motherhood + womanhood
Baby Z and I on Fae Day 2025.
I remember clutching my printed Birth Plan toward my chest.
Silent tears ran down my cheeks as I watched it all go out the window. In 2 pages, Times New Roman font, I praised my birth team before articulating my desires for childbirth. I wanted it all natural. I wanted to push. Nothing could have prepared me for the doctor telling me Baby Z’s heart rate was dropping at an alarming rate.
After 13 hours of labor, I had to have a cesarean (c-section). I kept repeating the thought to myself, hoping to connect it to reality. They pushed my bed through the hospital corridors, going over the next steps. I barely heard any of it. After my epidural shot, I lay in T-position on the operating table, a thin curtain separating me from the lower half of my body. None of it felt real. I heard the team call out tools and numbers to each other. I heard the whispers. I saw my mom’s face as she peered over the curtain with my hand in hers. Memory does not serve me correctly–perhaps I disassociated. In no time, they were showing me my naked newborn baby through the plastic opening of the curtain. I didn’t get to hold her. They hauled her away because the room was missing the most important sound: her cries.
My baby was born practically lifeless. I lay on the table in shock and hurt, keeping my focus on inaudible messages between the birthing staff. I saw people exit the room. There was a lot of activity, a lot of noise, but without Baby Z’s cries, it was silent.
Eventually, we heard cries. Vanderbilt Hospital staff, you all are miracle workers. And that miracle turned 8 years old this March. Many people don’t know this, but I never wanted to be a mom. I grew up as the oldest child in a single-parent household, which is motherhood by proxy. When I fell in love with E, Baby Z’s dad, it wasn’t because I was thinking about starting a family. I was a 19-year-old girl who was head-over-heels for her older (23) boyfriend–my first ‘adult’ relationship.
Yes, we were over 18. We could book excursions and hotel rooms. We could take trips and make our own decisions. 2 years in, I had gotten on birth control, and he stopped wanting to use condoms. We got tested together and agreed to a risky life of lovemaking, even riskier knowing how forgetful I was with daily meds (cough, birth control, cough).
A few days of skipped pills (and a fertile womb, I’ve learned) led to me puking at the wee hours of the morning. When I found out, E and I were already in a sensitive place. But he was excited. So excited that he missed the first few baby doctor appointments. The cupcake phase quickly wore off when he was shunned by his family and moved to my college town to start our lives together. But my full-time school schedule and 2 part-time jobs were not enough for a fresh start. Not even close. I was experiencing pregnancy difficulties, and I couldn’t work anymore. I couldn’t work, so I couldn’t afford the difference in my tuition. Just like that, I was a pregnant college dropout, living in a van with my boyfriend. The relationship was already tumultuous before the added pressure.
The added pressure is exactly why I left.
Abortion, at the time, certainly wasn’t an option. It wasn’t even presented on the menu. My only option at this point was to stay with a family friend while E apologized to his family and moved back home. He’d stolen my car, broken some of my things, and banged his fists and feet against the complex’s door for hours when I told him. I had to make decisions for myself because I did not want to bring a baby into dysfunction.
As you can imagine, E hated me then. And E still hates me now. Don’t worry, this isn’t a Baby Daddy Drama post. I’d need a whole book for that. This is me waving my white flag. I can no longer carry guilt about Baby Z’s dad and his lack of presence in her life.
His anger toward the breakup has multiplied and regenerated with every year of Baby Z’s existence. His anger toward the breakup has put barriers within the folds of his wallet. He hasn’t contributed a single coin. His anger toward the breakup has glued his feet to his position. He hasn’t visited Baby Z or even found solutions to see her when we visited Detroit. His anger toward the breakup is exactly why he spent his entire day, on Baby Z’s birthday, arguing with me and calling me useless instead of finding time to call her.
When I think about the sacrifices I’ve made for this little girl–from sleeping in cars, to working jobs I hated, to living in shady apartment complexes for a shred of safety–I hold nothing but respect for myself. I see nothing but a girl who had to grow up and show up. I see nothing but a woman who has evolved into a wonderful mother against all odds. Yet, I cannot get an ounce of respect from the man who helped create her. I lived in shame. I thought it was my fault.
‘Maybe if I didn’t end the relationship, he’d be an active dad.’
‘Maybe if I stayed in Detroit, although my entire family moved, we’d have a better relationship.’
Look at me, subscribing to the preexisting notion that a woman’s actions, even if unwanted and against our best wishes, can control or dictate a man’s. Look at me, diminishing my hard work and growth at the hands of someone else’s poor choices.
After 8 long years of being shamed and taunted by him on social media, and after 8 long years of having to track him down to ask for help, just to be rejected, I am realizing I don’t need to carry shame. All that shame should be hanging over his head, not mine. He spent 8 years with resentment in his heart. I spent 8 years evolving. He spent 8 years pointing fingers outward, rather than introspectively maturing. I spent 8 years learning to love myself and love a child. Instead of stepping up beyond what happened between us, instead of placing that angel’s well-being at the forefront, he’s led a life of anger and lies. And I’ve carried that shame on his behalf on top of being Baby Z’s sole provider.
I started from sleeping in cars to giving Baby Z her own bathroom, and yet I feel inadequate. I am raising a straight-A student who is kind, funny, social, and spunky, and yet I feel like a failure. Baby Z could not want for anything. I listen. I scold. I improve. I apologize. And I am here for her, 24/7, no days off. I have tilled the soil of this beautiful garden all by myself, working endlessly on my knees for years.
I didn’t even have a blueprint for this shit. It’s not like my relationship with my mom was in mint-condition, providing a map for being the best mom. If anything, I mostly had examples of the type of mom I didn’t want to be. That is how I led my parenting, and now I lead by being the best version of myself. Only then can I be the best mom to Baby Z.
There is intimacy in exploring motherhood alongside exploring self. I am happily and wholesomely raising a little lady, and yet, I am still becoming a woman. My introduction to motherhood did not start or end my exploration of womanhood. I am a woman first, after all. And I’m a free-spirited, hardworking, ambitious, creative woman. I have shattered projected stereotypes. I have denounced generational curses. I have carried torches further than I thought I could, and I deserve recognition for that.
I deserve peace for that.
When my daughter turned 7 in 2025, I remember being overcome by grief. My baby brother died at age 7. Every time Baby Z hit another milestone, or I saw evidence of her growing into a version of herself, I thought about Ernest and all that he couldn’t be. I thought about my mom, and how harrowing it must have been to lose a child so full of life. And I told myself that if I could carry my motherhood in grace past this sensitive age, I could do anything. And here I am. Here we are. Baby Z and I against the world. Motherhood against the world. Womanhood against the world. Happy International Women’s Day.
Z