My mom, obviously.
My aunt, my mother’s sister.
My cousins’ girlfriends, the nice ones especially.
My step-grandmother.
My stepmom.
Even my daddies’ girlfriends.
And the women of the church.
When I think about my childhood, I don’t remember being raised by one woman. I remember being raised by a village of women.
Some were family. Some became family. Some carried the title “auntie” without sharing a single drop of blood. And somehow, every single one of them helped shape the woman I am becoming today.
The Village
Many of the women I grew up around were ladies.
Now before somebody gets offended, I believe there is a difference between a woman and a lady.
The Southern ladies I grew up around carried themselves differently. They moved with grace. They never told all their business. Even when life was heavy, they carried their burdens with dignity. They taught me that strength doesn’t always have to be loud.
Most of them were church women.
The aunties who knew everybody’s business but somehow still kept your confidence.
The women who sat on the same pew every Sunday.
The women who prayed over every child like they belonged to them.
Teachers influenced my life, but church women raised me.
Family women raised me.
The women who showed up at birthday parties, funerals, cookouts, graduations, and random Tuesday evenings raised me.
Even my friends’ mothers became my aunties.
That was non-negotiable.
I loved them like family because they treated me like family.
Some of them still check on me today.
What Did Their Presence Feel Like?
The softest storm.
You know that feeling right before the sky opens up?
Everything is still.
Quiet.
Calm.
Then suddenly the rain comes.
That’s what being around Black women felt like.
Power wrapped in softness.
Strength wrapped in grace.
An understanding that didn’t require explanation.
They just got it.
What Did Their Homes Smell Like?
Somewhere between bacon, vanilla, and Avon Skin So Soft.
You know the smell.
The one that’s slightly overwhelming but somehow makes you feel completely safe.
The smell that told you everything was alright.
The smell that felt like home.
What Was Always Playing?
I was born in the middle of the eighties, so my soundtrack was all over the place.
Rance Allen.
Luther Vandross.
Anita Baker.
The O’Jays.
Johnny Taylor on the weekends.
And when the occasion called for it, Sade and Prince.
If you know, you know.
What Did They Cook?
My mom was known for baking.
And baby, she did it well.
My aunt handled everything in between.
Together they taught me that feeding people was one of the purest forms of love.
What Did They Wear?
These women were fashionable.
Sunday Best wasn’t optional.
Bold colors.
Statement earrings.
Geometric sweaters.
Matching outfits.
I remember when my stepdad’s sister, Aunt Trudy, came into town. She had sung background for Ray Charles, and when she met up with my mom and her sisters, they looked incredible.
Blue sweater dresses.
Black-and-white geometric patterns.
Oversized hoops.
Stylish glasses.
Perfect makeup.
The kind of women who could walk into a room and make everybody look twice.
My style is a direct descendant of those women.
Leather shorts with tights.
A great black pump.
Because one thing those women taught me is every woman should own a black pump.
It can change an entire outfit.
What Made Them Memorable?
Their style.
But even more than that, their presence.
Not the stereotype people try to place on Black women.
No.
Their energy said:
“When I walk into this room, you’ll know I’m here before I open my mouth.”
They carried themselves like perfectly seasoned food.
Never too much.
Never too little.
Always exactly right.
The Church Mothers
There were women who always knew my name.
Mother Dorothy.
The First Lady.
Mrs. Robinson.
Women who made sure I never slipped through the cracks.
There were women who hugged me.
Ms. Margie Hardy never saw me without reminding me I was beautiful and loved.
There were women who checked on me.
Ms. Faith Joyner continued asking about me long after she left our church.
There were women who corrected me.
Lord, all of them.
I was sneaky.
And every time I got caught, some church mother would tell me to get my tail back in church and quit being fast.
I just showed my age with that one.
And there were women who prayed for me.
Every woman who attended my mother’s funeral made sure I knew they were carrying my name into prayer.
That kind of love changes a person.
What Did They Teach Me About Faith?
Try God.
Be patient.
Trust His timing.
Believe that even when nothing seems to be moving, He is.
And know that somehow, some way, God always shows up.
What Did They Teach Me About Womanhood?
Womanhood isn’t performance.
It’s presence.
It’s character.
It’s knowing who you are when nobody is watching.
It’s being strong without becoming hard.
Soft without becoming weak.
Confident without becoming cruel.
The Aunties
Some were blood relatives.
Some were chosen family.
Mary Johnson, my mother’s aunt, eventually helped raise me after my mom passed away.
Her influence still lives in me today.
So many women made room for me when they didn’t have to.
So many women poured into me unexpectedly.
And my best friend?
Lord help whoever comes for me.
She protects me like family.
She sees every version of me.
The polished version.
The messy version.
The dreaming version.
The exhausted version.
And she stays.
The Auntie Who Influenced Me Most
My Aunt Dorothy wasn’t related by blood.
But she was the picture of womanhood.
She taught me how to show up beautifully.
How to carry myself.
How to move through the world with grace.
One lesson from her still makes me laugh today.
“Don’t spit your gum on the ground. You’re a lady. Some woman doesn’t need that stuck to the bottom of her shoe.”
Simple.
Practical.
Unforgettable.
The Women Who Saw Something In Me
Long before I believed in myself, there were women who believed in me.
One of them was Bernice Price, my African American Literature professor at Alabama State University.
She saw potential I couldn’t see.
She challenged me.
Encouraged me.
Refused to let me settle.
And my stepmom?
She was my sounding board.
Every dream.
Every business idea.
Every plan.
Every pivot.
She listened.
Supported.
Encouraged.
Cheered.
And then there were countless women whose names would fill pages.
Women who spoke life into me.
Women who reminded me I was capable.
Women who watered seeds they would never see bloom.
The Things They Passed Down
The women who raised me taught me joy.
The women who raised me taught me hospitality.
The women who raised me taught me faith.
The women who raised me taught me resilience.
The women who raised me taught me style.
The women who raised me taught me how to gather people.
The women who raised me taught me storytelling.
The women who raised me taught me service.
The women who raised me taught me strength.
The women who raised me taught me love.
The women who raised me taught me how to survive.
The women who raised me taught me how to celebrate.
The women who raised me taught me how to keep going.
The women who raised me taught me how to make room for others.
The women who raised me taught me that joy is something nobody can take from you.
None of these things came in an inheritance check.
But they are worth more than money could ever buy.
The Hard Part
Not every lesson came from love.
Some came from heartbreak.
Some came from disappointment.
Some came from women who hurt me deeply.
Friends.
Family.
Business partners.
Women I trusted.
Women I admired.
Women I thought would stay forever.
And while it hurt, I learned.
I learned boundaries.
I learned discernment.
I learned self-respect.
I learned that some people are assigned to a season, not a lifetime.
Sometimes the lesson isn’t in who stayed.
Sometimes the lesson is in who left.
Some lessons come from absence.
Some come from watching what you never want to become.
Why I Keep Talking About Tables
Because the table was everything.
Growing up, there was always a kids’ table.
Usually closest to the kitchen.
Then there was the grown folks’ table.
The table where the real conversations happened.
The table where the women gathered.
The table where stories were exchanged and wisdom was passed around like cornbread.
I wanted to sit there so badly.
But before I ever made it to that table, life moved.
I moved away.
People got older.
The gatherings became fewer.
And somehow I never got my turn.
Maybe that’s why Floral & Spice exists.
Maybe I’m building the table I never got to sit at.
Why I Love Gathering
Because gathering stills my heart.
When people sit down together, something beautiful happens.
Walls come down.
Stories come out.
People become themselves.
There is something sacred about sharing food.
I want spaces where women can eat chicken wings with their hands instead of pretending to be perfect with a fork.
I want spaces where women can exhale.
Where they can laugh.
Cry.
Dream.
Rest.
Why I Want Black Women Celebrated
Because too often Black women are reduced to stereotypes.
We are either made invisible or turned into stories that don’t belong to us.
But I know different.
I was raised by different.
Some of us are the girl next door.
Some of us are the girl from around the way.
Some of us are nurturing.
Creative.
Quiet.
Brilliant.
Gentle.
Funny.
Faithful.
Complicated.
Human.
And all of us deserve to be seen.
Carrying It Forward
Today I am learning how to receive celebration.
How to accept someone saying they’re proud of me.
How to believe I deserve flowers while I’m still here.
And what do I hope another woman receives from me?
A place where she feels seen.
Celebrated.
Appreciated.
A place where she can pull up a chair and know she belongs.
A place with great conversation.
Good food.
Beautiful drinks.
And no pressure to be anything except herself.
Because maybe this is how we continue the work of the women who raised us.
By becoming safe places for somebody else.
By pouring back.
By making room.
By creating tables where another woman can finally exhale.
The women who raised me may never know how much of them I carry.
But every time I make room for another woman, I realize they are still here.