Why I do
what I do.

I was born into wealth, love, presence, covenant, and covering.

My parents were young, but they were intentional. My father was a beautiful man, inside and out. He was kind, generous, polite, firm, fierce, present, protective, and full of leadership. He was not just a provider; he was a covering.

My father was never absent from my life for long. The longest he would usually be away was a weekend, because he believed love was action. The only times we were sometimes separated were when he went back to the village, because my papa was a country man through and through. He did not joke with his getaways and his poyo. He loved his peace, and the village was his place of rest.

I believe I took that from him. I love tranquility. I operate best when life is calm. I understand now that some of the peace I long for is connected to the peace I once knew through him.

I loved my father deeply, and I still miss him every day.

When he passed away twenty-seven years ago, something in me changed. That was when I first understood fear. That was when I first understood loneliness. That was when I understood what it feels like for a covering to leave. And, in many ways, I have been watchful ever since.

When my father died, I began to understand pain, lack, inconsistency, and uncertainty. He worked for Customs all his life and held a good position, so we had enough. But his presence was more than provision. His love was structure. His leadership was safety. His covering was peace.

My father set the bar so high that, even today, I sometimes struggle when it comes to partnership. For me, it has never been only about money. It has always been about presence. That is a conversation for another day.

I became an adult at eleven years old. Not because my mother was unable to provide, but because she was young, only thirty-two, trying to understand and navigate grief while also carrying children who still needed her. She was in shock. And as the eldest sibling, I slowly became a mother figure in ways I was too young to fully understand.

Then the war came.

And with it came pain I did not ask for. I was sexually abused, and I carried that hurt silently for twenty-one years. I only opened up to my sister a few years ago.

It was hard. It was painful. It was messy. But it shaped me into the woman I am today, and it forms part of the heart behind A Certain Woman.

I do what I do because I know what it means for a girl to lose safety too early. I know what it means to carry grief without language. I know what it means to survive violation and still have to show up. I know what it means to become strong before you are ready. I know what it means to mother others while still needing mothering yourself. I know what it means to carry pain quietly and still believe that God can use what tried to destroy you.

Every woman deserves healing. Every woman deserves restoration. Every woman deserves to be reminded of her identity before the world exposes her to experiences that try to tell her otherwise.

We are worthy. We are called. We are not what happened to us. We are still becoming.

I also learned love, resilience, and service through my mother. Even when life was uncomfortable, painful, and unfair, she stood. She became both mother and father to us in ways no woman should have to, yet she kept trusting God through grief, pressure, mental health battles, and the heavy responsibility of holding a family together.

She was, and forever will remain, our Certain Woman.

So, when I serve women, I am serving from memory. When I speak healing, I am speaking from survival. When I create spaces of dignity, I am creating what I once needed. When I remind women of their worth, I am also reminding the little girl in me who had to grow up too soon.

Through rape, through teenage pregnancy, through grief, through war, through responsibility, through pain, and through having to show up for my mother and siblings in the most unstructured and unsolicited ways, I am still thankful.

Not because it was easy. Not because it was fair. But because God kept me.

And because everything I survived became part of the woman I am becoming.

This is why I do what I do. This is why I serve. This is why I build. This is why I carry A Certain Woman.

Because I am not just a woman. I am A Certain Woman.