samjah

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

Mothering, for me, is a sacred act of being present. It’s about listening, seeing, nurturing, protecting, and guiding with love and intention. The media will have you think that mothering is about doing everything right: following schedules, checking milestones, and holding it all together. However, over time, I’ve learned that real mothering is about connection, not perfection. My son may not remember having great-smelling clothes of his that I washed or the fact that I always served organic vegetables during meals, but what he will remember are the healing hugs, the silly laughs, the games of hide-and-seek, our popcorn nights, the sing-along car sessions, the loving talks, the times I had his back, and other significant events we share. 

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

Mothering has shown me that my strength and softness can coexist. It revealed a depth in me I hadn’t yet met. It also revealed things that I need to work on. Beyond titles like business owner or partner, I’m someone who can stretch, break, and still bloom. It’s taught me that I’m intuitive, resilient, and deeply rooted in love. I’ve learned to trust myself more, to slow down, to practice radical self-care more consistently, and to lead with my heart. My son has reflected parts of me that I had forgotten existed. Through him, I’ve reconnected with myself.

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

As a Black mother, I’ve faced silent fears about safety for my son and legacy that aren’t always understood. There’s strength in my story, but there’s also vulnerability that deserves space. I want to name the complexity of joy, fear, and power all coexisting in this role.

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

My mothering is deeply rooted in the legacy of Black women who have loved and led with grace through unimaginable weight. I feel my ancestors in how I hold my son, speak life into him, and pass down joy as a form of resistance. My community reminds me that I’m not raising him alone; it’s his father, grandmothers, aunts, friends, uncles, elders, and the village who show up in powerful ways. Culture shows up in our rhythms, our laughter, our prayers, and the blend of softness and courageousness I insist on preserving in him. 

What was your postpartum experience like—emotionally, physically, and spiritually?

Postpartum was and is a swirl of emotions (because postpartum is forever and shows up in different ways throughout the years). I was grateful, yet physically worn down from labor and fibroids. Spiritually, I felt cracked open: more raw, more aware, and more sensitive to everything around me. The world felt louder and softer at the same time. I leaned into my own strength and whatever moments of stillness I could find. There were tears, isolation, and moments of deep joy. I needed more help than I admitted, but I was also surprised by how much I could carry. That time changed me forever.

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

It would be community-centered and culturally competent. I’d want Black doulas, healers, therapists, and lactation consultants who understand our unique needs. Meals would be prepared with intention. Mothers would be nurtured, not just the baby. There would be space for rest, emotional release, and connection. Spiritually, it would include prayer, energy clearing, and ancestral acknowledgment. I’d want care that affirms the mother as much as it supports the child; a system that doesn’t rush healing or demand perfection. It would literally feel like a warm, extended hug from generations of women who’ve done this before.

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

There’s a moment I’ll never forget: my son running to me with his whole heart, arms open, yelling “Mommy!” after I’d only been gone a short while. The weight of his little body crashing into mine, the warmth of his joy lives in my heart. In that moment, I experienced love in its purest form. It reminded me that no matter how hard the day has been, I’m his safe place, and I will do my best to be that forever.

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

I mother from a place of knowing what it feels like to long for what I now have. Therefore I often remind myself (especially during the challenging times) to practice gratitude. That journey softened me and made me fiercely protective of my peace. It taught me to savor small moments and show up fully, even on hard days.

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

I access healing through stillness, yoga, reading, prayer, and creativity. Sometimes I journal, sometimes I cry to release, sometimes I play music that reminds me of my mother and grandmother. I speak to my ancestors, ask for guidance, and light candles with intention. Healing isn’t linear; it comes in waves. But I trust it. I’ve learned that when I return to myself, I return to my power.

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

Yes, slow mornings when I can manage them. Lighting candles and incense. Speaking affirmations over my son. Holding space for a weekly movie night with my son. Journaling. Being intentional about moving my body. Eating healthy. Drinking water, drinking tea while reading, or being still. 

I wear pieces of jewelry that were passed down from my grandmother, aunts, and mothers, which carry meaning, and I often pause during the day to breathe deeply and check in with myself. These small rituals allow me to be a better mother, wife, business owner, partner, etc. 

What does community care mean to you—and how do you invite others into your mothering journey?

Community care means not having to do it all alone. It means leaning into love, asking for help, and allowing others to show up for me. I invite people in by being honest, by naming my needs, and sharing my story. Whether it’s a family member babysitting, a meal being dropped off, or just a text saying “you’re doing a great job,” it all matters. I believe we’re meant to raise children in circles, not silos.

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 resist by protecting my peace and refusing to overextend myself to prove I’m enough. I advocate for rest, softness, and joy as forms of resistance. I teach my son his worth so he doesn’t seek it from broken systems. I show up in spaces where we’re often unseen, and I do it unapologetically. And I create space—through my business, non-profit, my voice, and my choices—for other mothers like me to feel seen.

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

That we are layered, resilient, and deeply powerful. We carry history in our hips, dreams in our hearts, and the future on our backs. We are not statistics or stereotypes; we are nurturers, artists, thinkers, and truth-tellers. We deserve rest, support, and reverence. We are not just surviving, we are shaping culture, breaking cycles, and birthing something sacred every day.

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

I hope he inherits my courage to choose himself, my resilience, my self-discipline, my light-hearted side, and my ability to keep dreaming no matter what. I want him to know that love is his birthright, not something he has to earn. I hope he comes to realize that healing is possible and that joy can still exist even in the midst of struggle. More than anything, I hope he knows that he is worthy and how fully he is loved.

Extended: 

I also would like my son to inherit a deep reverence for Black women merely through witnessing how I revere and uphold myself. I want his reverence to be displayed through his actions towards Black women. I want him to understand that we that we are the Queens of the board, and his mission is to always protect the Queen. And protecting the Queen is protecting himself.