Same Woman, Different Chapters

Same Woman, Different Chapters

One evening, I turned on my music, very loudly, and danced around my living room like nobody was watching. Because nobody was. My oldest is out building his independence. My teenager is soaking up his last summer before college. And my youngest was at his dad’s for the weekend. So there I was, just me, twirling in my own living room, living out a full RomCom scene, minus the Rom.

Later that night, I had a craving for something sweet, ended up at the store, grabbed ice cream, walked past the wine, and picked up a bottle of Prosecco. Because why not? I deserved to celebrate — even if the only one showing up to the party was me. And I almost texted the group chat a picture of my little haul with the caption “In my RomCom era” — for the second time in two weeks — but I didn’t. I just went home, poured a glass, and sat with myself.

And that’s when it hit me. Each of my children was born into a different version of me.

My oldest met the young, wide-eyed college student, figuring out how to love a baby and chase her dreams at the same time. My middle son arrived when I was a fresh grad with a real job, a survivor of domestic violence, and still very much in survival mode. Both of my older boys watched me find a healthy love — thriving, happy, present. And my youngest? His earliest memories of me hold all of it, being loved, the grief of a divorce, and eventually watching me find my way back to myself. Same woman, very different chapters.

Here’s what I want every mother to hear, whether you’re in the fog right now, mid-climb, or looking back trying to make sense of it all: those versions of you were not mistakes. But they were all necessary.

Somewhere along the way, we were taught that good mothering meant making ourselves smaller. Dimming our light so our kids, our partners, our families could shine brighter. We were taught to hold it together, hold it in, and keep it moving. But sis…that was a lie. A well-meaning one, maybe, but a lie all the same.

I grew up watching my father feel things out loud. I saw him sad, overwhelmed, frustrated, joyful — and I watched how he moved through every single one of those emotions. That was one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me. And it’s a gift I’m intentional about passing on to my own boys. In a world that tells Black men to be strong and unshakeable, I want my sons to know that their feelings are not a weakness, that vulnerability is something to be honored, not hidden.

My mother, I understand now, was carrying things I never knew about as a child. She was navigating her own health battles, her own past heartbreaks, her own becoming, quietly, behind the scenes, in the way so many women of her generation were taught to do. I didn’t see her wrestling with her versions of herself. But I see her now. And I have so much more grace for her than I ever could have as a little girl who just thought mama had it all together.

Here’s what I know for certain: our children don’t need us to be perfect. They need to see us be human. When they watch us sit with sadness and still get up, when they see us choose joy on purpose, when they witness how we cope, grieve, heal, and keep going,  we are handing them a blueprint for their own emotional lives. That is how we raise children who can name what they feel, ask for help when they need it, and extend grace to themselves when life gets hard.

So lean into your versions, mama. The young, uncertain one. The surviving one. The healing one. The one dancing alone in her living room on a Friday night, Prosecco in hand, finally, FINALLY, feeling like herself again. Every single one of her got you here. And here is a good place to be.