I am a strong woman because I was raised by even stronger women.
Not long ago, I hit one of the lowest points of my life. I found myself separated from my husband, walking away from a deeply toxic job with no clear prospects ahead, and losing most of the friends I thought would always be there. It’s strange how, when everything is going well, people gather around—but the moment life cracks open, many quietly disappear. This has happened to me more than once, so I’ve come to accept that true friends are the ones who stay. I hold deep gratitude for those who listened without judgment, who offered presence instead of opinions. If you ever find yourself in a low place, remember this: you know yourself better than anyone, and you never owe anyone an apology for how you choose to heal.
One night, wide awake at 3:30 a.m., my thoughts spiraled. How does anyone survive this? When will I feel like myself again? Will I ever? And then, slowly, my mind turned to the women who came before me—my mother, my grandmothers, and my great-grandmothers. Their stories began to steady me.
My maternal great-grandmother had nine children during the Great Depression. Her husband spent time in prison for bootlegging and struggled with alcoholism. At one point, the family was so poor they lived in a literal chicken coop, and my great-aunt and grandmother sang in bars as children just to earn coins. Somehow, my great-grandmother held her family together through poverty, absence, and addiction. My great-grandfather later died of cancer in 1968—my mother remembers him pouring whiskey down his tracheostomy tube in the hospital. My great-grandmother never remarried after his death. She lived independently until she passed in 1991, strong, steady, and whole on her own.
On my paternal side, I remember my great-grandmothers personally, though it took time to fully understand what they endured. My Grandma Mable, my grandmother’s mother, raised six children during the Dust Bowl in Wheeler, Texas. With no work available, they relocated to California, where her husband eventually abandoned her completely—no money, no return. In the 1930s and ’40s, being a single mother was nearly unthinkable, yet she built a good life for her children on her own and never remarried. She didn’t break—she rose.
Then there was my “Other Mama,” my grandfather’s mother, a woman I adored deeply. Raised in Indian Territory, Oklahoma, she never knew her biological father and grew up as the eldest sibling. She married a widower raising two small children because she felt compassion for them—simple as that. Together, she raised six children, worked as a midwife who delivered much of the town, and became the family’s primary provider. At a time when married women didn’t work, she insisted on it. After her husband passed in 1970, she continued living fully—driving, attending church, living independently—until her death in 2002 at 96 years old. She didn’t fade after loss; she flourished.
My grandmothers were no exception. My Nanny, my maternal grandmother, stood just 4’11” and maybe 85 pounds, but she was fierce. Her first husband abandoned her with two young children. Her second husband—my pawpaw—adopted them, and together they had three more. He struggled with violent alcoholism, yet my Nanny pushed forward, attending nursing school at night after all five children were asleep. She worked as a nurse for 40 years and was the family’s main provider, even when money disappeared into addiction. She was tough, stubborn, loving, and unapologetic—one of the strongest women I’ve ever known.
My paternal grandmother was nearly six feet tall and just as formidable. When my grandfather died of cancer at only 61 in 1993, she had never pumped gas or balanced a checkbook. Instead of giving up or moving in with one of her six children, she learned. She sustained a 300-acre ranch on her own before eventually downsizing. She was beautiful, sharp-edged, and fiercely independent—exactly who she was, no explanations required.
And then there’s my mother—the strongest of them all. My queen. My rock. My best friend. In her 64 years, she’s been married only three and a half. She grew up with an alcoholic, sometimes abusive father, became a mother at 19, and divorced my brother’s father within months—writing and filing the paperwork herself in the 1970s. She bought her first home at 18, built a long career in the mortgage industry, and raised me after divorcing my father. Though the divorce broke her heart, she sought help, stayed present, and remained resilient. She taught me independence, honesty, and strength—and never to tolerate nonsense from anyone.
When my husband and I separated after 11 years, my mom stayed with me that first week, reminding me who I came from. She reminded me that strong women built this path long before me—and I walk it now. None of these women were perfect, but every one of them stood tall when they had to stand alone.
I am a strong woman because I was raised by stronger women. When doubt creeps in, I remember them—and I know I can do this. There were strong women before me, and there will be strong women after me.
Here’s to us. To the queens. To the boss ladies. To the bad b*tches. And to every woman out there standing on her own and absolutely rocking it.
