Muddah is the name we called my Great Grandmother Wylene Terrell. It came from my infant mother’s inability to pronounce the word “mother,” which is what my great grandmother wanted to be called. The mispronunciation lasted for decades all the way until her passing in 2006. By that time, she had helped raise, shelter, and uplift three generations. Muddahood is a space of mothering—a space of loving grace and dedication. However, anyone who knew Muddah knew she took zero shit. Period. Love is power, not a capitulation. Muddahood, then, is a nexus of vulnerability and strength.

The following came out of a free write on what Muddahood meant to me in 2021, long before I became accidentally pregnant with twins. This was me dreaming of what it meant to journey the spectrum of myself:

I want to dye my hair green, blue, or pink. I want to pierce my nose and get more tattoos. I want to be debt free. I want a house in Atlanta and a property out east to raise animals and crops and to help people find their purpose. I want to know for a fact that my sister is okay. I want to scream a lot. I want to feel pretty all the time and to go for a walk whenever/wherever without anxiety or fear. I want to travel. I want to hug strangers. I want my happiness not to cause others pain.

Holding this as a cry from my past self and as a grounding as I continue to journey my way forward and backward all at once.