morrisa

How do you define “mothering” in your own life—and has that definition changed over time?
In the beginning, mothering was about care, coddling, feeding, nourishing, and protecting. Now, with my girls at 11 and 7, it’s more about nurturing, pouring into them, connecting, and allowing myself to be seen and vulnerable. It’s about giving them access to opportunities and possibilities. I want to equip them with tools, autonomy, and agency so they know who they are—then send them into the world as kind, strong yet soft, resilient but wise enough to rest and retreat when needed. As they grow, the physical side of mothering becomes easier, but the emotional and spiritual work deepens and that is both challenging and beautiful.

What has mothering revealed to you about who you are, beyond the roles you play?
Mothering has revealed every version and layer of me but the two that stand out most are the inner child in me who was (is) still in need of deep healing, and the adolescent and young adult who needed to unlearn so much. It’s shown me the parts of myself that were still tender, still becoming and it’s given me the chance to mother myself WHILE raising my daughters.

What parts of your journey feel unseen, misunderstood, or unspoken—and deserve to be named out loud?
The postpartum fear after my first daughter was not breathing at birth. The exhaustion. The quiet unraveling when I’m dealing with my own battles of loneliness, of grief, and what ifs, and questioning whether or not I’m getting this right.

How has your experience of mothering been shaped by your lineage, your culture, or the community around you?
Mamie Smith Ross. Sarah Johnson Pettis. Mary “Dang” Pettis Chapman. Gertrude Ross Clark. Annell Clark Jones. Alma Smith Barnes. Mary Ferguson. Marian Jones Barnes. These women are the soil and the roots from which I was grown. They carried their households, some as single mothers, some as widows at an early age, I inherited resilience, strength, kindness and work ethic. But I’ve also had to unlearn parts of that inheritance. The “do it all” mentality, the neglect of my own needs, the superwoman schema that leaves no space for rest, vulnerability, or asking for help. My mothering is shaped by them AND also by my choice to rewrite the narrative, so my daughters grow up knowing that strength and softness can coexist.

What was your postpartum experience like—emotionally, physically, and spiritually?
Emotionally, I had two very different postpartum experiences. With my oldest born not breathing, with an Apgar score of 1, a very scary moment that showed me just how much of a miracle carrying, birthing, and becoming a mother truly is. My second experience was joyful in many ways, but it carried the heavy knowing that my marriage was ending, a knowing that became true just four months postpartum. Physically, I was fortunate, both recoveries were easy and my body was resilient. I was able to stay active and work out my entire pregnancy with both girls. Spiritually, after my second, something shifted. My sense of connection to God was deepened, and I began receiving new dreams and visions to birth into the world. It was a profound dichotomy, carrying deep emotional weight while also feeling like I was on a spiritual assignment. My girls, my spiritual alignment, and sheer determination carried me through.

If you could design the ideal postpartum care system, what would it look and feel like?
[No answer provided.]

Can you share a moment of deep joy in your mothering journey—one that lives in your body?
2 things: my children affirming me with their words. Those little school cards or “about my mom projects” they do at school, they get me everytime. Also being able to travel the world with my children and exposing them to things, cultures and places I could only dream of as a child. The way their faces light up or the conversations I hear them having with one another about their memories and experiences brings me deep deep joy.

What grief, loss, or transformation has shaped the way you show up as a mother?
The deepest shift came from losing the relationship with their father. I had to grieve not just the partnership, but the dream I carried of raising my children in the kind of family unit I imagined, one I never had myself. Accepting that I would be a single/ co-parenting mother meant rewriting the story and realizing my family can still be whole, even if it looked different. I get to create that experience for my children. I am not my mother, their father is not my father, and my girls can still have love, stability, and joy.

How do you access healing—emotionally, spiritually, or ancestrally?
Through self-check-ins, positive self-talk, and accountability. Apologizing when I’m wrong. Recognizing when I’m triggered and working to get to the root of the wound– also see question 10.

Are there any rituals, practices, or traditions that keep you grounded?
Exercise, yoga, meditation. Long walks and park days. Baths with wine, herbal elevations :) and music after everyone has gone to bed. Therapy. Calls with my spiritual advisor. Conversations with my ancestors. Slow mornings.

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 is safety. It’s being seen, heard, and understood. It’s knowing you can ask for help and receive it without shame, then offering the same care in return. It’s showing up for others, even when they can’t show up for themselves. It’s a mutual exchange of presence, trust, and care. In my own journey, my mother has been a THE bridge of support, along with countless babysitters and friends who encourage and reassure me. They are constant reminders, that motherhood was never meant to be carried alone and I’m grateful for my village.

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?
To mother within systems that weren’t made for me is an act of resistance. I navigate them by naming them, refusing to go along with what doesn’t serve me, and creating systems that work for me and my household. Most importantly, I rest when I need to. It’s also not lost on me that I’ve been able to mother from a place of privilege and I’ll admit, at times, I battle with carrying some shame in that. I don’t have to navigate certain struggles or oppressive systems that other mothers, including my own mother, had to fight through. That awareness shapes the way I show up, both in gratitude and in responsibility to advocate and support those who are still pushing through.

What do you want the world to understand about mothers like you?
While it’s not always easy, many of us have been chosen to be the curse beakers. Many of us are healing ourselves so we can give the healed version of who we are to our children. The work is complex and never easy, but it is deeply worth it. I find so much joy in watching my children receive love, stability, and possibility from a place I had to fight to reach, at times still fighting to feel worthy of, knowing they will carry and pay it forward. I’m seeing the fruits of my labor, and the labor of the roots and soil I came from in real time. So be kind to us. Love us. Support us.

Q: What do you hope your child—or future generations—inherit from your story?
I want them to inherit love, care, and intentionality—to hope, to dream, to move forward in spite of challenges. To be brave and fearless on their journeys, but no matter what, to always choose themselves but do so within community!