For the Women who carried us

 

To the women I come from,

This isn’t just for Mom.
It’s for the ones who held her when she cried.
for the ones who taught her how to braid,
to cook, to love, and to keep going even when everything said stop.

It’s for the women I never met.
but whose tired eyes I see in mine.
the ones who raised children,
and crops,
and hell.
who lost and gave and broke and mended.
who didn’t always get it right
but kept showing up anyway.

It’s for the mothers, yes—
but also the sisters who stepped in,
the aunties who stayed,
the grandmothers who prayed, and
the great-grandmothers whose names we forgot but whose sacrifices we wear like skin.

You didn’t have to be perfect.
You just had to survive.
And you did.
So I could.

To Mum, or rather mums,

for the mum who stayed.
Who picked up where the world dropped me.
Who taught me how to live with both grief and joy.
Who showed me what love looks like when it chooses you,
day after day.
Not because it had to,
but because it wanted to. 
And it’s for the woman who arrived later.
Who wasn’t always easy to know,
but still showed up in ways that mattered—
in quiet gestures,
in spaces I didn’t always see at the time.
To all the women I come from—
and the ones who stayed long enough to help me become.

Thank you, we don't say it enough,
I love you, We love you.

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For every woman who carried more than she could and still made room for us—
this one’s for you.