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Some Lessons Shouldn’t Be Handed Down
Despite what my auntie taught me, being a mom doesn’t require martyrdom
It took me one hour to birth a healthy daughter — and another four years to conceive a healthy version of motherhood. A version that didn’t require the death of my dreams or my former self.
One that allowed space for the woman who once spent three months exploring Spain solo. It’s a version of motherhood that is the exact opposite of what I saw in my community and family.
The Black mothers in my life have killed their dreams in the name of love. Because once you have children, the woman you were and the mom you currently are cannot coexist. Or so the lie has been told. Like any devastating lie, once it’s lived long enough, identifying the origin becomes tricky.
I was a “good” mom who was slowly slipping into depression and self-medicating with wine.
I was seven months pregnant the first time I heard the lie. I was visiting an older “auntie” who was about to be a grandmother. I listened as she shared her hopes for this new life stage. She hoped to create a version of a grandmother where she would be more patient than she was as a mother, where she encouraged more and yelled less.
