I scroll through social media every day and see motherhood on full display—morning routines, soft lighting, matching outfits, curated chaos that somehow still feels photogenic. But more often than not, what I’m seeing is white motherhood. White women dominate the parenting space. They’re landing brand deals, writing books, hosting podcasts, and building entire empires off their family life. It’s not that they don’t deserve those opportunities—I’m in no position to decide that. But I can’t help but wonder: where are the Black moms like me?

Because I know we exist. I am one. I’m surrounded by them. Black women raising babies in love, in partnership, in stability. Black women with graduate degrees, careers, creative dreams, and group chats full of support. Black women who are thoughtful, brilliant, present, and tired—but not broken. Not invisible. And certainly not rare.

But when I look at the broader media landscape or even the curated lens of Instagram and TikTok, I don’t see us. Not in the numbers we’re out here living. Not in the way we’re raising our families, navigating our marriages, holding down our careers, and creating joy in the midst of it all. I don’t see the moms who look like me: partnered, thriving, self-aware, healed (or healing), educated, supported. And that absence isn’t just frustrating—it’s deeply telling.

The media has long perpetuated the stereotype that Black motherhood is synonymous with struggle. That we are single, unsupported, overworked, underpaid, and barely getting by. And obviously, systemic inequality is real, and there are very real barriers Black women and mothers face. But those narratives are often presented as the only truth. The problem is not that stories of hardship exist—it’s that stories of joy, success, and support are treated like exceptions.

When you dig into the data, it tells a different story as well. Black women are one of the most educated groups in the U.S., with college enrollment and degree attainment steadily rising. We’re also the fastest-growing group of entrepreneurs. In my own life, this bears out clearly—my mom friends are doctors, educators, creatives, therapists, policy experts, chefs. Many of us are partnered. Many of us are thriving. None of us are the tired tropes we’ve been assigned.

Within my own family, across generations and income levels, I’ve seen Black motherhood in every form—and in none of those forms has it looked like the media’s default. I was raised by Black women who made it work and made it beautiful. Who raised children with partners, with community, with purpose. Who passed on joy and resilience in equal measure.

So again, I ask: where are the Black moms like me?

The answer is—we’re everywhere...I guess you just have to know where to look. We’re building family traditions, booking couples therapy, applying to charter schools, running businesses during nap time, meal-prepping and multitasking and figuring it all out in real time. We are choosing softness where we were taught to be hard. We are mothering from a place of power and presence. We are cultivating joy—not just for our kids, but for ourselves too.

And yet, the spotlight rarely finds us. Not because we’re not compelling, not because we don’t have a story to tell—but because we don’t fit the mold that sells. We don’t fit the one-dimensional image of Black motherhood that too many brands, media outlets, and platforms still rely on. The one that centers absence, lack, and exhaustion instead of fullness, partnership, and joy.

That’s why I’m committed to telling the truth about who we are. About who I am. I’m a Black mom raising two girls with a man I love, who loves me back. I’m a professionally trained chef, a writer, a business owner and a work in progress. I’m ambitious and supported. I am both strong and soft. I am deeply committed to creating the kind of life my daughters will remember as safe, whole, and joyful. And I know I’m not alone.

We deserve to be seen. Not just in struggle, but in celebration. Not just when tragedy strikes, but in the ordinary, extraordinary magic of our everyday lives. If you don’t see us in your feed, it’s not because we aren’t here—it’s because someone, somewhere (ahem those shitty algorithms), decided not to show us.

So I’m showing us. I’m telling our stories. I’m claiming the space we’ve already earned. Because the world needs to see what Black motherhood actually looks like. And it looks like us.

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