One of my young ones—my neighbor—my friend—my boo, Nikayla. Photo Collage Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
You trudged through anxiety-filled days—devoting yourself to digesting medical information—success shook your hand.
The weeks dragged on sometimes, leaving you breathless, broken, and bothered; every struggle equaled an A.
Master of biomedical knowledge, defender of the body, the link to what lives inside of us—I can’t wait for you to become a healer.
If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you’ll know that I have two young women who live in my hall in my apartment building, and they have become such big parts of my life. Nikayla, the oldest, graduated from Wake Forest Baptist University with a Master’s in Biomedical Science yesterday, and to say that I am proud of her would be a massive understatement.
One day, she will have the credentials, “M.D.” behind her name.
For every mother, mothering when all else fails, and life doesn’t give you the flowers you deserve.
A photo collage of the mother who mothered me, and is still trying her best to do so to this day. In the photo of her and the baby, she is holding my baby cousin Caison, a few weeks after his birth (he is almost nine years old now). My mother’s name is Angela; everyone calls her Angie or “Lil Red Louise.”
a job that pays with kisses, hugs, arguments, giggles, spring cleaning, cooking, exhaustion, not enough help, cat naps, no privacy, forever bonds, teething, terrible twos, teenage antics, too much noise, and drama-filled twenties. yet, you’ve never wanted to be unemployed.
there is no way we could ever thank you enough for life, unconditional love, and safety.
you are the first person who protected us from the world with your body as an enclosure for our growth. we basked in your presence unknowingly yet knowingly.
our first home—our way of breathing and forming into being. how you manage to stay afloat when storms and rocky waters tipped the boat of life; I will never understand.
I am not fit to walk in the shoes you’ve run in for decades, but I can love you.
I can appreciate you. I can show you how impactful your life has been for mine.
and I pray that whatever I do, it gives you unspeakable joy for an often thankless job that you’ve never grown tired of working.
She wanted fresh seafood (we’re from Savannah, Georgia, it’s a staple), so I took her to one of her favorite spots in Greensboro, NC, yesterday. They’re doing it right there. Trust me, folks. We love them! Saturday, May 09, 2026. Photo Collage Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
To those of you mothering when your breaths are uncontrolled, the nights are long, and the days grow shorter. Thank you. To those of you mothering when it was not your intention—someone dropped the ball, could not care for their own, and you stepped up and have done so for eons. Thank you. To mothers mothering even in loss and anguish, your mothering heart still exists. I see you. Thank you. To the mothers who toil, test, testify, and trust all will be well as they lean on their strength in God… thank you. Your prayers are probably what saved me. I see all of you. Happy Mother’s Day!
I’ve not been feeling like myself of late—I wish I could verbalize the issue or pinpoint the problem, but I just don’t have any “Get up and Go” in me outside of work. I intend to conserve my mental energy as much as I can. I’ll return to my regular blogging and creative activities on Saturday, May 09, 2026.
I hope all of you enjoy the rest of this week. Take good care of yourselves.
a mother’s cry and a father’s protest are blending with the morning wind.
safety is a falsehood brewing in the basements of our ancestors, and many of us have lost the rights to it.
I’m tired of waking up to death—to heartache and pain, and the constant cycle shoved upon us so hard and heavy that a single breath has risen in value.
fighting used to be safe—winner, loser, playground shenanigans that stayed in the playground or began sharply at 3 o’clock and was over by 3:30… an after-school special we could only record with our eyes and minds.
now, there are gun-toting, parentless children fighting for attention on every corner, gaining attention in ways we haven’t approved.
and the cost of what they seek is priceless… a life for a life… no refund.
A Cornered Gurl 
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