justine

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

To be a mother is not simply a role I stepped into, it became the very essence of who I am. From the moment I had my first child seven years ago, my life was no longer my own. There is a profound surrender in motherhood, an often unseen transformation where selflessness becomes second nature. That bond deepened in ways I could never have imagined when I was diagnosed with cancer in 2022. Suddenly, motherhood was not just about nurturing life, it became the reason I fought for my own. I wasn’t just surviving for me; I was surviving for them. Fast forward to 2024 when my son was born with ptosis, a condition that has impacted his vision severely. At just 10 months old, we traveled to Spain so he could undergo a life-changing surgery to correct his eyelid. Watching him in pain and not being able to take that pain away tore through me in a way I had never known. But this is what we do as mothers. We carry not just their weight, but their wounds, their fears, their healing and we do it without question. 

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

That mothering is unapologetically messy!  Every day, I uncover something new about myself. Some days it’s resilience I didn’t know I had and other days, it’s a vulnerability that I allow space for. I often find myself asking “Am I doing this right?”. But what I’ve come to understand is that there is no rulebook. Mothering doesn’t just reveal your strength. It exposes your breaking points. It has taught me that I am not a perfect mother. I am simply a whole person, doing the hard work of raising two beautiful, imperfect kids.

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

I think it’s important to name the invisible load that I, and so many mothers, quietly carry each day. It’s the kind of labor that rarely gets acknowledged, yet it controls every moment of our lives. Being a full-time mother, full-time employee, full-time partner, and the full-time keeper of the home means my mind is never at rest. There’s a constant undercurrent of mental labor, anticipating needs, managing emotions, remembering the details no one else sees. There are days when the weight feels overwhelming but I keep going.

What was your postpartum experience like—emotionally, physically, and spiritually? What kind of support (or lack of it) did you receive during that time?

I’ve wrestled with my mental health after the birth of both of my children each time for different reasons. Being far from home, with my family in New York, meant that I entered motherhood without the familiar support I had always imagined would be there. That distance created a silence in my life that often felt like loneliness.

When my first child, Soleil, was born, I was consumed by the desire to be the “perfect” mother. I carried an invisible checklist in my mind, believing that if I just did everything “right,” I could shield her from struggle. I was hard on myself, unforgiving when things unraveled, and often drowning in self-doubt behind closed doors. With my second child, I promised to allow space for imperfection, softness, and grace. However, my son was born with congenital ptosis, a condition caused by weakened eyelid muscles, likely the result of birth trauma. I spent countless nights consumed by questions about his future, his health, his sense of self. And through it all, I’ve had to keep showing up for my daughter, for my job, for my partner and somehow, for myself.

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

More villages for mothers! More spaces and community-building events to reduce isolation mothers feel after giving birth. I also think it’s so important for every mother to have a doula/midwife to help them access resources, come up with plans for recovery, and advocate for their needs.

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

When my daughter was 5 years old, I found out that I had been diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma, a type of blood cancer. In an instant, everything changed. Fear swept in, but alongside it rose an unwavering determination: I had to fight, not just for myself, but so I could continue being the mother my daughter deserved.One of the most vulnerable moments came when it was time to shave my head. I worried not just about losing my hair, but about how my daughter would see me. That day, as I picked her up from school, she said, “wow, Mommy! Your hair! You look like my best friend Eric!” In her innocent words, so pure and unfiltered, there was no fear or sadness, only acceptance and joy. Yes, she said I looked like a boy, but to her, that meant I looked like someone she liked. Someone she trusted. In that moment, I realized how children have the rare gift of meeting change with love, not judgment. And somehow, her light made the darkness less daunting.

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

There was a moment when I realized I wasn’t just fighting cancer but I was grieving the life I had before it. Walking through seven months of chemotherapy while still showing up every day a mother required a strength I didn’t know I possessed. It stripped me down to my most raw and real self, and in that place, I found a different kind of power. Cancer forced me to confront my own mortality while still holding space for life…to pack lunches, to braid hair, to smile through the pain. It deepened my gratitude for the now. Motherhood has always been the greatest honor of my life. But cancer reshaped that role. It sharpened my focus, clarified my values, and transformed me into a stronger, more resilient version of myself. 

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

Healing has not been a straight path for me. As a mother, it’s easy to forget yourself in the daily acts of love and responsibility. I’ve spent so much time pouring into those around me that I’ve rarely stopped to ask what it means to pour into myself. I haven’t always given myself the permission or the space to truly sit with the trauma I’ve experienced, specifically my cancer journey. Healing is not something I’ve mastered; it’s something I’m still learning how to choose.

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

Dance has been my sacred rhythm that’s kept me grounded through the journey of motherhood. The studio became more than just a space for movement; it was a second home where my daughter grew up. She watched me teach my children and adult classes, absorbing not just the steps, but the spirit behind them. She danced beside me, then grew into her own place on the floor, finding her voice through movement. Dance became our shared language. It has fed my soul while giving her roots. 

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?

To me, community care is the quiet, powerful act of holding each other through the beautiful messy life of motherhood. Inviting others into my mothering journey has meant letting go of the illusion that strength means doing it all alone. It’s meant saying “yes” when someone offers help, sharing my truth even when it feels vulnerable, and letting my children witness what independence and resilience looks like in real life.

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

That no matter what we face in life, we rise each morning and carry on. We do what must be done. Not because it’s easy, but because our children need us. I choose to shield my children from the weight I carry, not out of denial, but out of devotion. They will never see the cracks beneath my strength, only the love of a mother who shows up, again and again, no matter the cost.

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

I want them to see that life is messy, unpredictable, and often painful and that even in those moments, we are capable of showing up with grace, courage, and with love. I want them to see that motherhood is sacred, not because it is perfect, but because it is real. I want them to carry the truth that they come from a lineage of strength, softness, and soul. I hope they inherit the understanding that healing is not linear and that asking for help is an act of strength. I want them to remember that resilience lives in everyday choices. The choice to fight for your health, and to keep loving through exhaustion.