Anjanae

1. How do you define “mothering” in your own life—and has that definition changed over time?
To mother is to give life—literally, figuratively, and especially spiritually. To guide with love. To love without condition. To teach, learn, grow, and care with no other interest than what’s best for your child.

To mother is to build home. To hold space. To create freedom through safety.

My child will know her mother is always here—with open ears, honest tongue, full heart. With hands ready to work and arms ready to welcome.My definition of mothering has sharpened with reflection, shaped by what I longed for as a daughter and what I believe it takes to raise a healthy one. I want to mother in ways my child won’t have to heal from in therapy.

2. What has mothering revealed to you about who you are, beyond the roles you play?
It hasn’t revealed so much as it’s reinforced—things I already knew but ignored, I now step into fully.

I’ve always valued memories, for instance. Before, I would hesitate to ask for photos; now, I whip my camera out without apology. I’ve always valued a clean home. Before, I’d burn myself out to keep up; now, I get help without guilt. I’ve always needed personal space. Before, I’d sacrifice my peace to please others; now, I tell people no without shame.

I’m someone who cares deeply and works hard to help everyone thrive. Mothering has expanded my very idea of success—some days, singing the alphabet and playing pretend is the biggest win.

It’s taught me I’m better when my cup is full. Before, I tolerated the negative effects of running on empty; now, I give more grace and attention to myself and my needs, because my child requires all of me.

3. What parts of your journey feel unseen, misunderstood, or unspoken—and deserve to be named out loud?
The real, primitive, biological change. The rewiring of your brain. The reshaping of your priorities. The pressure to return to who you were before.

Motherhood changes you, and it’s not something to fight against or fix. Then there are the everyday struggles—balancing it all. Juggling so many balls, working hard not to drop any—building the future while staying present in the moment, cooking the healthy meals, choosing the educational shows, taking care of myself, showing up for my family, constantly weighing the tiniest decisions against the bigger picture.

I am figuring out how I want to mother, and I am allowed to grow, to make mistakes. I deserve to embrace change, not apologize for it or overcompensate.

4. How has your experience of mothering been shaped by your lineage, your culture, or the community around you?
Where I’m from, your biological mother was not your only mother figure. Grandmothers, aunties, cousins, family friends, even neighbors—all played a part in raising a child.

I come from a culture of community. Everybody lived around the corner. If you didn’t have it, somebody else did—be it a babysitter or a slice of bread. My cousins and I hopped houses for sleepovers, backyards for get-togethers, and parks for impromptu dance practice.

My childhood was impacted greatly by my lineage, but Katrina changed my community forever. That once close-knit family experience was washed away with the rest of New Orleans. My experience of mothering now includes a keen awareness of that loss, sometimes a longing for what could have been, and a sense of responsibility to rebuild it for the upcoming generation.
My child deserves the same kind of village.

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 shifting. After the initial shock and awe, it was clear there was no going back to “normal.” I was stepping into a new life.

Physically, I looked fine in weeks. Mentally, I’m still healing. I almost broke beneath the pressure to resume being wife, daughter, friend, when I was still learning who I was now and my new role as mother.

The first three months were emotionally messy. My baby couldn’t leave my sight. I felt isolated in a room full of family. I bottled my anxiety, afraid to offend or look crazy. I had support, but I needed time.
Spiritually, I never wavered. Even at my lowest, I’d never felt more rooted—my resolve solid. I was a mother. No one could take that from me. Because even if I had to do it tired, sad, or alone, I was gonna raise my child. Purpose grounded me through postpartum.

6. If you could design the ideal postpartum care system, what would it look and feel like?
It would be an intentional community effort built on support, centering the mother and her needs. Just as there’s a system of deliberate preparation before birth—prenatal classes, baby showers, nesting—a similar system should exist afterwards. Postnatal classes where women can gather with a professional to share, learn, and hold space. Mama showers where family and friends gather to celebrate the new mother with love and helpful gifts. Post-nesting where other people come to help clean and cook as mama recovers.

My highest priority: normalize postpartum. Yes, there is a base level of normalcy we all hope to reach, but in the postpartum period, we should be leaning into the raw reality and supporting mothers where they are—not constantly ushering them back to where we think they should be. Mothers deserve community, but not at the expense of our sanity or safety. And let’s not forget—longer, paid maternity leave.

7. Can you share a moment of deep joy in your mothering journey—one that lives in your body?
I can’t narrow it down to just one moment.
The deepest joy of my mothering journey shines in the joy my daughter reflects—her manifestation of the very same love we give her each day. When she runs to me, it’s clear she’s been kept safe. When she hugs and kisses others, it’s clear she’s been shown affection. When she brushes her teddy bear’s teeth, it’s clear she’s been cared for. Seeing my daughter embody the energy I pour into her shows me I’m doing a good job being her mother. Those little moments bring me immense joy.

8. What grief, loss, or transformation has shaped the way you show up as a mother?
My relationship with my own mother shapes how I show up. She gave me life and provided for me, but our emotional connection was stunted early and remains distant. As a grown woman, I can recognize the complication behind her choices, but the little girl back then couldn’t help but feel unwanted. I would’ve rathered physical pain because the damage from words hurt beyond repair.

With my daughter, I am very deliberate in what I say and how I say it. I center love in every interaction, especially when it’s hard; if there’s any chance she could walk away questioning her mama’s love, it’s addressed immediately. I assure her daily—with my words, with my affection, with my choices.

I check myself often to ensure the bond I want with my daughter is the bond I’m actually building. I know the pain of checking in too late.

9. How do you access healing—emotionally, spiritually, or ancestrally?
I go inward. I reflect deeply. Sometimes I write about it. Sometimes I let the song cry. Sometimes I talk out loud to myself or to whoever else, or read to connect with a similar experience.

Sometimes I see a butterfly and say hello to my mawmaw. Sometimes I look at pictures and reminisce. Sometimes I watch reruns to relive simpler days.
Yet sometimes I do nothing. Sometimes I remind myself to just breathe. Sometimes the most powerful healing comes from letting things be.

10. Are there any rituals, practices, or traditions that keep you grounded?

Intentionality and gratitude ground me most—internally and externally. I’m independent and introverted, but ensuring the people who matter know how I feel is important to me. Planning for joy and peace as deliberately as I plan for productivity has helped restore my sanity.

A moment I look most forward to each day is practicing full presence when my daughter awakens. Whether for 20 minutes or two hours—the laptop is closed, the phone is away, the racing thoughts are silenced—I allow myself the complete moment, to soak up the sweet love and laughter of childhood she brings. As someone who is constantly doing, simply playing with my daughter slows me down to appreciate what’s really important. It calms my nervous system and lifts the tone of my entire day.

Creative expression and continuous learning also keep me grounded.

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 making the community conducive to the well-being of all within it. As a mother, it shows up as family-friendly options; as neighbors engaging curious little ones outside; as teachers calling home; as strangers chasing behind the escaped toddler in the grocery store.

Support is something I welcome, but inviting it in myself is something I’m still working on. I’m a Taurus to the tee—the incredibly independent and dependable person everyone else can count on. I don’t see that changing, but I’m learning it’s okay to lean on others sometimes. I’ve entrusted my mother-in-law with watching my daughter. I’ve gone to friends who have children to exchange conversation or advice. Many times, my way of inviting someone in looks as simple as sending them regular pictures of my daughter.

Simply being present, open, and willing to offer support—and accept it—is vital in building a caring community.

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?
I follow my intuition. I trust my judgment. I’m always learning, staying curious, asking questions. I seek objective information and take opinions with a grain of salt. I stand firm in my choices.
I acknowledge the systems and deny them access, choosing only what serves me. Healthcare? My child’s pediatrician is a Black woman. Childcare? Grandma’s right around the corner. Politics? Catch me at the polls. Public spaces? My child will be seen, heard, and kept safe. Capitalism? I quit my old job on maternity leave. I stayed home for a year. My new job is hybrid and human-centered. Baby-sitter canceled? Body needs a break? No problem, sis—work from home today.
I can’t support any system that threatens my ability to mother.

13. What do you want the world to understand about mothers like you?
We are the generation of women honoring our mothers’ sacrifices by not repeating them. The dreams they gave up? We’re making reality. The mistakes they made? We’re learning from. The walls they hit? We’re knocking down. They didn’t struggle to watch us struggle, too. My mothers worked to the bone to better my position—it’d be a slap in their faces not to climb higher.

We value our elders’ wisdom, but we know different results require new methods. We’re figuring out what tweaks, trade-offs, and traditions work for us.

We don’t want to offend, but we won't be overlooked. We are mothering with clarity and care to heal ourselves, our children, and the systems that have bruised us for centuries. We are coming after all definitions of generational wealth. We no longer glorify measuring a mother’s value on how much she gives up—we’re building a sustainable foundation on stability, not sacrifice.

14. What do you hope your child—or future generations—inherit from your story?
I hope my story teaches our children the normalcy of growth and the importance of grace. I wish them faith to do what they know is best and the assurance to be themselves, no matter what version of them is present or who else is watching.
I hope they realize we are here on borrowed time, and making the most of it sometimes means doing the least—resting, laughing, releasing—should be prioritized. Today it’s us; tomorrow it’s them, and we’ll be the ancestors they write about.
I want to be sure their beginnings are on such solid ground that their endings—the many they will face—are celebrated more than mourned, because the stability of their present and future makes it a joy to see what’s next.
Most importantly, I want my child to know she was loved long before her arrival and will be loved as long as I live.