Ja’nese

How do you define “mothering” in your own life—and has that definition changed over time?
For me, mothering is creation. It’s art, it’s movement, it’s building a whole world where my daughters can breathe and bloom. I’ve been mothering since I was 20, so my definition has shifted with me—from survival and sacrifice in my early years to intentionality, pleasure, and legacy now. Right now I’m mothering three different ages. Nobody really talks about mothering adult children—that’s a wild journey.

What has mothering revealed to you about who you are, beyond the roles you play?
It’s revealed that I am infinite. Beyond “Mom” and every other title I hold, I’m a woman who shapes space and energy. I am still the artist, the dancer, the sensual being, the cultural storyteller. Mothering hasn’t erased that—it’s deepened it.

What parts of your journey feel unseen, misunderstood, or unspoken—and deserve to be named out loud?
The weight of holding it all together when the world only celebrates the finished product, not the grind or the process. The quiet grief of the dreams I paused. The truth that mothering can be both the greatest joy and the loneliest place. It’s the hardest position of my life.

How has your experience of mothering been shaped by your lineage, your culture, or the community around you?
I come from women who mothered through scarcity, migration, shame, and systemic walls. My Black Southern lineage taught me that care is a communal act, that art, rest, and culture are forms of resistance, and that joy is something we protect like treasure.

What was your postpartum experience like—emotionally, physically, and spiritually? What kind of support (or lack of it) did you receive during that time?
With my first daughter, postpartum was a shock. My mom helped me tremendously—she was present for all my daughters’ births. The women in my family, maternal and paternal, came through in a major way. With my second daughter, I was married, but postpartum hit the hardest—emotionally raw, physically spent, spiritually searching. With each child, I learned more, but sustained care was always there. What I needed most was a net, rest, and sleep. I leaned into dance, yoga, and sewing.

If you could design the ideal postpartum care system, what would it look and feel like?
Rest and sleep. It would feel like being wrapped in warmth. Home-cooked food brought to your door, massages, childcare for your older kids, daily check-ins from people who actually listen, and a community that understands healing takes months, not weeks. Financial security—so you don’t have to rush back to work.

Can you share a moment of deep joy in your mothering journey—one that lives in your body?
All three of my daughters dancing with me in the living room—three generations of movement, hips swaying, laughter in the air. That joy still hums in my chest. And traveling to other countries with my daughters when I could afford it. I took one of my stimulus checks and bought passports for all my girls.

What grief, loss, or transformation has shaped the way you show up as a mother?
I’ve lost versions of myself along the way, and I’ve buried dreams that later came back to life in new forms. That has taught me to mother from a place of abundance and truth, not fear. I always wanted my daughters to have a happy mama.

How do you access healing—emotionally, spiritually, or ancestrally?
Through dance, my art, pleasure, and calling my ancestors into the room. Healing for me is movement, ritual, and remembering that my body holds stories older than my name. Mindfulness practices, yoga, massages, sound baths, spa days, pool days, facials, going to the gym, spending time with my girlfriends, going out with them, and traveling all keep me nourished.

Are there any rituals, practices, or traditions that keep you grounded?
I have a self-love altar in my room. I light candles for clarity, dance barefoot to reset my spirit, write my prayers, and speak affirmations out loud. I sit by the lake or the bayou, and I walk in nature.

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 means we don’t mother in isolation. I invite others in by being honest about my needs and showing up for others without judgment. It’s a constant exchange of love, resources, and time.

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 create my own definitions of success and beauty for my daughters. I teach them to question everything that tells them they are “too much” or “not enough.” I build spaces that reflect our truths and refuse to shrink in places that weren’t built for us.

What do you want the world to understand about mothers like you?
That we are the mothers of nations. We carry whole bloodlines, dreams, and futures inside us. Our work is not just in raising children, but in nurturing culture, protecting communities, and keeping the world from collapsing under its own weight. We are architects of care—designing safe spaces, planting seeds of possibility, and holding the broken pieces until they can be made whole. Our love is strategic, our nurturing is generational, and our rest is a necessity for the survival of our families and the health of our communities. Respect for us is not optional—it is the foundation of healthy societies.

What do you hope your child—or future generations—inherit from your story?
I want them to inherit unapologetic joy, deep self-love, cultural pride, and the freedom to create lives on their own terms.