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Can we craft something for us NOW that doesn’t have compounding harm for the folks who will be here THEN? And who will carry the weight of that inconvenience and harm?

My last post, “The Unspoken Social Shame of Having to Heal Yourself,” was an admission that I’m tired of my dependence on external sources of love, and I’ve started a year-long “Love Container” journey. The unknowns are many, and the questions of what and how are plenty. But navigating these unknowns has to feel better than 30+ years of a spiraling mind and nervous system.​ Since my last post, I’ve reflected further on the normalcy (and often encouragement) of finding our sta

There’s an underlying narrative Black mothers and other women of color have failed when we must heal and rebuild ourselves. Let's squash that now.

Women of color should be at the forefront of mothering conversations, not the background.

I didn’t make it to studio pilates this morning. Between Daylight Saving time and a very late dinner, my usually fail-proof natural alarm clock didn’t get the job done. Instead of taking a day off, I did a virtual workout at home. I’ve done mat Pilates at the studio nearly every Sunday since December. It sounds crazy. But I fell in love with this fitness mode for the pain it caused. I enjoy the sensations that linger in my deep interior muscles through the week. The fatigue s

I’d been running my new business the same way I showed up in my motherhood. Offering as much as I can, and asking for as little as possible in return.

But I remember feeling something shift. I felt like I had learned the answer to a question I hadn’t known to ask. I recognized this revelation as a through line, equally past and present, and sensed I’d encountered the most crucial mothering lesson of my life.