heart had insisted on, her mom stepped in. No frustration, no correction, no reminder that she had questioned it in the first place. Just, I got it. A simple offering. A steady presence.

They carried it together the rest of the way home.

That moment holds more than help. It holds a kind of parenting that doesn’t rush to protect a child from effort, but also doesn’t abandon them to it. Her mom let her try. Let her feel capable. And when the weight shifted, when it pressed a little too hard, she met her there without shame.

That night, the tree was decorated with whatever they had. No matching ornaments, no curated look, no excess. Just intention. Just care. Just a mother taking what was available and turning it into something that felt full.

By morning, the house felt like Christmas.

Not because everything was in place, but because she made it feel that way. Because she understood that sometimes the work isn’t about having more, it’s about making meaning out of what’s already there.

And when Kenda looks back on that moment, it stretches beyond the tree. It becomes a lesson about what it means to be held in both freedom and support. About being allowed to carry something, to believe you can, and also being reminded that you don’t have to do it alone.

There’s a quiet wisdom in that kind of love. The kind that says yes even when it’s complicated. The kind that walks beside you when things get heavy. The kind that turns ordinary places into something sacred, not by changing the circumstances, but by showing up fully inside of them.

Sometimes what stays with us isn’t the gift itself, but how it got to us. The effort. The walk. The hands that reached in when ours started to give out.

And maybe that’s what she was really given that year. Not just a tree, but a way of understanding love. That it can hold both struggle and softness at the same time. That it can look like trying, and failing, and being supported anyway.

On My Momma…earlier this week I had a job interview and I don’t know why but I was super nervous. Maybe because of the climate, jobs are harder to come by, I haven’t had a job interview for years, the added pressure of really needing / wanting to get some more financial stability for my family. For whatever reason, I found myself really just more nervous than I had ever been before. My husband Mike randomly walked up to me and grabbed my face saying :”You got this Mama!”

“You Got This Mama…” (if you’re not a new reader then you’ve heard me mention this phrasing before. If you are then,a little more detail is needed huh?)

This is a phrase I have on my wall…it’s something my mom would say to me when she saw me deeply stuck or nervous or unsure of myself. A reminder that through it all I got this.

I was able to reset myself deep breath…and personally I think I did very well in the interview.

I was reminded about how important it is to share with trusted people what motivates you. What can calm you and what resets your energy. That moment of encouragement wasn’t one that just came from Mike but one he pulled from my mother who had used it many times before.

I find myself often trying to consider how my parenting will impact my children one day, I talk to them about “the power of the push through”. A phrase I always say to them. It’s meant to help encourage them to be bold in facing different challenges and adversities.

It’s wild how something so simple…
a few words, a tone, a moment…
can stay with you. Can steady you. Can carry you.

Will I get the job? Who knows. But what I do know is I got this.

And sometimes that’s all we need.

Nikki didn’t call her mom Elizabeth. Nobody did. She was Ann. Five feet of pure fire. Big heart. Zero tolerance for disrespect. The kind of woman who could be sweet as pie and still have a FAFO side that kept everybody in line.

Growing up, things were complicated. Her parents’ relationship was messy. Nikki was a daddy’s girl, and her mom felt like the “mean parent.” But adulthood will change your eyesight. Nikki became a wife. A mother. And suddenly she could see what Ann endured. What she carried. How tough she had to be.

And whew… the traits passed down.

Nikki says her kindness is Ann. Her fire is Ann. Her temper too. That refusal to tolerate racism or discrimination? Definitely Ann. Brooklyn raised, living in Greensboro in the 70s. Native American. Often mistaken for “white-ish.” And absolutely not the one to play with.

Then there’s the funny stuff, the details that make grief feel human.

Ann was crafty. Made clothes, cheer outfits, Christmas gifts. Real “Martha Stewart hands.” But Nikki’s kids clocked it best. “You have a Martha Stewart side… and you have a FAFO side.”

As she got older, Ann turned matchy matchy. Blue shirt, blue pants, blue shoes. A walking color palette. Why? Home Shopping Network. Nikki jokes her mom had “twenty air fryers” and everybody’s stuff at her house. If it was on sale, Ann probably bought two.

But Ann’s fire wasn’t only funny.

Nikki shared that when she was young, her mom could be abusive. She didn’t fully understand how bad it was until adults from her old neighborhood told her they remembered hearing her screams. That kind of truth lands differently when the person who caused it is already gone.

So Nikki did what so many of us have to do. She reconciled it inside herself. Not excusing it. Not denying it. But holding the whole story at once. Ann’s trauma. Ann’s love. Ann’s harm. Ann’s humanity.

Then COVID complicated everything. Ann had another stroke. Nikki went last to see her. Spent about five hours by her side. Told her she loved her. Ann passed that night.

Nikki didn’t think it would hurt so much because they weren’t close. But grief doesn’t follow logic. Sometimes you don’t miss constant conversation. You miss the sound of them saying your name.

Ann died July 1. Her great nephew turned one on July 4, and Ann had already bought him a gift. After she passed, the family found the bear in her room, wrapped it, and held the party anyway.

Because even with all the complexity, they knew one thing. Ann would’ve wanted them to celebrate.

If Nikki had to give the world one word for her mom?

Fierce.

You could bend her.

But you weren’t breaking her.

Listen to the full Five Foot of Fury Episode here and watch it here.

On My Momma…I re-arranged my room this weekend. The goal was to completely move and flip everything around but as I got deeper into it, I felt like it didn’t need a full 360 change but maybe a little less. So instead of focusing on structure we went off vibes and I got it right where I wanted it to be.

There’s something about shifting around your environment; it gives you a sense of freshness, renewal, newness. You don’t just feel it in a functional way but in a deep way. I think for me changing my environment around helps me reset and gain new perspective not just on the space but on my life and what im dealing with as well.

My anxiety has been running rampant lately and at times it feels tough to stay afloat. I find myself wondering what’s going to happen on a personal level, all the way to a global level and what that means for me and my family. So, I re-arrange things, I change my approach to my day , I am intentional about my environment down to the type of media and content I constantly consume. I change my bedroom around, my living room, my whole house…well, because it’s something i can control. I might not be able to control all the things that are happening in my life and in the world around me…but I can control my environment. For that I am super grateful and intentional.

I wonder if that is what my mother was doing, there would be days we’d come from school and the whole house would be different. I never thought to question if it was her way of shifting the energy of the house, though I felt the difference. Nor did I bother to think about if this was her way of controlling and altering her environment to a way that helped us all be better functionally.

I never thought about it that way…but now I find myself in it. Maybe I am becoming more and more like her as I get older.

Not just in the ways I used to always know, like our love for art, how my hands look just like hers, our silliness and the way I carry myself. But also in the quiet ways. The ways you don’t notice until you’re in the middle of them.

Rearranging furniture. Shifting energy. Trying to make a space feel better when something inside doesn’t. Even just acknowledging that something inside…feels off.

I used to think it was random. Something she just liked to do. Something she did to drive my dad crazy.

But now I wonder if it was her way of coping. Her way of protecting us. Her way of creating a sense of stability in a world that didn’t always offer it.

And maybe, just maybe… this is mine too.

Because the truth is, I can’t control everything that’s happening around me. I can’t quiet every anxious thought, every moment of worry or fear. I can’t always predict what’s next although I really wish I could. Especially in the current state of the world.

But…I can move a bed.
I can move my paintings around.

I can create space.

And more than anything I can create space where I feel like I can breathe again.

And maybe that’s not something small.

Maybe that’s survival.

Maybe that’s inheritance.

I don’t know if she ever thought about it that way.

I don’t know if she even realized what she was doing.

I don’t know if she even had a plan, or if it was just a spur of the moment thing.

Unfortunately I never will.

But I do know I feel it now…

In the way I shift things around.
In the way I search for peace in small changes.
In the way I try to make my world feel safe again, not just for me but for my family.

The room isn’t completely different.

But something in me is.

And that feels good.

On my Momma… some people don’t just raise you.
They guide you quietly, consistently, like they can see around corners.

That was Linda Louise Durham.

A teacher by profession, but really… a teacher of life. The kind of mom who was always ten steps ahead. Not in a controlling way. In a covering you kind of way. The kind of woman who could look at your plan and say, “Mmm… that might not be it,” and you’d swear she was doing too much until life proved her right.

Andrea told a story that made me laugh and feel a range of emotions.

Her mom used to casually drop business ideas like they were nothing:
“We should create learning boxes for kids.”
“We should cook meals for busy parents.”

Andrea would nod like, “Okay, Mom. Cool.”

Then years later KiwiCo. Meal kits. Subscriptions on subscriptions.

And all you can think is: we missed the bag. Several times.

But the real ache isn’t the money.
It’s that Andrea can’t call her now and say, “Ma… you were right. Again.”

Because grief doesn’t only show up in funerals. Sometimes it shows up in a commercial. A package on the porch. A moment where you need advice and your first instinct is still to reach for the person who always knew.

Andrea showed a journal made for writing to her mom questions, crossroads, everything. A way to keep the conversation going. A way to remember her voice, her wisdom, her steadiness.

And that hit me because some losses aren’t just physical.

They’re functional.

You miss the person who helped you choose.
The person who made the world feel less confusing.

But maybe that’s the gift too because the truth is, mothers like Linda don’t disappear.

They relocate.

Into your instincts.
Into your voice.
Into how you keep going.

And if I had to sum up her legacy in one line:

She be knowin’.

Listen to the full Mama, I Made It! episode here and watch a clip from the episode here

On My Momma… one year ago I started this space to speak my truth, to share and process grief, to celebrate womanhood, and to speak authentically about how things were impacting me. I wanted to be relatable, to share lessons I’ve learned along the way, and to highlight inspiration from my mother. It has been so unique in all its storytelling glory. Here’s what this year has taught me…

Just do the thing. Today I still think and overthink what I am going to write about, but I’m getting better and better at just writing. I often worry if people will find what I’m talking about interesting. But I’ve reached hundreds of reads and locked in 57 subscribers, which is 56 more than I ever imagined.

Over this last year, I found myself wondering what people would think. Would they care about my reflections on my life, pop culture, the world, and lessons from my mom? At some point, I realized and accepted that people either will or they won’t. I share with my daughters all the time that the opinions of others shouldn’t matter and that those who get it will naturally come. Our craft should be steeped in our own happiness and it’s true. I have to be better at doing one of the hardest things that many people struggle with: taking my own advice. I am relatable. We all have gone through things. We all have thoughts. So I will be relatable. So just do it…but for me. The rest will fall into place…and it has.

So, I tell myself just do the damn thing and here I am a year later still doing it.

One thing that losing my mother and honestly many others in my family has taught me is that life is too short. No really, it truly is. The days may be long, but the years are fast and time waits for no one. I know I may be cliché or even rambling, but it’s true.

All of this to say why wait to do anything that makes you happy. Before my mom died I was on a year’s goal with the slogan “For My Happiness,” where each day I promised to do at least one thing for my happiness. Be it sit and watch a show, go get some sushi, take a long bath, ask that guy at work out to lunch, ride a motorcycle, or get a new tattoo. I was doing it and every day I found more and more things to pursue to be happy.

Life has changed. She’s gone. I’m a mother. I’m stressed. Work is a bit unstable. But I’m still here writing and rediscovering myself and that makes me happy. I have to because life is too short and I can’t wait for tomorrow to do something that makes me happy today.

So a year later I’m happy to have reached this milestone in my writing, my craft, and in building back some consistency I once struggled with or made excuses for. Don’t get it twisted. I’m still exceptionally busy and trying to balance it all, but I deserve a moment even if it’s just to write for my happiness.

Happy birthday to On My Momma.

Thank you, my readers for your kind words and support. Let’s keep going and may you do something TODAY for your happiness.

On my Momma… memories don’t always come back as these big, dramatic scenes. Sometimes they show up as something small. Something funny. Something you didn’t realize you’d carry forever.

Beans asked me about Nana, what she was good at, what made her her. And I told her the truth:

Nana could do cartwheels. Flips too. Real tumbling.
Meanwhile… I still can’t do a cartwheel to save my life. She tried to teach me, bless her heart. It just never stuck.

But the story that really got Beans was the crab story.

Growing up in DC, going to the wharf for seafood was a whole tradition. Nana loved crabs two dozen at least and if the market folks liked you, they’d toss in extras. So we’d come home with lots of crabs that moved, like they had plans.

One Fourth of July, we were transferring a full bushel into this huge crab pot…me, my mom, and my dad. Some miscommunication happened and suddenly…

a whole bushel of live crabs spilled across the kitchen floor.

Everywhere.

And here’s the part that still takes me out: My Mom looked at that chaos, ran out the back door, and locked herself outside. Left me and my dad barefoot in the kitchen, surrounded, while she coached us through the window yelling, “Grab them from the back! One’s right there!”

We were truly outnumbered.

But we got them all into the pot, no pinches, no lost toes. And later we sat down and ate those crabs like we’d won a war.

Or as Beans said: “So you got to taste the victory.”

Exactly.

And that’s what these stories do. They bring Nana back into the room. They give Beans something to picture. Something to hold.

That’s how love keeps traveling through laughter, through memory, through the moments you didn’t think would matter… until they did.

Check out the full episode: “Nana did what?” Listen Here and Watch Here

On My Momma…Comedy serves a number of roles in a society. One of which is pushing the envelope of cultural

acceptability and unacceptability. There is a constant push and pull between the comedian and society.

Comedians such as Lenny Bruce, Jackie Mabley, Redd Foxx, Richard Pryor and many comedians of today force society to look at itself and critique its values and mores. Society laughs and/or pushes back. The friction or conflict that is caused from this push and pull makes many people uncomfortable.

This discomfort results in introspection and change.

Subscribe now

Even when you accept the premise of comedy causing discomfort, there are a few subjects that should always be off-limit. There are some things that a society should never find funny. Some of these areas are the Middle Passage and its aftermath, the Jewish Holocaust, the exploitation of children, violence and violence within relationships.

As a survivor of domestic violence, and as someone who has lost their mother to it. It is hard for me to find humor behind a sadistically brash and insensitive punchline. In the age of the internet the line between acceptable and unacceptable “humor” has become blurred. The technology allows the “comedian” to hide behind the lack of direct contact with the audience. Often time’s comedians are seen acting out short skits on their social media platforms and with the click of a button they’re instantly able to reach thousands of viewers.

This ability to immediately transmit material removes the filter that usually comes with thought and time. Domestic violence seemingly has become a growing trend in these comedic shorts often featured on Instagram or Facebook. Survivors of violence don’t want those tragic memories to be triggered by simply browsing their social media platforms where they can innocently become victimized again and again.

While browsing videos on Instagram one caught my attention. It was an obscene title, admittedly I can’t recall the exact phrasing but something to the effect of: When bae’s P*ssy Is Just Too Good! The video shows a man waiting on an unsuspecting female to leave her house. He jumps out the bushes and asks her for sex. After she denies him multiple times, he pulls out a gun. She then agrees and they go into the house.

Sexual Violence, Kidnapping and Assault. There’s nothing funny here! It’s all too real all too often. A week or so later, I came across yet another video. There was a guy and a girl across the bar from each other. He buys her multiple drinks and after a half second of distraction he loses sight of her. She has run into an elevator obviously dodging him. Unfortunately for her, before the door closes he catches up to her. An unsettling stare off ensues until she says to him: Yea I drank your drinks and left…what are you gonna do? Shoot me?” He does.

He misses.

But he does shoot at her…oh and did I mention there were other people in the elevator as well?

What’s more disturbing were the comments below the video validating the erratic and dangerous behavior. Condoning the actions with smiley emoji’s and endless stories beginning with “if that were me I would’ve done the same thing too...” Arguing that drinks are too expensive to waste and she owed her counterpart something for taking the time to buy them. Those who spoke out against it were being told they were too sensitive or can’t take a joke.

But violence isn’t a joke. It’s all too real, painful and tragic.

Janese Jackson Talton 29 year old mother of three from Pittsburgh was shot and killed for rejecting a man’s advances at a bar. She declined his offer for a drink, and asked him to move away when he inappropriately positioned himself behind her in a sexual manner. Her killer Charles McKinney pulled a gun out and shot her for not reciprocating his advances. Misogyny is what made him feel like he was entitled to her, as if she too owed him something and his hypersensitivity to rejection is what motivated him to kill her.

Not only do these videos minimize the notion of violence as nothing more than slap stick comedy, they also continue the narrative of control. They suggest that partners are to do what the other wants regardless of the consequences. No matter how Good your p*ssy is it does not make it acceptable or even laughable to have a gun pulled on you to make you engage in activity that you don’t want to engage in. The word “no” should be enough.

But it wasn’t for Tiarah Poyau 20 year old Graduate student who was literally shot in the face for refusing to dance with someone at a festival.

Even though, comedians have their right to speak freely (Section 230 of Communications Decency Act) on various issues it is important to understand the responsibility that comes with communicating messages over public platforms. By constantly posting and minimizing the impacts of violence, studies show viewers of such content may become desensitized to it. Think about the number of television shows, movies, books and of course social media where violence is the main theme.

Now, think about how it makes you feel. As violence continues to be a form of entertainment victim bashing will continue to escalate. Violence should never be the subject of comedy, instead it should be always discussed seriously. It has been asked Why don’t you just watch something else? My response is why can’t comedians be socially responsible and make fun of something else. There’s a responsibility with the platform so it is important to think before you post.

Especially in a world where 1 in 4 women (24.3%) and 1 in 7 men (13.8%) aged 18 and older in the US have been the victim of severe physical violence by an intimate partner in their lifetime.

So if you haven’t been impacted, someone you know most certainly has.

But with that comes overthinking… and a complicated relationship with rest.

I often give myself a hard time when I rest. I convince myself that I have to be doing something in order for my day to have mattered. I know… it’s irrational. It isn’t always healthy. But it’s something I do. And I know I’m not alone in that.

I’m a mom. A pet mom. A plant mom. A wife. An entrepreneur. A COO. A podcaster, host and EP. A documentarian and director. A writer. A DIY’er. I do a lot. And that’s not even the full list. So giving myself permission to rest should be okay.

I remember when I was working at SiriusXM. I had also taken on a tutoring job and was working at Best Buy. My goal was to pay off all my student loans by 30, and that required working…a lot.

I remember my mom pointing out how much I was working and suggesting that maybe I needed some rest. I turned to her and said, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” I had heard someone else say it before and felt like it fit me.

But I will never forget the way the color left my mother’s face.

“Don’t say that,” she told me. Very sternly. “Part of life and living is rest.”

I heard her.

It’s important to acknowledge that rest is necessary. And though I still struggle with it, I combat those thoughts by being rational with myself. I deserve rest. I need rest to be present. I need rest to be my best self. I can’t show up fully for myself or anyone else if I’m depleted.

She was right.

To bank on the afterlife as the only time I slow down doesn’t serve me. It keeps me from being fully alive now. Rest doesn’t discredit the work I’ve done. It doesn’t erase my ambition. It doesn’t diminish what I’m capable of.

It sustains it.

You got this, mama., she’d always say to me.

And sometimes “this” includes a nap.

A day where I can celebrate those I love even more? I’m here for it.

My eldest daughter’s class is doing Valentine’s-grams where people can send each other cards and buy candy. I asked her about doing something for her friends, and she explained that she didn’t want them to take it the wrong way because a lot of the “couples” were doing them. She also didn’t think anyone would send her one for that same reason (middle school…I tell ya).

I understood her thoughts, but I shared with her that friends can also do something for each other on Valentine’s Day as well. It isn’t always about romantic relationships, but friendships and connections as well.

In my very first year of college, I remember going to the school store and buying three of my closest friends teddy bears and balloons and just telling them I loved them. I appreciated them, that I was glad to have them as my friends. It meant something to celebrate that love with them.

Love is such a complex yet simple and layered thing. I have spent my life mostly leading with it. When I love, I love hard. When I’m done, I’m done. But I do not hesitate to tell those around me (friendships, partners, whomever) that I love them. The world has so much going on in it right now that it seems we’ve reached the absence of it. But I do believe there’s still more love in this world than hate.

Now, don’t get me wrong… it isn’t without its flaws. It isn’t perfect, and even narratives around it can be distorted. Some will try to convince you that love hurts. I’ve even had a partner tell me, “In life you hurt the ones you love the most,” as an excuse for his problematic behavior. I’ve faced abuse, both emotional and physical, and even been told that the person who took my mother’s life did it because he ‘loved her too much’. But that’s not love, that’s control, that’s deception and misconception. Love doesn’t hurt you. You can experience heartache or heartbreak, which is the departure of love, the absence of love, or frustration with love. But love doesn’t hurt nor hurt you, especially not physically.

The other day I saw the Bad Bunny Super Bowl Half-time performance and smiled when the jumbotron read, “The only thing more powerful than hate is love.” That really resonated with me in many ways because it’s true. But on a personal scale, it especially is true for me. The love from my mother has lightened my darkest moments and has quite literally saved my life. The love I’ve had to find in myself is what has kept me going. Heck, the love others have shown me has kept me anchored. I’d hope the love I give honestly and unabashedly does the same for those I value and care about as well. It is so important to me that people know how I feel and hear it directly from me because, as the saying goes, you have to give people their flowers while they are here.

In fact, I always have pride in knowing the last thing I ever said to my mother was that I love her. For that, I will always be grateful.

So do I need a day to remind me to show love? No.

But I’d rather celebrate love in the world than be fighting to survive in a world without it.

Oh..and I secretly ordered some Valentine’s-grams from me for my daughter, so she can have something to open on Valentine’s day ❤️❤️

And that was just the beginning.

And just when things started to calm down, a nor’easter rolled through in February. Then, for good measure, the biggest snowstorm on record hit that November, on Veterans Day. Apparently, the year I entered the world, snow kept falling in historic ways. Records were broken. Everything slowed. The environment itself demanded attention.

What I did not know until recently is that my mother walked miles in that weather to give birth to me. Miles. In snow. In uncertainty. I imagine her tired, scared, uncomfortable, and determined. I imagine concern sitting right next to courage. And still, she went

What stays with me the most is this.
She never complained.

Not once.

I am only learning these details now and they humble me deeply. The sacrifices we grow up standing on. The strength that does not announce itself. The things mothers do quietly that shape entire lives.

This year, my birthday arrived again after a blizzard. Nothing dramatic. Just snowed in. Plans changed. The power went out. And instead of frustration, something else took over.

Presence.

With no lights, no distractions, I found myself fully there for my girls. Helping their fears subside. Making it feel safe. Making it feel normal. Keeping calm so they could feel calm. And in that moment, without trying to, I felt her. I was showing up in the exact way I imagine she would have for me.

We played games. We laughed. We stayed close. It was quiet and warm in the ways that matter.

And it felt like celebration.

Not just of me, but of her.

As I get older and now step into the last year of my thirties, I am far more aware of the strength it took to get me here. I am more aware of what it means to push through fear for the sake of your child. More aware of how much love exists in simply showing up, especially when conditions are not ideal.

Birthdays look different now. They are less about noise and more about reflection. Less about what I want and more about what I’ve been given. They remind me that my life began after a storm, carried forward by a woman who did what needed to be done without asking for recognition.

Sitting there with my girls, snowed in, power out, choosing steadiness over panic, I saw the quiet parallels. She carried me through a storm to bring me into the world. And years later, I was carrying calm for my children in a moment of uncertainty.

On my Momma, the older I get, the more grateful I am for the strength that shaped my beginning and the more intentional I am about passing that same love forward.