Jasmin

How do you define “mothering” in your own life—and has that definition changed over time?

Mothering to me is the art of holding space; wide enough for a child to bloom, deep enough for them to root, and strong enough to weather the storms. It's about releasing, trusting my child’s own spirit, letting her explore, fall, and rise again. It’s not just about raising her, but about raising myself to meet her needs in every season. It’s an exchange, a constant dance of giving and receiving love. Mothering has taught me that this role isn’t fixed; it's a living, breathing practice.

What has mothering revealed to you about who you are, beyond the roles you play?

Mothering stripped away the titles, the awards and showed me my raw edges and my deepest tenderness. It revealed that my power doesn’t just live in what I produce. It’s in my presence, my ability to listen without rush to fix, to guide without griping too tight. I discovered my softness is not weakness but a wellspring of strength. I am more than my work, my art, or my leadership. I am the quiet hum of a song only my daughter knows, the safe harbor she returns to. It’s made me braver in love, bolder in truth, and more at home in my skin.

What parts of your journey feel unseen, misunderstood, or unspoken—and deserve to be named out loud?

The loneliness of mothering while leading, creating, and holding community. People see the strength, the polished moments, but not the nights of juggling deadlines with midnight feedings, or the way my body still carries the memory of birthing. They don’t see the tension of being deeply visible in public life yet at times, invisible in my own needs. It deserves to be named that Black mothers in leadership are often expected to pour endlessly without being refilled, and that joy and exhaustion can sit in the same breath. I want it said out loud: my work is fueled by love, but it is not effortless.

How has your experience of mothering been shaped by your lineage, your culture, or the community around you?

I mother with the rhythm of second lines and the chill of a huckabuck on a hot, sun drenched face. My lineage, women and men who survived Jim Crow, hurricanes and heartache, taught me that care is collective. In New Orleans, children are everybody’s children, and I raise my daughter knowing her roots are tangled with a whole community’s hands. My mother’s laughter, my grandmother’s prayers, the aunties who taught me to season food and speak my mind, all of it lives in how I guide her. Our culture tells me that even in hard times, we find joy. I mother with resilience baked in, joy as resistance and legacy as my compass. What was your postpartum experience like—emotionally, physically, and spiritually? What kind of support (or lack of it) did you receive during that time?

My daughter came three months early, and postpartum for me began at the NICU rather than the quiet of a nursery. Emotionally, I carried deep concern for her tiny body, celebrating every small milestone. Physically, I was healing from a C-section while learning to navigate this new rhythm of motherhood. Spiritually, I leaned on God and the prayers of my family to keep me grounded. Support came in pieces, meals from friends, my mother’s steady hands, but much of the emotional weight I carried within. That initiation taught me to lead with faith, trust my instincts, and embrace joy even in uncertain times.

If you could design the ideal postpartum care system, what would it look and feel like?

My ideal postpartum care system would be rooted in community, dignity, and rest. Every mother would have a care team, nurse, doula, therapist, and elder women from her community, checking in for months, not weeks. Meals would arrive daily, laundry and cleaning handled so she could focus on bonding and healing. There would be space for prayer, bodywork, and ceremony to honor her transformation. Paid leave would be generous, and partners would be held accountable for shared care. No mother would feel alone, unheard, or rushed back into productivity. It would feel like a warm circle around her, holding her steady until she regains her strength.

Can you share a moment of deep joy in your mothering journey—one that lives in your body?

From the moment Luna was born, I was committed to breastfeeding her, especially as a preemie. I knew what it could do for her small but mighty, growing body. The process was slow and deliberate, tiny steps to get acclimated, to learn each other, to build an unspoken communication. It felt like a kind of telepathy, my way of telling her, I can and will continue to give you life through my body. Our breastfeeding journey was intimate beyond words. She grew in the most beautiful ways, and our connection deepened into something spiritual. She could feel me, and I could feel her. Breastfeeding gave me a deeper appreciation for my own mother, who nursed me, and reminded me why our bond is still so strong today. I felt blessed to share that same closeness with my daughter, and even more blessed to be a vessel for other families, donating gallons of milk to the Louisiana Mothers’ Milk Bank during our NICU stay. That season taught me that mothering is both a personal and communal gift, and one of the purest expressions of love I will ever know.

What grief, loss, or transformation has shaped the way you show up as a mother?

Becoming a mother during a pandemic, with a premature baby, shifted me forever. The grief of what I imagined versus what happened. The showers I didn’t have, the family visits that never came. It taught me to mother without the safety net I expected. Losing pieces of myself to fear and exhaustion transformed the way I show up now. I move with more urgency in protecting joy, more intention in slowing down to savor the small moments. The losses sharpened my vision: our time in each other's presence is not guaranteed, so every day we get is a day I choose to be fully with and in awe of her.

How do you access healing—emotionally, spiritually, or ancestrally?

I access healing through movement, voice, and connection to spirit. Dance has always been my first love language. It allows me to move emotions through my body, release what I no longer need, and call in what I desire. Singing, humming, and speaking my truth out loud have become just as essential. Whether it’s in prayer, conversation, or artistic expression, I let my voice carry my truth into the world. Spiritually, I am devoted to practices that ground and center me each day, no matter what is happening around me. This devotion brings an unwavering peace and anchors me deeply. I am always at home in that relationship, in my body, with my spirit.

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

Yes, my days are wrapped in quiet, intentional rituals that keep me rooted in myself. These are not just habits, but living conversations between me, my spirit, and the ancestors who walk with me. I rise with gratitude, moving my body to wake my energy, and I close my nights in reflection and prayer. There are moments in between when I return to these practices like a homecoming, no matter where I am. They steady my breath, remind me of my purpose, and hold me in grace. This daily devotion keeps me anchored, allowing me to move through the world with clarity, compassion, and the strength of all who came before me.

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 the understanding that I am not meant to do this alone. It’s neighbors who watch my child as she plays outside, the friends who bring over food, elders who pass down wisdom. I invite others in by being honest about my needs, by making space for reciprocal care, not just receiving. I let my daughter be poured into by different voices and hands, because I know it takes many people to raise a whole human. Visibility comes from telling the truth about what it takes, so other mothers know they’re not failing, they’re just human. 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 move through these systems with equal parts strategy and softness, knowing my very existence as a Black woman raising a free spirited Black girl is a disruption to the order they were built to maintain. I reimagine these spaces by teaching my daughter that her light, our light, is not to be dimmed. That her voice, her questions, her creativity, and her joy are sacred. I encourage her to lead with curiosity, to trust her ideas, and to express herself fully, while grounding her in kindness and love. Together, we practice moving through the world with our heads high, our hearts open, and our vision set on something bigger than what’s been handed to us. My mothering is a quiet rebellion, rooted in grace and fueled by an unshakable belief in her freedom and mine.

What do you want the world to understand about mothers like you?

I want the world to understand that mothers like me carry entire worlds within us, ancestral wisdom, generational resilience, and a love that refuses to break no matter how heavy the load. We are not solely defined by sacrifice; we are visionaries, creators, and culture-keepers who raise children while shaping the future. We mother from a place that is both deeply personal and profoundly communal, knowing that our choices ripple beyond our homes. We deserve to be seen not just for our endurance, but for our brilliance, our artistry, and the way we bring beauty into a world that often forgets to see us in all our majesty.

What do you hope your child—or future generations—inherit from your story?

I hope my daughter inherits my unyielding faith, my devotion to living in her truth, and my joy in being exactly who God made her to be. I want her to know that she comes from a line of women who created light in dark places, who dared to imagine more for themselves and their communities, and who loved without condition. I hope she feels empowered to shape her own path, to honor her body, her voice, and her spirit, and to pour that same love into the world. My greatest prayer is that she carries forward the understanding that she is a divine creation, capable of creating her own legacy with courage, grace, and abundance.