Motherhood Is Not My Purpose

purpose

noun

1a: something set up as an object or end to be attained : intention

b: resolution, determination

2: a subject under discussion or an action in course of execution

on purpose: by intent : intentionally

object

noun

3a: the goal or end of an effort or activity : purpose, objective

Motherhood is not my purpose. It was not the goal of my life. It will not be the end result of my life’s efforts or activities.

I can remember being eleven and twelve years old, filling notebook pages with plans that had nothing to do with cribs or bottles or bedtime routines. At that age, I was already naming books I wanted to write, the kind of woman I wanted to become, and the ways I wanted to leave the world better than I found it. That was purpose taking root, before anyone had the chance to tell me motherhood was supposed to be the end point.

Motherhood is continuity.

Continuity not just of bloodline, but of story. Of legacy. Of struggle and resilience. It is a thread that connects me backward to those who mothered me—flawed, fumbling, or fierce—and forward to a child whose life will stretch far beyond my own.

It is work. Meaningful work. Yes. Good work. Yes. Hard work. Yes. Rewarding work. Yes—all of that.

But work, nonetheless. The kind of work that demands both devotion and depletion. The kind that requires clocking in when your body wants to quit, and clocking out only when sleep claims you by force. The kind of work that reshapes a person while never quite paying them what they’re worth.

While motherhood shifted my identity in ways that are beautiful, brutal, expansive, and territorial, it did not shift my purpose. It did not change that intrinsic thing woven in me when I was knitted together in my mother's womb. Wow. My purpose holds all my roles without collapsing into any of them.

That is miraculous.

Because society loves collapse. Woman into wife. Mother into martyr. Blackness into burden. We are asked to become one thing when we were born as many. Refusing collapse is itself an act of resistance.

Motherhood is equal parts refinement and detriment to my purpose. Because motherhood is an unquenchable fire. From MJ’s first breath and beyond my last, I work in service of him and the purpose that is a seed within him.

The fire refines: it burns away self-deception; it forces clarity;  it teaches endurance. But the fire also scorches: it leaves ashes where dreams once lived; it exhaust; it threatens to consume the very person who feeds it. Both are true at once.

If I can pass through the fire and still water the seed and his seeds, I know without a doubt that I am capable of accessing my own unique purpose.

No, I wasn’t born to be a mother. I choose it. Every day. Multiple times a day.

And I water myself in the process. Motherhood is connected to a renewable well, and I water the seeds within all of us. But make no mistake, being a nurturer isn’t my purpose any more than being a woman, Black, American, etcetera. 

It is one facet of my identity and womanhood. Not a requirement. Not a destination. 

The Giver's Rule

Treating others how I wanted to be treated has broken my heart more times than I can count.

I remembered birthdays, comforted, affirmed, listened. I literally loved people back to life. I let my home be a place the men I chose could come for peace of mind and a piece of pleasure.

My dad was right: “You take men to the moon. For nothing.”

Only, what I wanted was never transactional. I was never after a pocket. I wanted a heart.

So I treated you how I wanted you to treat me. I gave to you how I wanted you to give to me. I made your pleasure my pleasure in hopes that some of that would come back my way. And you never had to think twice. I was clear. I told you what you needed to know to understand me.

In the quiet—when it was just you and me—was I not free of guards and bravado? You accessed my walls. You got your favorite high. I know I am a divine dopamine hit. And yet, you did not reciprocate.

And here’s the thing: it wasn’t your fault that I didn’t require you to show up for me equal to or greater than. That was on me.

But I can see it now. Your presence on my block lets me know your cup is empty. And here you are again, wanting my love, attention, and empathy. Because I don’t just make you hard, I give you softness. I massage you out of your head and into your body. I affirm the truths God speaks about you.

My guard is up not because I’m a bitch, but because I am a giver by nature. And I am tired of fucking and giving to takers.

So this time, I have nothing but well-wishes and boundaries. A few quips and side-eyes. Self-respect and so much damn pride.

If you want to come, come differently. But I am not your comfort. Not your safe space. Not the woman alchemizing your energy for your benefit.

I want to come, so I am coming differently. I am treating me how I want to be treated.

How the hell do all the rest of you cope?

He’s never been able to explain that all his paintings are an attempt to show how beautiful he wishes he actually was. He’s dreamed of being able to say: “Being human is to grieve, constantly.” 

Because what he really wants to know is: “How the hell do all the rest of you cope?”

- My Friends | Fredrik Backman

Letter to Benji

Joar has Benji's spirit. It's beautiful. I'm learning his story. Beginning to love Joar. Still grieving for Benji.

...

Dear Benji,

I don’t know how to talk about you without crying.

You were all edges and ache. All beauty and bruises. I loved you the moment you stepped on the page—too loyal for your own good, too hurt to say it out loud, too alive to be safe. And still, you loved. Fiercely. Protectively. With your whole damn heart.

You were the kind of boy who laughed to keep from screaming, who kissed boys in secret and carried pain like it was penance. The kind of boy who walked your sisters home, took punches for your friends, and asked for nothing in return but a little space to breathe.

You didn’t get enough air, Benji.

You didn’t get enough peace.

You didn’t get to stay.

And I don’t think I’ll ever forgive the world for that.

Still—some part of me is glad you stepped in front of that gun. Not because I wanted you to die. God, no. But because that’s who you were. You would’ve done it a hundred times over for someone you loved. That’s why we mourn you like we knew you. Because we did. At least, the versions of you that live in us.

You remind me of the boys I loved when I was young—the soft ones with hard exteriors, the ones who made you laugh but never told you what kept them up at night. You remind me of every time I wanted to scream but smiled instead. Of every moment I felt too much and didn’t know where to put it.

You deserved to be held. To be asked how your heart was. To be chosen.

You were the protector.

But God, you needed protecting too.

I’ll never forget you. Not your jokes. Not your love. Not your loneliness.

Not the way your story made mine feel seen.

Love,

A girl who still grieves you

Safety

Like a child, I imagined the trees were waving—one leaned in and said, “Hi, old friend.” I smiled, grateful. Trees stand as sentinels, reminding us that we, too, can survive—and even thrive—through the elements of this world

To know you is to love you. Are you unknown to self?

The "I'm unlovable" story is just that. A story. Fiction. Made up by several unkind contributors, it is comprised of half truths and untruths. Have you seen the way your eyes sparkle when you're excited? Have you experienced your energy when it's electric radiating joy and confidence? Have you been on the receiving end of your love, support, and advocacy? Do you remember, not for the sake of ego, rumination, or validation, how you made them feel they could explore galaxies, conquer worlds, and slay dragons? How you make them laugh? The safety and nurturing you bring? How you listen? How you see others with interest and curiosity? Do you know what it's like to sit with you in silence as you hold space? Have you seen you at rest? My dear, you have a treasure trove of loving experiences. See even the smallest moments. Interrupt the story. You are well-loved, and baby, you are lovable.

The Glory is Within You

Some of the angst we feel - alone, with others, in our heads and bodies - so much of it is unnecessary suffering. So much unnecessary suffering comes from uninterrupted stories and patterns.

Lately, The Universe has given me clear signs. (One day, I'll write about them, sharing them as clearly as they came. For now, I just accept the responsibility to interrupt my stories, patterns, and suffering.)

The signs are so obvious that I feel particularly known. It is as though the Loving Higher Power was like, "There can be no ambiguity with that one in this season," and provided the clarity my mind and heart desires.

I feel a lot of feelings about this insistent clarity. I think a lot of thoughts about seeing that familiar classroom door; about walking by it - even though I'm comfortable with that particular teaching style and environment. I want to peer in the window because maybe, just maybe, there's something new being divulged. 

I also know which of my wants originate from survival and which originate from me.

Mostly, I know I can have my truest, most beautiful life. Worthiness isn't about what I've done or didn't do. It isn't about how I look or do not look. It's not about my earnings, education, credit score, net worth, network, possessions, or anything outside of me.

They tried to convince me that the best predictor of the future is the past. I call bullshit. 11 year old Kechia didn't know. 18 year old Kechia didn't know. 21 year old Kechia didn't know. 26 year old Kechia didn't know. Even, 30 year old Kechia did not know what I know now. 

I am rescuing them. I am rescuing me. I will show us that the best predictor of the future is awareness, desire, and commitment. I will disrupt our unnecessary suffering and create the life history said we were unworthy to live. I see and believe what they could not.