I remember being a young girl like it was yesterday. Cheeks and belly plump
from overindulging in yummy snacks my mom refused to buy often because my
sisters and I would “tear them up,” she was right.
She was right!

My mother was a single mom raising three girls all on her own, and though my
father was alive, overtime his presence was like the ice cream truck on a
sweltering day-when it was there it was needed, refreshing even. But eventually,
the truck leaves, and you never know when it will come back.

In the times my father was in my life, I remember getting so excited to see him
and for the weekend but also feeling sad that I’d leave my mother alone in the
process.

I remember his car pulling into the driveway. He would honk when he
arrived—until, after a couple of honks, my mother told him to come to the door
because, as she put it, “A man should never honk to pick you up.”

I’d gather my bags and say bye to my mother looking out of our kitchen
window. Reading deep into her gaze I felt so guilty for leaving that I’d give her
a huge hug and tell her how much I loved her.

Now that I’m older, I realize those weekends were her breaks. She needed time
to be alone, to be an adult, to just be. She was my mother, yes, but also a
woman, a friend, a lover of life, of Christ. She was my first example of how
women wear so many hats.
As women, we are expected to be kind, sweet, loving, and nurturing. But we are
also expected to be everything else.

In some homes, mothers hold space for both parental figures—playing mommy
and daddy, breadwinner and homemaker.

In some rooms, women are battling cancer, loss, period cramps, hormonal shifts,
but are expected to push through, to appear put together.
We can’t be too much of something. We can’t be too little of anything.

The necessary duality.

Womanhood, in society’s eyes, is like a play—written by the male voice to
please the male eye.

And in that same space, Black womanhood is the epitome of both puppet and
puppeteer.
There are no mess-ups, no space for self, no stepping into the light on center
stage asking for your line. You have none.

One person speaks. One person obeys.

The weight of expectations is heavy, the hands of our ancestors’ puppeteers still
in their shirts, still telling them what to say, what to think. And so, the cycle
continues. The need to please, to perform, to obey without uttering a word.

I was taught to do, to feel in silence, to perform.
Now that I’m older, I understand why.

Black womanhood is so intricate. You are learning not just from your mother or
grandmother but from your older sisters who helped raise you, from your
mothers’ mothers, whose ancestors were at the plow—on demand, no voice, no
feelings, just doing.

But there is strength in it, a hymn passed down through generations—one of
endurance, resistance.

Black womanhood, Black femininity, was never meant to repeat our ancestors’
suffering but to use their stories as our solstice. To not carry the weight of
endurance in silence but to honor what was so we can shape what will be.

As Black women, we are soft and strong. We speak our minds and know how
not to.
We have an undeniable control over how we show up—because we must.

But in this need to adapt, to please, things become blurred—speaking up for
oneself, protecting another over oneself, making better decisions when it comes
to love.

And I think back to that day—standing in the doorway, my mother’s gaze
following me as I left. And I wonder if her face reflected something deeper:

A time when maybe her own voice was drowned out by another.

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