Still Becoming

Where It All Began: Beauty, Family & Caring for Your Crown

Some of my earliest memories of wellness have nothing to do with a spa, a supplement, or a perfectly curated morning routine. They begin at home, surrounded by beautiful things, the women in my family, and a lesson my mother made sure we understood early: don't go out into the world looking like nobody loves you.

I grew up in a family where hair was practically a love language. Almost all the elder women in my family knew how to do hair, and a handful are professional stylists. As a little Black girl growing up in that environment, caring for your crown was simply part of life. There was an understanding that you took pride in yourself, that you kept yourself together, and that whatever life was putting you through, you didn't have to let it take away your sense of self.

My mother's words have stayed with me over the years. “Don't be going outside looking like nobody loves you.” She wasn't just talking about hair or appearance. At least, that's how I've come to understand it. There was something deeper in that message about self-respect, dignity, and how you show up for yourself, even when life isn't showing up for you.

That was my first real introduction to wellness.

Before I knew the language of self-care, holistic health, or intentional living, I understood the importance of caring for yourself. I learned that beauty could be an expression of love, that the way we tend to ourselves matters, and that taking pride in who you are can be an act of preservation.

It's probably no surprise, then, that I eventually found my way into the beauty industry as a hairstylist myself. What began as something so familiar to me became an opportunity to participate in a tradition I had witnessed my entire life. I got to experience firsthand how personal beauty can be and how meaningful it is to create a space where someone can feel cared for, seen, and a little more like themselves.

Looking back, I can see that I wasn't stepping into something entirely new. I was continuing a lesson that had been passed down to me long before I ever picked up a professional tool: caring for yourself is part of how you move through the world.

The Beginnings of Birthwork: Love, Motherhood & Being There

I've always been curious about how humans get here. I grew up in a family where many people had children young, so pregnancy, babies, and motherhood weren't abstract concepts to me. They were part of the world I was growing up in. Still, I was fascinated by the process itself: the creation of a human being, the experience of pregnancy, and the transformation that happens when someone becomes a parent.

That curiosity became much more personal when my cousin, who was around fifteen or sixteen at the time, became pregnant with my nephew. It was the first time I experienced pregnancy so closely with someone from my own generation, someone I loved, someone whose life was unfolding alongside mine.

I remember wanting her to know that she was still loved.

I can't speak for how she experienced that season of her life, and she might tell parts of the story differently. Our experiences of the same moments don't always look the same, and I respect that. But I can tell you what I remember feeling: I didn't want her to feel ashamed. I didn't want becoming a young mother to make her feel as though she had lost her place in the world, or that she could no longer simply be the girl I knew and loved.

Yes, she was about to become a mother. But she was still herself, and I wanted her to feel that.

I wanted her to know that I still cared about her, that I was still excited to spend time with her, and that motherhood didn't mean we had to stop enjoying life together. I remember reassuring her that we were still going to have a fun summer—and we really did. We made some of the most fun memories that summer, and those moments have stayed with me.

When I look back, I realize that what mattered to me wasn't just the pregnancy itself. It was the person experiencing it. I wanted her to feel supported, to keep caring for herself, and to know that she didn't have to navigate such a significant transition without love, friendship, or joy.

I didn't necessarily have the language for birthwork then. I wasn't thinking about a professional calling or imagining where that experience might lead me. I was simply showing up for someone I loved in the way that felt natural to me.

But sometimes, when we look back at the beginnings of our journeys, we recognize the seeds of things we wouldn't fully understand until years later.

For me, that summer was one of those beginnings. It deepened my curiosity about birth and motherhood, but it also revealed something about the kind of care I wanted to offer: care that makes room for the whole person, that doesn't reduce someone to their circumstances, and that reminds people they are worthy of love through every transition life brings.

A Life Devoted to Caring for Others

What began as a natural curiosity about birth and a desire to show up for the people I loved eventually grew into something much bigger. I became a doula, supporting families through pregnancy, birth, and the transition into parenthood. What had once been a personal interest became a meaningful part of my life and the way I chose to serve others.

Over time, that calling grew beyond supporting individual families. I went on to found Snuggle House Foundation, a nonprofit organization created around mothers, families, and their well-being. Through that work, I was able to build on something I had cared about since I was young: creating spaces where people could feel supported, cared for, and reminded that their well-being matters.

My work was never just about birth. It was about the person giving birth, the family being formed, and the life that continues long after the baby arrives. It was about recognizing that mothers deserve care, too—that the people so often responsible for nurturing everyone else need places where they can be nurtured themselves.

And then, alongside building and caring for so much, I became a mother myself. Twice.

Motherhood has given me new perspectives on care, identity, and what it means to show up for another person. It has also invited me to reconsider what showing up for myself looks like. There is something about experiencing life from the other side of the care you have spent years giving that makes you see things differently.

Learning to Pour Back Into Myself

After the birth of my second child, my son, I find myself in a new season of life. My values haven't changed. I still believe in caring for people, supporting mothers, exploring wellness, and creating a life rooted in intention. But I've begun to recognize that I can't continue pouring into everyone around me without also making room to pour into myself.

For years, so much of my energy went toward building, serving, supporting, and creating for others. I am proud of that work, and I carry the lessons from it with me. But stepping back from the nonprofit has given me room to consider what it means to nurture the person behind all of that work.

What does it look like to practice the care I've spent years encouraging others to receive? What does wellness look like when it isn't another responsibility to manage, another service to provide, or another thing to build for someone else? What happens when I give myself permission to explore, to rest, to learn, and to create simply because something brings me closer to the life I want to live?

I don't have every answer yet. And honestly, I think that's part of the beauty of this season.

I've realized that creating has always been one of the ways I make sense of the world. It's how I explore ideas, express what I'm learning, and bring the things that matter to me into a tangible form. So, in many ways, creating this space is an extension of that instinct, but with a different intention.

This time, I want to create in a way that allows me to be present in my own life, rather than constantly working behind the scenes to make something happen for everyone else. I want to explore wellness as I live it, incorporate the practices that resonate with me into my everyday life, and share what I discover along the way.

That might look like exploring new wellness practices, learning more about the traditions that interest me, developing rituals that make ordinary days feel more intentional, or simply documenting what it means to care for myself while navigating motherhood and all the other dimensions of being a woman.

I want this work to be meaningful, but I also want it to be sustainable. I want room for curiosity, for change, for joy, and for the freedom to evolve without having to turn every part of my life into something to prove.

Still Becoming

Here, I get to bring all of these parts of myself together.

It's a space shaped by the little girl who learned to care for her crown, the young woman who wanted her cousin to feel loved, the doula who supported families through life-changing moments, the founder who built an organization around maternal well-being, and the mother who is learning to extend that same care to herself.

I don't see these versions of myself as separate identities. Each one has contributed something to the woman I am today. And while I don't know exactly what every future chapter will hold, I know that wellness, curiosity, care, and the desire to live a more intentional life will continue to be part of the story.

I'm sharing this journey not because I've mastered the art of living well, but because I'm interested in what becomes possible when we give ourselves the space to explore it.

My story is still unfolding. This is simply where I've landed for now.

If you're also figuring things out, exploring what wellness means to you, or finding your way into a new season of life, I hope there's something here that meets you where you are.

Welcome, my love. I'm glad we're here together.