I can still see her at the kitchen table—a tall, elegant woman with deliberate movements, pen in hand, shaping letters with the kind of grace that turns writing into art. My grandmother had the sort of cursive that made you pause. Every loop and stroke held precision and care—penmanship from an era when women’s writing was both a discipline and an act of artistry.
My great-grandmother taught my mother to write. And my grandmother taught me. Not just how to form my letters, but how to capture feeling, how to tell the truth, and how to document life with presence and pride.
Before she immigrated to the U.S., my grandmother worked at a school by day and was an entrepreneur on the side. She would cook Guyanese delicacies—black pudding and souse—to sell at neighborhood bars on the weekend. Living a life that demanded strategy, community, and stamina, she raised five children, leaned on her village, and sent them to America one by one. Seven years later, when they could finally sponsor her, she joined them. That story—her story—is the foundation of mine.
My grandmother’s ingenuity, resilience, and bravery molded me, long before I understood they were mine to inherit.
My mother carries forward a sense of adventure and flair. Always impeccably dressed, always bold in spirit, she showed me that femininity and strength are not opposites, but twin forces. The women in our family are proud, vivacious, and magnetic. They love to be the belle of the ball—not out of vanity, but out of joy.
That spirit—that unapologetic embrace of being seen—lives in me, too, in ways I could have never dreamed up on my own. I didn’t invent who I am. I was shaped, lovingly and powerfully, by the women who came before me.
Because of them, I know what it means to speak up. To take risks. To create. To love with my whole self. Because of them, I know how to show up not just as a woman in the world, but as a woman rooted in something greater than herself.
To the matriarchs who walked, and ran, and danced before me—thank you.
Thank you for showing us that strength is not silence, but expression. That to simply be—as a woman, a creator, a nurturer—is a revolutionary act.
This Mother’s Day, I honor you. With every word I write, every risk I take, and every joy I allow myself to feel—I carry you with me.
Love,
Ayana
