Tyie
1. How do you define “mothering” in your own life—and has that definition changed over time?
Mothering is devotion—a sacred act of being, of standing present in softness and power at the same time. It’s no longer just about caretaking; it’s about guiding, witnessing, and creating space for a soul to become who she was born to be. Being a Scorpio and having a Scorpio was God's divine alignment—a mirror held up to me every day. What’s changed most is my willingness to let go of perfection and instead be a softer place to land for her, and for myself.
2. What has mothering revealed to you about who you are, beyond the roles you play?
Mothering cracked me open. It revealed that I’m not just a role—I’m a vessel, a foundation, a home. It has shown me how deeply I long for peace and how much resistance I’ve held against receiving it. Now, I ask God daily to show me how to be at peace, how to live in joy. I recommit to myself and my husband—my favorite teacher—every day. And in doing so, I find a version of me that is both ancient and brand new.
3. What parts of your journey feel unseen, misunderstood, or unspoken, and deserve to be named out loud?
Birthing at home after 50 hours of labor changed me in ways I can barely name. Surrendering to what is and what shall be—that was birthing. Again. And again. And again. Vulnerability is something I was taught to fear, but it has become my greatest tool. Sometimes the old me wins. But more often, she doesn’t.
4. How has your experience of mothering been shaped by your lineage, your culture, or the community around you?
My lineage is rich with Black love. My parents’ 40-year marriage shaped my sense of what is possible, even as I build something different. I lost a lot of friends during my pregnancy, but gained a tribe of Black women and mamas who love me fiercely and know this terrain. This community has been critical to the healing of my mind, body, and spirit after birthing. They have held me, laughed with me, drank wine with me, and been an incredibly soft place for me to land. Care is our greatest currency, and I will continue to play it forward as I move through this life.
5. What was your postpartum experience like—emotionally, physically, and spiritually? What kind of support (or lack of it) did you receive during that time?
Postpartum was a portal. I was raw, wide open, and forever changed. I read The Fourth Trimester, and it became gospel. I share it with every new mother I know. My postpartum doula, who is also my Ifa sister, poured medicine into me—spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I practiced 30 days of confinement, inspired by ancient Chinese traditions, and it was incredible—a deeply nourishing and sacred pause that honored my body, spirit, and new role as a mother. In an ideal world, all mothers would be treated with the same reverence, given the same time, care, and attention—with herbs, softness, and no rushing back to productivity.
6. If you could design the ideal postpartum care system, what would it look and feel like?
If I could design the ideal postpartum care system, it would be rooted in access, community, and cultural dignity—not luxury disguised as care (and maybe it’s luxurious and caring; I don’t know because I can’t afford it, lol). I see all these beautiful retreat centers popping up in LA, DC, and NYC, offering four or five days of rest and healing for $2,000 to $5,000. That’s not sustainable or accessible for most of us, especially Black mothers and working-class families. Proper postpartum care should be a birthright. Imagine community-funded or sliding-scale healing centers in every city, staffed by doulas, midwives, therapists, aunties, and elders who understand the cultural and spiritual layers of recovery. Daily hot meals, bodywork, childcare, prayer, and rest. We need to reimagine care as a collective experience, where healing is not only possible but also affordable for all of us.
7. Can you share a moment of deep joy in your mothering journey—one that lives in your body?
The moment I surrendered during labor, after nearly 50 hours, it became holy. My daughter emerged in our bed, in our home, and time stopped. Breastfeeding, while layered with pain and power, is another cherished memory—her little fingers resting on my chest, both of us learning, both of us becoming. Breastfeeding and I have a love–hate relationship, but I would do it no other way.
8. What grief, loss, or transformation has shaped the way you show up as a mother?
The old me—sharp, armored, survival-bound—fought hard to stay. She was loud, reactive, and didn’t know rest. But mothering made me choose: softness or suffering. Sometimes the old me still wins, but more often now, I pause. I breathe. I remember I’m building a foundation. This house will weather all storms. I am still loud, but much more grounded.
9. How do you access healing—emotionally, spiritually, or ancestrally?
Healing for me is prayer at sunrise, lighting candles at the altar, calling on my ancestors by name. It’s meditation, journaling, crying in the tub, and remembering I deserve joy. I cook with intention, bathe with herbs, and speak to Orisa when I’m lost. Being in relationship with God, with myself—that’s the work. That’s the way back.
10. Are there any rituals, practices, or traditions that keep you grounded?
Yes, ritual keeps me grounded, especially when the world feels too fast or too loud. Prayer is my anchor, and my yoga mat is a sacred place where I return to my body. I walk by water when I can, take long baths, burn a ton of incense, and laugh as much as possible. Pausing—really pausing—to lay in bed with my child or myself, light candles, or hold time with my partner and friends as sacred helps me come back to myself. One of the most meaningful practices I’ve kept is journaling every day of my daughter’s first two years. I plan to give it to her on her 18th birthday. If we’re blessed with more children, I want to do that for each of them. It reminds me that mothering is not just doing—it’s being fully present.
11. What does community care mean to you—and how do you invite others into your mothering journey to help bridge gaps of support, understanding, or visibility?
Community care is sacred. It's calling in your circle to help raise your child, hold your grief, witness your joy. I invite people into my journey by being honest about what I need and what I don't. Mothering in systems that were not made for us is resistance. I choose to construct spaces of softness and power, to preserve rituals that heal, and to deconstruct anything that tries to shrink us.
12. To mother within systems that weren’t made for you is an act of resistance. How do you navigate, push against, or reimagine those systems in your everyday world?
This is a hard question because my 9–5 is literally about pushing back against the criminalization and incarceration of young people in Orleans Parish. So the systems I mother within and the systems I work to dismantle are one and the same. It can feel heavy. But I remind myself daily that small wins are still wins. There's an African proverb that says, “The only way to eat an elephant is bit by bit.” So every day, I try to chip away—some days that looks like dreaming up new programming with a Black-led nonprofit, and some days it’s as simple as making eye contact with a young person and saying, “Good morning.” Bit by bit, I push back and open space for something new to bloom—for myself, for my child, and my community.
13. What do you want the world to understand about mothers like you?
We are not just surviving—we are divinely appointed. Black mothers who honor African spirituality, who hold joy and grief in the same palm, who love loudly and protect fiercely—we are living legacy. We deserve rest, mangoes, and Caribbean seas. And we’re doing the spiritual labor to raise a different kind of human—one who stands in softness and in power.
14. What do you hope your child—or future generations—inherit from your story?
I hope my daughter inherits the courage to be. I hope she knows that joy is her birthright, that softness is not weakness, and that her voice matters. I want her to understand the power of prayer, the wisdom of her ancestors, and the beauty of loving out loud. I hope she knows I did the work to break patterns so she could walk free.
