The Weight We Carry, The Love We Give: Reflections on Motherhood

Motherhood has been one of the greatest joys of my life.
Also one of the hardest.

As Mother’s Day approaches, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a mother at this stage of my life with two adult children, still leaning on my own mother for wisdom and support, and realizing just how much of who I am is rooted in caring for others.

My children are, without question, the most important part of my life.

Every decision I’ve made: from leaving jobs, to launching businesses, to taking risks that scared me, has always had them somewhere in the equation. Even now that they’re adults, that instinct never leaves. You’re still thinking about whether they’re okay, whether they’re eating properly, whether life is being kind to them, whether they know how deeply they are loved.

Motherhood changes shape, but it never really loosens its grip on your heart.

And for Black mothers specifically, I think there’s an additional layer that often goes unspoken.

We carry a lot.

We are expected to nurture, protect, provide, encourage, organize, sacrifice, and somehow still show up polished and strong through all of it. We are often raising children while navigating systems that were not designed with us in mind. We are supporting families while also trying to build careers, hold communities together, and preserve our own sense of self somewhere underneath the weight of responsibility.

Black mothers become experts at multitasking because, honestly, we rarely have another choice.

I know that reality intimately.

I was a single mother, and anyone who has lived that experience knows there’s a particular kind of exhaustion attached to it. The kind where you don’t really get to fall apart because there’s no one else to pick things up if you do.

You become the provider and the comforter.
The disciplinarian and the soft place to land.
The chauffeur, the homework helper, the protector, the planner, the cook, the encourager, the worrier, the one holding the whole thing together with prayer, instinct, and determination.

There were moments I was tired in ways I couldn’t even explain properly. Moments where I questioned whether I was doing enough, earning enough, giving enough, being enough.

And yet, somehow, mothers keep going.

That’s the thing that amazes me more now than ever before.

We keep going.

Even while carrying our own fears, disappointments, and unanswered questions, we still show up for our children. We still try to make birthdays magical. We still answer late-night phone calls. We still pray over grown children like they’re five years old. We still worry. We still nurture. We still give.

There’s a quiet heroism in motherhood that doesn’t always get acknowledged because so much of it happens behind closed doors.

No applause.
No awards.
No headlines.

Just love in motion.

As my children have gotten older, I’ve also gained a deeper appreciation for my own mother. When you’re younger, you don’t always understand the full weight your mother carried for you. But adulthood has a way of revealing it.

Now I look at my mother not just as “Mom,” but as a woman. A woman who had dreams, responsibilities, worries, sacrifices, strengths, disappointments and triumphs of her own. A woman who poured into her family while still trying to navigate life herself.

And because she’s still here, still close to me, I don’t take that relationship for granted. I know how blessed I am to still be able to call her, laugh with her, seek her advice, and simply be her daughter.

That’s another thing motherhood teaches you: time matters.

I think one of the biggest misconceptions about strong women, especially Black women, is that strength means we don’t need support, tenderness, or care ourselves.

We do.

The strongest mothers I know are often the ones carrying the heaviest emotional loads while making it look effortless to everyone else.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about all of us.

The mothers raising children while building careers.
The mothers figuring it out alone.
The mothers grieving.
The mothers healing.
The mothers showing up exhausted but present anyway.
The mothers trying to break generational cycles while still carrying generational expectations.

I see you.

And I hope you take a moment to acknowledge yourself too.

Not just for the big milestones, but for the everyday acts of love that rarely get celebrated enough.

For me, motherhood has never been about perfection.
It’s been about presence.
About resilience.
About showing up again and again, even when life felt overwhelming.

And if I’m being honest, some of the best parts of who I am today were shaped by being somebody’s mother.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m choosing gratitude.

Gratitude for my children.
Gratitude for my mother.
Gratitude for the version of myself that kept going when things were hard.
And gratitude for every mother carrying love and responsibility at the same time.

Happy Mother’s Day.
Especially to the women who make it all happen quietly, daily, and without enough recognition.

You are extraordinary.