There’s a kind of love that wraps around you like a warm blanket fresh out the dryer. That’s the love I’ve always felt from my mother. I love, love, love my mother. Not just because she raised me—but because of how she raised me.
As the oldest, I had a front-row seat to her strength, her grace, and her unwavering presence. From a young age, she talked to me—not at me, not around me, but to me. She shared her thoughts, her day, her heart. And what stood out the most? She never cursed. She was never mean. But don’t get it twisted—she was firm. And looking back, I love that about her. That firmness was love in action. It taught me boundaries, respect, and how to carry myself with dignity.
My dad was the playful one—he’d joke and laugh and have fun with us. But my mom? She made it clear: “I don’t play with kids.” And yet, she was so much fun. She loved to talk, to connect, to pour into us. One of my favorite memories is how she’d take us shopping one-on-one. When it was my turn, just me and her I was in Heaven. That time was sacred. We felt seen, heard, and special.
When I got my first job, I couldn’t wait to buy her things. She was always so appreciative. The way her face lit up with joy—it was everything. It made me want to give her the world.
Every day after school, we’d come home to snacks or dinner already made. That kind of consistency, that kind of care—it stays with you. Her hugs? They were healing. They still are. All our friends loved her. They called her “Momma” or “Ms. Walker,” and she welcomed them with that same warm smile she gave us. She had a way of making everyone feel like family.
My mother is the kind of woman who doesn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. Her presence speaks volumes. Her love is steady, her spirit unshakable, and her smile? It’s the kind that makes you believe everything’s going to be okay.
She didn’t just raise me—she shaped me. And I thank God for her every single day
Inside the mind of cree 