The other day my kids called me out. Not in a rude way. Not with attitude. Just…facts.
I was on my phone at basketball practice and said, ” You did well.” My son looked at me and said, “How do you know? You were on your phone.”
Whew. He was right.
That moment stayed with me. Not because I felt shamed, but because it reminded me what I’m actually trying to do in this season: live fully, not perfectly. With kindness instead of competition. With presence instead of performance.
A few days later, we spent the day with family—the Hurndons—three generations deep, cheering on my little cousins at their games and heading to an early dinner afterward.
Later that night, my son got a migraine. So I got him home, tucked him in, and made sure he was comfortable.
Then the next morning, when he woke up, he said, “Thank you so much, Mommy, for loving me and always taking care of me.” And I thought: this. This is it. This is love showing up in ordinary ways.
MLK Day also happened to fall this week. And with it, I felt that familiar mix of gratitude and grief. Gratitude for the sacrifices that made my life possible. And grief, because so much of what Dr. King was fighting for still feels unfinished.
It’s hard not to notice how little has changed in some of the ways that matter most. And as a Black woman raising Black children, I don’t have the luxury of being unaware of what’s happening in the world.
But instead of sinking into despair, I keep coming back to this truth: we have to be part of the solution. We can’t keep waiting on systems and people who have already shown us they are unwilling to help. So love—real, grounded, everyday love—has to start with us. Because love doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like putting your phone down. Driving home early. Sitting in the dark with a kid who doesn’t feel good. And choosing patience in a house with four generations under one roof. And that’s courage too.
Because courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s having the hard conversations with calm instead of ego. It’s taking small, steady steps toward the life you want without rushing your own healing. It’s choosing softness—not as weakness, but as strength.
I’ve been in what people may call my “soft girl era,” and I love it. Not because I’m shrinking my dreams or letting go of ambition. But because I’m moving with intention now. I’m prioritizing what matters. I’m choosing presence over pressure. Peace over performance.
I’m learning how to ask for what I need gently. How to set boundaries without being abrasive. How to speak truth without trying to win.
Even with my kids, I’m practicing this. Teaching them that when they need extra love—hugs, kisses, comfort—they can ask for it instead of acting out. And honestly, I’m trying to listen to my own teaching too.
Recently, I talked with my aunt—who just lost her son—about how God’s design keeps showing up in our lives. One of her grandchildren reminds us so much of him. We both felt it: love, lessons, reminders that we’re not alone in any of this.
God is always present. God is who I follow to be better. And I believe whatever helps you become more loving, more grounded, more whole—that matters too.
So I say:
Love is still the assignment. Not the loud kind. Not the performative kind. But instead, the quiet, steady, everyday kind. The kind that looks like presence. Like patience. And often, like choosing gentleness when it would be easier to be sharp.
And finally, I’m trusting that small acts of care actually matter.
BTW: Softness is strength. Steady love is powerful.
Where can you choose a little more love today?
Other Post You My Enjoy:
Winter Reset: What I’m Doing Differently This Season
Stop Waiting to Feel Ready: Choosing Movement, Faith, and Small Courage in 2026
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