Our very first issue of CRWNMAG in 2016 featured a powerful piece from doula educator Latham Thomas on the power of the womb. At the time, I was a 30-year-old single woman in NYC, working around the clock to bring this vision to life — more Khadijah James than Clair Huxtable.

Like all of you, so much has shifted in the years since. For me: marriage, motherhood, grief, joy, expansion… My three birth experiences called me into birth work — and eventually into building Borne — even leading me back to train with Latham herself. The creation of Borne, and the release of our first print zine, Birthing While Black: A Hospital Guide, is quite the full circle moment. And it’s been a long time coming.

Get the Hospital Guide

Like many of you, I’d heard the terrifying maternal health stats. I prepared. And still, I felt completely unprepared — especially when my attempted home birth shifted into a hospital C-section. It wasn’t so much the change in plans, as it was what came with it: coercion, normalized medical violence, even criminalization.

When I left the hospital, I knew in my bones that 1) This was ‘bout to be a lengthy healing journey, and 2) I had to learn how to help my loved ones and our CRWNMAG community avoid what I had just experienced.

The solutions to this maternal health crisis must be varied: legislation, access, advocacy… Everyone doing what they can, where they’re at, with what they got.

We believe one of the most immediate levers is increasing our agency in pregnancy and birth — by defining more holistic standards for care, and by informing women and families of their options, rights and how to navigate the hospital as an institution, if that’s where they choose to give birth.

Because family-centered care means everyone has a role to play — in the birth space, and outside of it.

We’re grateful to our partners, BLACK Wellness & Prosperity Center, Tre Borden /Co and the James Irvine Foundation for helping us to bring this life-saving guide to life, in print.

The zine is now available, and shipping immediately.

Get the Guide

Learn more and read excerpts from Birthing While Black: A Hospital Guide, below:

Borne

Birthing While Black: A Hospital Guide (now available)

I’m so happy to share that Borne’s first print zine, Birthing While Black: A Hospital Guide, is now available…

Listen now

9 days ago · 6 likes · 3 comments · Lindsey Farrar and Borne

Borne

What to Know About Interventions in Hospital Birth

Many people assume interventions begin with IVs and monitors — but they often start much earlier, in subtle and routine ways. Knowing this helps you spot patterns, ask better questions and stay rooted in your preferences before decisions are made for…

Read more

3 months ago · 5 likes · 4 comments · Borne

Borne

Birth Education: Know Your Rights & Options (Hospital Edition)

This piece in an expert from our print zine, Birthing While Black: A Hospital Guide, created in partnership with the BLACK Wellness and Prosperity Center in California, Tre Borden /Co and the James Irvine Foundation. The zine is NOW shipping…

Read more

3 months ago · 8 likes · 6 comments · Borne

Fam, we made it through the eclipse portal. Our African ancestors understood something that modern life often forgets: before you move, you must first arrive. As we step into April — the first full month of the astro new year — one of the most powerful things you can do is begin with an energetic ritual that roots you before the sky asks you to rise.

In the Yorùbá spiritual tradition, our Orí (our divine head and inner compass) is sacred and must be consistently tended to. One way to honor it is to place your hands on your head each morning, give thanks for the day granted to you, send blessings to yourself and your loved ones, and consciously clear your energy before the world rushes in. This is not superstition but rather maintenance of the most important technology we carry.

April opens with a gift that doesn’t come along every month: all planets are direct. No retrogrades. The cosmic roads are clear. Mercury — whose archetype lives in Èṣù, the Orisha of crossroads and communication — is now moving forward, which means the confusion, delays, and internal loops of the past several weeks are beginning to dissolve. This is your prime window for making moves. April’s first three weeks belong to Aries Season, which is ruled by the warrior energy of Ògún, the Orisha of iron, labor and the clearing of paths. Where you’ve been hesitating, April is asking you to act. The month opens under a Libra Full Moon, and even amid all this fire, balance is the first conversation. Libra is the sign of reciprocity; it lives in the space between giving and receiving, and asks the same question this Full Moon is presenting to all of us: where have your relationships fallen out of harmony?_ This isn’t about drama or cutting cords for sport. It’s about a quiet audit. What dynamics are you willing to carry into this new astrological year, and what needs to be lovingly, firmly released?

Then comes the fire. Mars (Ògún), Mercury (Èṣù), and the New Moon gather in Aries on April 9th, 14th, and 17th respectively, joining Saturn (Obalúayé) and Neptune (Olókun) who are already holding court there. This is a powerful stellium: an alignment that calls every sign into greater visibility and leadership. Water and Earth signs, this energy may feel unfamiliar, even uncomfortable at first. But the discomfort is the invitation: you are being asked to stop shrinking, to stop waiting for the perfect moment, to let yourself be seen in a new way. Fire and Air signs will feel more in their element, but be mindful of burning through your energy without direction. Intensity without intention is just noise.

April shifts again on the 19th, when the Sun enters Taurus and the season slows to something more sensual and grounded. A few days later, Oshun (the OG Venus) moves into Gemini, creating a beautiful tension: Taurus wants roots, Gemini wants options. Together, they invite you to hold your intentions with steady hands while remaining open, expressive, and playful in how they unfold. Let yourself get a little flirty with life. Then, on April 25th, the sky delivers its most significant announcement of the month:

Uranus enters Gemini for an eight-year stay. In the Yorùbá tradition, the electric force of Ṣàngó and the transformative wind of Oyá are two of the most powerful energies that exist — and when they move together through a new sign, the world rumbles. This is not destruction… this is reinvention. Gemini is the sign of duality, of the twins, of becoming, and what we are about to witness collectively is nothing less than a revolution in how we communicate, how we move, and what we’re willing to fight for. The thunder is ringing and the lightning has arrived. Our collective rebirth is here.

Read your April scopes for both your Sun & Rising signs below. For deeper, personalized insights on your patterns and daily transits, explore your full birth chart placements and more in KnowTheZodiac App, (free on iOS & Android).

Aries Sun & Rising:

Aries, April 2026 is handing you the torch, and your ancestors didn’t carry it this far for you to set it down now. The Aries stellium floods your identity zone with the energies of Ògún (Mars), Obalúayé (Saturn), Olókun (Neptune), Èṣù (Mercury) and the New Moon all gathered in your sign, making this one of the most activating months of your astrological year. You’re being crowned at the start of a new cycle, and the Universe is not asking whether you’re ready — it’s asking whether you’re willing. As Taurus Season arrives on the 19th, let that earth energy anchor what all this fire has clarified about who you’re becoming.

Then on April 25th, Uranus enters Gemini and begins an 8-year electrification of your communication zone. The archetypes of Ṣàngó and Oyá — Orishas of thunder and transformative wind — are now moving through how you speak, how you’re heard and how your ideas travel in the world. Your voice is about to evolve in ways you didn’t plan for, reaching rooms you haven’t yet imagined. The Yorùbá say: Ohun tí a bá fi ẹnu ṣe, ẹnu ni yóò gba: whatever you speak with your mouth, your mouth will answer for. This April, speak accordingly.

Taurus Sun & Rising:

Taurus, April 2026 is asking you to go inward before you go anywhere else, because what you’re about to build next requires a foundation only stillness can reveal. The Aries stellium illuminates your solitude and spirituality zone, where Ògún (Mars), Obalúayé (Saturn), Olókun (Neptune) and Èṣù (Mercury) are all quietly stirring the depths. This is your month to tend to your Orí — to give thanks, clear your energy and let your inner compass recalibrate before the world starts pulling at you. Then on April 19th, the Sun enters Taurus and returns you to your body, your worth and your season.

Uranus enters Gemini on the 25th, beginning an 8-year reinvention of your money and self-worth zone. The force of Ṣàngó and Oyá entering this space means the old structures around how you earn and how you value yourself are no longer built to hold you — they’re built to be broken open. What feels like financial instability may actually be your liberation from an abundance ceiling your ancestors never agreed to. You cannot pour from a vessel that was never truly yours… This April, it’s time to claim a new one.

Gemini Sun & Rising:

Gemini, April 2026 is the month the sky makes its most important announcement directly to you… and it has been building to this for years. The Aries stellium first energizes your friendship and community zone, activating the networks and collaborations that are finally ready to move forward. Èṣù — Mercury, your ruling Orisha — is direct and sharp, helping the right words reach the right people at exactly the right moment. Let your community see what you’ve been quietly building.

But the real news arrives April 25th, when Uranus enters your sign for the next eight years. The archetypes of Ṣàngó and Oyá — the thunder and the wind that clears the path — are now moving through your very identity, your self-expression, the core of who you are in the world. Tower moments are coming, yes, but Gemini was born knowing that every ending is a twin birth. The Twi say: Obi nnim ɔberempon ahyeaseɛ: nobody knows the beginning of a great person. You are that person. This April, let yourself be remade.

Cancer Sun & Rising:

Cancer, April 2026 is calling you out of the depths and into the light… and what rises from Yemaya’s waters when the fire hits is not destruction — it’s power. The Aries stellium activates your career and public reputation zone, gathering Ògún (Mars), Obalúayé (Saturn), Olókun (Neptune) and Èṣù (Mercury) at the very top of your chart. Think of it like a volcano beneath the ocean: immense pressure building below the surface, and this month, it crests. A new level of professional visibility is available to you, but only if you stop waiting for permission to be seen. Taurus Season on the 19th helps you ground this momentum into something sustainable and real.

On the 25th, Uranus enters Gemini, sending Ṣàngó and Oyá’s electric current through your spirituality and solitude zone for the next eight years. Your inner life — your dreams, your ancestral connection, your relationship with your own intuition — is entering a radical rewiring. What you thought you knew about how Spirit speaks to you is about to expand beyond any framework you’ve previously held. The river does not fight the rock. It finds a new way through. April is the month you let your knowing evolve.

Leo Sun & Rising:

Leo, April 2026 is expanding your horizon, and your Orí, your divine head, is pointed toward a version of yourself you haven’t fully allowed yourself to believe in yet. The Aries stellium lights up your expansion zone, gathering fire in the part of your chart that governs travel, philosophy, higher learning and the beliefs that either set you free or keep you contained. The Sun — your ruling luminary — moves through Aries Season amplifying your natural radiance, and the invitation is clear: think bigger, reach further, shed any worldview that has been quietly asking you to shrink. Taurus Season on the 19th grounds the vision into something actionable.

Then Uranus enters Gemini on the 25th and begins an 8-year revolution in your friendship and community zone. Ṣàngó and Oyá are now moving through the part of your life that governs your network, your alliances and the collectives you call yours — and not all of them will survive the lightning unaltered. Some connections will deepen in surprising ways; others will reveal they were built on proximity rather than purpose. The Yorùbá teach: Wúrà tí yóò dán, á la iná kọjá: a piece of gold that wants to shine must pass through fire first. This April, let the lightning show you what you’re made of.

Virgo Sun & Rising:

Virgo, April 2026 is pulling back the curtain on something you’ve sensed but haven’t yet fully named, and Èṣù, your ruling Orisha, always reveals the truth at the crossroads. The Aries stellium activates your transformation and shared resources zone, bringing Ògún (Mars), Obalúayé (Saturn), Olókun (Neptune) and Mercury together in the part of your chart where power dynamics, emotional inheritance and deep entanglements live. A financial situation, a complex relationship or an old wound connected to trust is becoming impossible to ignore. Let clarity arrive without forcing resolution… Virgo’s discernment is sharpest when it isn’t rushed. Taurus Season on the 19th brings grounding and practical next steps.

Uranus shifts into Gemini on the 25th and electrifies your career and public reputation zone for the next eight years. The archetypes of Ṣàngó and Oyá are now in the space that governs how the world sees you professionally, and the path you thought was settled is about to get creatively disrupted. What looks like an unexpected detour is actually a redirect toward work that carries your real name on it. A knife does not know its own sharpness until it meets the work it was made for. This April, your edge is being revealed.

Libra Sun & Rising:

Libra, April 2026 begins with the Full Moon in your own sign, and the sky is holding a mirror directly to you, asking you to finally see yourself without softening what you find. This Full Moon in your identity zone is not about your relationships for once… it’s about you, alone, unfiltered: what you’ve been tolerating, what you’ve been performing, what version of yourself you’ve been shrinking into to keep a peace that was never truly mutual. Then Oshun — the OG Venus, your ruling Orisha — enters Taurus, moving into her most self-possessed, sensual and grounded expression. She’s not asking you to give more, she’s asking you to allow yourself to consistently receive.

Uranus enters Gemini on the 25th and begins an 8-year expansion of your philosophy and worldview zone, with Ṣàngó and Oyá’s force moving through the beliefs you’ve built your understanding of fairness, love and justice on. Some of those beliefs were inherited, not chosen — and the lightning is coming to show you the difference. The Akan teach: It is when you climb a good tree that others will push you higher. April is your season to stop waiting for permission and start climbing.

Scorpio Sun & Rising:

Scorpio, April 2026 is the month Ògún picks up his blade again, and after months of moving through fog, you’re finally ready to use yours. Mars, your co-ruling Orisha, shifts out of Pisces and into Aries this month, activating your health, work and daily rhythms zone alongside the full Aries stellium. The dreaming season is closing… The passive processing, the behind-the-scenes moving, the waiting — it’s over now. Your body wants direction, your work wants structure, and the clarity you’ve been circling is now available to act on. As Taurus Season grounds things on the 19th, channel this activation into daily practices that actually match your ambitions.

Then on the 25th, Uranus enters Gemini, sending Ṣàngó and Oyá’s electric current directly into your transformation and shared resources zone, and for Scorpio, this is sacred and familiar territory. Oyá has always been your archetype in the deepest sense: she governs the clearing that makes new life possible, the storm that comes before the bloom. With her force now amplified by Ṣàngó’s thunder for the next eight years, the reinvention happening in your intimate bonds, your finances and your deepest emotional contracts is seismic. The Yorùbá know: Oyá does not warn before she arrives. She only asks — afterward — what you were holding that you needed to release. April is the month where you already know.

Sagittarius Sun & Rising:

Sag, April 2026 is lighting your creative fire so brightly that even you can’t look away from what you’re capable of making. The Aries stellium floods your joy, creativity and romance zone with Ògún (Mars), Obalúayé (Saturn), Olókun (Neptune) and Èṣù (Mercury) all camping out there at the same time. This is your permission to create without a plan, to pursue what genuinely excites you, to let yourself be magnetic and uncontained. Then Taurus Season on the 19th arrives to help you shape what this fire has sparked into something the world can actually hold.

Uranus enters Gemini on the 25th and begins an 8-year revolution in your partnership and relationship zone. Ṣàngó and Oyá — Orishas of thunder and transformative wind — are now moving through your one-on-one connections: romantic, professional, creative. Some relationships will be supercharged; others will reveal they were built on versions of you that no longer exist. Gemini energy brings curiosity and communication to love, and what this era is asking of you is the willingness to rewrite the story mid-chapter with honesty, not just optimism. Two people walking toward the same fire will always find each other. This April, trust who stays warm and breathes life into your fire.

Capricorn Sun & Rising:

Capricorn, April 2026 is shaking the ground beneath your feet, and Obalúayé (the OG Saturn), your ruling Orisha, has never shaken anything that didn’t need to be tested first. The Aries stellium activates your home, roots and emotional foundations zone, where Saturn has already been doing quiet, rigorous work. This month, with Ògún (Mars), Olókun (Neptune), Èṣù (Mercury) and the Aries New Moon joining that conversation, what was underground comes to the surface. A living situation, a family dynamic or the emotional infrastructure your entire life rests on is asking to be seen honestly. As Taurus Season arrives on the 19th, you’ll find the grounded clarity to begin rebuilding on truth.

Then on the 25th Uranus enters Gemini and begins an 8-year rewiring of your health and daily rhythms zone. The force of Ṣàngó and Oyá moving through your routines, your body and your everyday structures means the systems you’ve relied on to stay productive are due for reinvention, not optimization. What your body needs in this next chapter looks different from what got you here. The ancestors teach: when the roots decay, everything above it follows — and when the roots are tended, everything above it flourishes. April is the month you go back to the root.

Aquarius Sun & Rising:

Aquarius, April 2026 is daring you to let the world see just how far ahead of your time you truly are… because the sky is clearing every obstacle between your mind and its audience. The Aries stellium activates your communication zone, where Ògún (Mars), Obalúayé (Saturn), Olókun (Neptune) and Èṣù (Mercury) are gathered, and with Mercury direct and sharp, your words are landing with unusual precision and power. Say the thing you’ve been sitting on, launch the project, and have the direct conversation. Then as Taurus Season grounds things on the 19th, turn your most visionary ideas into tangible plans.

But your real headline is Uranus — your co-ruling planet, represented by the force of the Orishas Ṣàngó and Oyá in the sky — entering Gemini on the 25th. This is personal for you in a way it isn’t for every sign. This 8-year shift electrifies your creativity, romance and self-expression zone, and what begins to emerge from you in this era: the art, the love, the radical acts of self-revelation, will carry a frequency the world hasn’t heard before. The Yorùbá say: Ọjọ ́ tí Ọlọ ́ run bá dá ni lórí, kò sí ẹni tí ó lè bà á jẹ ́ : when the divine ordains someone, no one can change it._ This April, what was always meant to be seen can no longer be contained.

Pisces Sun & Rising:

Pisces, April 2026 is the month Ògún steps out of your waters and into the fire, and he’s taking you with him. Mars, your co-ruling planet, moves out of your sign and into Aries this month, shifting from the dreaming depths of Pisces into the decisive fire of the Aries stellium, which activates your money and self-worth zone. The visions you’ve been holding quietly for months — the ones you’ve been afraid to price, afraid to claim, afraid to build in public — are ready for real-world action. Taurus Season begins on the 19th and deepens this grounding, helping you assign concrete value to what you’ve been treating as intangible.

Meanwhile, Uranus enters Gemini on the 25th and begins an 8-year reinvention of your home and emotional foundations zone. The archetypes of Ṣàngó and Oyá are now moving through your most private, ancestral space: the roots, the lineage, the place inside you that holds what was inherited and what is yours to transform. Where you live, who you call family and what you’re building your emotional life on is entering an era of unexpected and necessary change. Olókun, your ruling Orisha of the seas, has always known: What lies at the bottom of the ocean does not fear the storm above it. You were made for this depth, Pisces. April is the month you let yourself go there.

The first time I recognized love was in Alima African Hair Braiding.

It was there that I witnessed womanhood — but most importantly, mothers mothering each other.

The smell of Pink Lotion and Blue Magic.

The singing of blow dryers and flat irons.

The harmony of children running between chairs.

Mothers sharing stories.

Nollywood movies playing in the background.

Everyone eating a meal of their choosing. Women entrepreneurs stepping into the shop to pitch their businesses, pulling out notebooks to record who bought a dress, jewelry or a plate of food.

Mothers would come in with all the money they had budgeted for their children to be beautified.

Sometimes neglecting themselves. Sometimes bargaining for themselves.

And of course, one of the aunties would say, “Let me give you two braids. It’s okay.”

This piece is part of Our Mothers Are Many, our series exploring the expansive nature of motherhood — how we are nurtured by villages, mothered beyond biology…and how we mother ourselves and our communities in manners both visible and unseen.

Have a story to tell? We’re accepting pitches for this series. To be considered for publication Submit here.

The family would be bundled.

As she sat for those two braids, she would begin to explain herself. Why she couldn’t afford more. Why she came in late. How she was struggling to learn to do her children’s hair on her own.

They let each other in.

They wept together.

They laughed together.

The shop was where they unwrapped themselves and allowed themselves to be seen.

Unknowingly — or knowingly — these mothers were mothering each other.

Staci once came into the shop after dark and asked for braids so she could secure her wigs. But she demanded it be done in the bathroom. She didn’t want anyone to see that she was experiencing extreme hair loss — alopecia.

She cried.

One of the aunties agreed but told her gently, “Hold your head up. We all come here to look better. No one is here to judge.”

To share the moment, another aunt removed her own wig and showed Staci she was not alone.

After that, whenever Staci returned, she went straight to that aunt. They would have the shop to themselves — in their own universe.

The shop was where all the children belonged to all the mothers.

Where mothers and mothers-to-be became sisters.

Where little girls who once came in for cornrows with beads now return with their own children for knotless braids.

It was where a frustrated customer once asked to speak to the manager, and every aunt turned in unison and said, “We’re all the manager and owner of this establishment.”

The shop was girlhood.

Womanhood.

Sisterhood.

Love.

But most importantly —

Motherhood.

There’s a Twitter proverb that resonates so deeply I had to really sit with it and write about it.

“The strongest man you know is a first born daughter”

I am first. I am eldest. I am the only.

Thus, I must possess three times the strength of the strongest man.

I care. I care deeply. From a young age, I knew the care I desired would not be available to me in my childhood or adolescence. The tender, gentle nurturing I saw on television screens or in other families was not my reality.

I only ever wanted to be wanted. And the only way I knew how was to be of use.

Please use me. I am good enough to be used and still be enough.

In this, I became the sister that mothered.

I also simply wanted to help my mother. We’d just moved from Burkina Faso where relatives were always at arm’s length to now being in Brooklyn with no aunties, no cousins, just creating family by the friendships of our parents. Their friends became the aunties and uncles, and their children became the cousins. But by blood, it was just us.

This piece is part of Our Mothers Are Many, our series exploring the expansive nature of motherhood — how we are nurtured by villages, mothered beyond biology…and how we mother ourselves and our communities in manners both visible and unseen.

Have a story to tell? We’re accepting pitches for this series. To be considered for publication Submit here.

I always knew I was the quiet backbone of the family. My excellence in academia gave my parents praise. My silence which was often mislabeled as obedience became mirrored for my brothers. But they were still boys and they played rough. Oh how I wish I had the opportunity to play.

For me, it was always made clear that I am the example by which they will lead. I mastered being the perfect daughter—silent, excelling in school. I washed dishes, cleaned the house, helped with laundry, and picked my brothers up from school. I was inquisitive about their being. I became a therapist. I became the point person when they got in trouble because I was also the translator of the house. I even helped save money.

They learned freedom as recklessness.

I learned freedom as discipline.

My being a mothering-sister didn’t really bother me until I also wanted to be the child that I am but was not given permission to be that. I wanted to be able to get in trouble in school and simply get my ears pulled too. Or go to the park and play all afternoon after school but I either had to babysit or help braid hair in the family African hair braiding salon.

I can never take away anything from my mother as she did her damndest in unfamiliar territory without the help of family either. So, I definitely take pride in helping out in the best way I knew

possible. Being a mothering-sister and making sure I wasn’t one to be worried about. But the little girl in me, she still wishes she’d received softness. Gentleness. And that is why now, I require gentleness.

I have begun to mother myself. I realized recently that the care I always desired—and always gave to others—was care I had available to myself all along.

The ocean never goes thirsty.

It is in me. That is why I have always had the desire.

I have love and give love therefore, I am love and loved.

I require gentleness and I make it known.

I tell Mother Nature everyday, woman, I require gentleness.

I demand kindness of myself to myself and I mother myself for myself. I hold baby me dearly and all that I do now, with love, is for me.

Birth in the U.S. is shaped by institutions that hold enormous power over maternal care — a reality underscored again and again by recent headlines. With nearly 98% of U.S. births taking place in hospitals, most families will navigate labor, delivery and postpartum care inside systems governed by policy, protocol and liability.

Birthing While Black: A Hospital Guide is a print zine developed by Borne to help families enter hospital birth with clarity and agency. It offers language, context and grounding so mothers and families can move through birth with intention rather than default compliance.

The three pieces below are excerpts from the zine and focus on clarifying your birth vision, building your birth team and honoring rest in the “fourth trimester” as essential care.

These are not just reads for pregnant people. They’re for partners, friends, sisters and anyone who wants to show up better for the mothers and growing families in their lives. Share accordingly.

And if you’d like to be notified when the print zine becomes available, comment below.

Leave a comment

Borne

Know Yourself: Clarify Your Birth Vision

Birth is not just a physical feat. It’s emotionally, spiritually and mentally rigorous — and deeply personal. Being clear on your values helps you make confident choices that reflect who you are and what matters most…

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7 months ago · 1 like · 1 comment · Borne

Borne

How to Build Your Birth Team

No matter where you give birth — hospital, birth center or home — the people on your team will greatly impact your experience. Who you choose to surround yourself with can make all the difference in how seen, heard and supported you feel — before, during and after birth…

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4 months ago · 5 likes · Lindsey Farrar and Borne

Borne

Rest is Not a Luxury in the "Fourth Trimester"

Around the world, cultures from Nigeria to China honor the postpartum period — the time immediately after birth — with 30–40 days of rest, nourishment and hands-on support for new mothers. In the U.S., dominant culture prioritizes productivity and promotes “snapping back,” overlooking a critical window for healing and bonding. It’s no wonder that approx…

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7 months ago · 2 likes · 2 comments · Borne and Lindsey Farrar

We’ve been taught to assign titles: Mom, Dad, Sister, Brother, Uncle, Auntie… as if they inherently come with love, responsibility, protection and care. But titles don’t guarantee capacity, and they don’t always reflect the truth.

When we remove the title, we’re left with the person. Sometimes that’s the only way to actually see them clearly. Not for who we hoped they’d be or what the title implied they’d do, but for who they are — in action, presence and spirit.

What is a mother who doesn’t mother? A father who never shows up? A sibling who doesn’t know how to hold you? A community member who doesn’t care to see you whole?

Stripping away the title doesn’t mean dishonor, it means clarity. It allows us to name the gap between the role and the reality.

In that gap, we get to grieve, reassign meaning and release expectations that were never going to be met.

A lot of people created life but didn’t agree to nurture it. Showed up for the performance, but not the process. And it’s painful, but also freeing, to admit that.

What I’m learning is that soul bonds don’t always follow bloodlines.

Love isn’t guaranteed by proximity or shared history. It’s a practice. A presence. And a choice.

So now, I’m less concerned with titles, and more invested in alignment.

In mutual care & chosen soul family. Real relationships that nourish, not just name.

Because being called something doesn’t mean being that something.

And I no longer want to confuse the two.

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These times will make you forget who you are if you’re not careful.

We live in a world that tells us to keep going, keep producing, keep ignoring the whispers of our bodies — until those whispers turn into a scream.

Daughter, sister, mama, friend: we are cyclical beings, living on a cyclical planet. But we’ve been pulled out of rhythm.

The womb bears the cost of that. Heavy bleeding. Pain. Fibroids. Long cycles. Infertility. These aren’t just medical issues — they’re messages.

We’ve been conditioned to place our health in the hands of institutions and experts. To medicate or operate before exploring the root causes. To externalize what’s happening in our own bodies.

But what is the cost of ignoring that little voice, that gut feeling that says: “Something’s not right”?

A Call to Remember

This is a call to turn down the noise and tune into yourself.
To honor your womb as the compass she is.
To take an active role in your own healing, starting right here.

What to Expect

Each day in September, we’ll send you a simple practice:
15-20 minutes to reconnect, to listen, to pour into yourself.

• Some days you’ll learn.

• Some days you’ll move.

• Some days you’ll simply breathe.

The goal isn’t perfection. It’s presence.

Womb as Teacher

Your womb is more than an organ. She is a teacher, a keeper of memory and a guide into your own creative power.

As birth educator Latham Thomas so beautifully says:

“Your uterus is a sacred portal to the past, present and future. It’s the creative matrix from which all things manifest are born: our babies, our visions, our dreams.”

A Loving Reminder

This isn’t medical advice. It’s simply an offering — a chance to explore new practices, gather tools and find what feels supportive for you. Take what serves you. Leave what doesn’t. Come back whenever you need. Your womb will be here, waiting.

FAQs

Why womb wellness?
73% of our community told us they want more health and wellness content — and we believe that caring for the womb is one of the most holistic ways to care for the entire body. The womb is not just about reproduction. It’s connected to your hormones, digestion, nervous system and emotional health. When we tend to the womb, we tend to the whole self.

Can I participate if I’m in menopause/perimenopause, or have had a hysterectomy?
Yes, absolutely. Whether you’re cycling, post-menopause, or have experienced hysterectomy, these rituals are still for you. Your womb space — the energetic center of creativity, intuition and vitality — is always with you. Some practices may feel more relevant than others, and that’s okay. Take what supports you, leave what doesn’t. Every phase of life and every experience is welcome here.

Can young women/girls participate in this?
We believe young women should be encouraged to learn about their cycle as soon as it begins. Many practices and insights here could be useful. That said, this ritual was designed with adults in mind, so we suggest reviewing first and sharing only what feels appropriate. For example, there are mentions of sex in the context of conception. Use your judgment and share what fits.

Do I have to start on the first day of menstruation/period?
No. You can begin at any point in your cycle — or outside of it. Some find it powerful to align the first ritual with Day 1 of bleeding, but this is not required. What matters most is simply starting.

What if I fall behind?
There is no “behind.” This isn’t about perfection — it’s about presence. If you miss a day, just pick back up where you left off, or join back in with the group. Each practice is designed to stand alone and still offer value.

What if I feel resistance or discomfort with a practice?
That’s normal. Notice what comes up. Sometimes resistance is simply your body telling you to go slow, or that a particular practice isn’t for you right now. Trust yourself. Skip what doesn’t feel aligned and honor what does.

Do I need any special tools or supplies?
No. Most practices simply ask for your attention and a few quiet minutes of your day. A journal, a cozy blanket, a yoga mat or a favorite tea can enhance the experience, but nothing here requires expensive tools or complicated rituals. Start with what you have — your presence is the most powerful tool.

How much time do I need each day?
Most practices take 15–20 minutes. Some are even shorter. The goal isn’t to add another burden to your to-do list — it’s to create a consistent rhythm of care. If all you can manage is a few minutes, that still counts.

In chaotic times, rest is an act of self-preservation. Sleep is not just recovery — it’s resistance, fuel and protection for your mind, body and spirit. This question came straight from our Kinfolk, asking Auntie Eve — our resident doula and healing guide — how to reclaim better sleep when the world won’t stop buzzing.

Q: Auntie Eve, how can I naturally deal with sleep issues like insomnia or disrupted sleep? Are there any herbs, foods, drinks or bedtime routines you recommend?

—Foxee

A: Sis, if you’re out here tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling, or scrolling your phone at 3am, we gotta fix that — because sleep is sacred.

Herbs that will have you knocked out (in a good way!)
Nature already gave us the remedies.

• Chamomile – The OG sleepytime tea. Relaxes the nervous system and calms anxiety.

• Valerian root – POTENT. Knocks you out and keeps you asleep. Fair warning: it smells… earthy (like feet, lol).

• Passionflower – Perfect if your brain won’t shut up. Calms overthinking and racing thoughts.

• Lavender – Not just for candles. Sip it in tea, add essential oil to your pillow, or soak in a lavender bath before bed.

Foods for deeper sleep
What you eat before bed matters. If you’re in bed eating hot wings at 10pm, your body’s digesting, not resting.

• Tart cherry juice – Naturally high in melatonin; try a glass 30 mins before bed.

• Almonds or walnuts – Healthy fats + magnesium = relaxed muscles, better sleep.

• Warm golden milk (turmeric + milk of your choice) – Anti-inflammatory, calming and comforting.

Skip before bed: caffeine, sugar and alcohol. Yes, even that “just one glass” of wine messes with your sleep cycle.

Bedtime routines to shut your brain down
Stress and rest do not go together. Try these wind-down moves to reset before you rest your head.

• Put the phone down – No screens for 30–60 minutes before bed. I dare you to charge your phone in another room and get an alarm clock.

• Read something chill – Poetry, a feel-good book or a sacred text. Nothing too deep or stressful.

• Move & breathe – Do some gentle yoga, or deep breathing. Find a 7-day challenge on YouTube. I’ve done this with some sisters and it’s been life-changing frfr. Also, try the 6-7-8 method: inhale for 6 seconds, hold for 7, exhale for 8. Your nervous system will thank you.

• Legs up the wall - Lie on your back with your legs extended up a wall (hint: scoot your booty close to the wall while sitting then rotate your legs up as you lie down). Calms the nervous system, eases tension and signals to your body that it’s safe to rest. Pair with deep breathing. 👆🏾

• Speak your piece – Open that throat chakra. Pray, journal or express gratitude before bed. Keep a notebook handy to jot down anything that pops into your mind.

Honor your rest like it’s holy. You are not a machine — you are a divine being who deserves deep, healing rest. And if all else fails? Brew the tea, take your magnesium and stop scrolling in bed. You’re welcome.

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As Ghanaian-American writer Zeba Blay once said, there is a “rubric for Blackness, which is really about preserving whiteness. And yet, it’s a rubric that so many Black people subscribe to in some shape or form.” Our melanin, though reflective of a spectrum of color & culture, has been distilled into just two distinctions — light or dark — and we’re tired. We asked you to write letters about your lived experience with colorism while also affirming the experiences of your sisters.

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Between Two Shades

Dear Sis,
I grew up with you, but we had two different childhoods. I always felt envious of how your Blackness was never questioned, and you never had to respond to, “what are you mixed with?” Then, when we were nineteen, you confessed to feeling jealous of how I was always handed attention first, and how you only received whatever spilled over. I told you I hated it, too, and we cried because neither of us asked for the shit.

As the cousin whose melanin was somewhere in the middle — neither very light nor very dark — I always felt misplaced. When I was the lightest one in the room, I was taunted for my proximity to whiteness, the product of my great-great-grandparents’ interracial marriage. When I was the darkest in the room, I was ignored, relegated to a second-string beauty. Next to you, however, I was always lighter and therefore favored in ways both of us quietly despised.

When we would go shopping or to parties together, I was the one men came up to first, making me feel like an imposter. Someone taught boys that the less melanin a woman has, the less complicated she is, and that’s a lie that deeply wounds us all but hits you most visibly. I think when someone’s pain is discounted or silenced, they will beat their chest eventually, crying out to be heard even if their offenders aren’t in the room to hear it. So some of us compete, side-eye, ignore and put each other down when all the while, this wasn’t our hatred to carry.

Seeing Me

by Jennifer Julien Gaskin / @jennifertheauthor

Dear Sis,
I am a dark-skinned Black woman. I am asking you to see me. It’s been a lifelong journey to see the beauty in myself. There are certainly still days that I question my value in a world that continues to tell me I’m not good enough. My first memory of being told or shown I was different because of my complexion came around the age of five or six. Like many young girls, I had a crush on a boy. He was actually the son of a family friend. I knew him outside of school, but we started Kindergarten together and then went to a summer program. We seemed to be good friends. He laughed and played with me. He wanted to sit on the bus next to me. We even ate lunch together frequently. I really liked him. I figure, let me take the plunge. I wrote up a letter on a little piece of paper. Do you like me, yes or no? Do you want to be my boyfriend, yes or no? I handed it to him before we got on the school bus to go home. My heart was racing. I knew that by the time my dad picked me up from the bus stop, I’d be skipping off. But things didn’t work out as I thought. He explained to me that he liked me, but he couldn’t be my boyfriend because I was too dark. I was confused. Too dark? What does that mean? I got off the bus that day, not skipping. Sad and confused. My mom told me all the right things; “Black is beautiful.” “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.” “Be Black and proud.” All very easy for her to say as a lighter complexion Black woman with “good hair.”

The story of colorism and its trauma starts early in life for most of us. I knew from that point on that I was different. It has followed me everywhere and in every situation in my life. When I was older and started dating, there were guys that hid their relationships with me. There were guys who cheated on me with lighter-skinned women. Honestly, most of the times when men have cheated on me, it’s been with lighter-skinned or white women. It was almost as if they were doing me a favor by being with a woman dark like me.

Dark-skinned men didn’t seem to be attracted to me, even though I was attracted to them. They wanted to date light-skinned girls and have light-skinned babies. Dark-skinned girls were supposed to find light-skinned men and do the same. I wasn’t following the rules. My dad, who was a dark-skinned black man himself, told me that he was courting a woman who was dark-skinned before my mom. He said it wasn’t accepted. He loved her, but it wasn’t allowed. It’s a journey, but I won’t give up. I will continue to show up as me, authentically. I will continue to share my story in hopes that a little five-year-old girl with a crush may read it and know she’s good enough, too. To my lighter-complexioned sisters, I want you to hear my story. I want you to love me as you love yourselves. Our shared experiences are hard enough. We need to uplift and love each other before we can expect others to do it. Be an ally, not an opponent. We are the same. I am a dark-skinned woman. I am beautiful. I am worthy. Plus, I can wear any color in the spectrum against this beautiful chocolate skin.

I love you, Black woman!

My Call to Action

Dear Sis,
Some say that colorism only affects those at the darker end of the spectrum, and while I understand the logic, I have to (respectfully) disagree.

Long before my parents fell in love and made me “mixed” (“biracial” is some new shit), my ancestors were listed as “mulatto” on the Census; the product of rape and pillage. I’ve learned to name this epigenetic trauma so that my family can begin to heal from it. But this is no light-skinned sob story — this fact serves as my own personal call to action and accountability.

I know that you’ve faced the brunt of colorism daily, in far different and more urgent ways than I can fathom. AND I, too, have been psychologically traumatized by its effects — mostly because it has artificially separated me from you.

I fully acknowledge the effects of the white gaze. AND I don’t subscribe to the beauty standards it upholds. Your melanin, pure and undiluted, is divine. You’re more effortlessly beautiful than you know.

We all know some light-skinned people can be ignorant AF. AND l know we‘ve all been conditioned to value proximity to whiteness in ways that breed toxicity.

I fully acknowledge the so-called “privilege” that light-skinned people experience. AND yet, none of us are truly free.

I recognize that we’ve been systematically and strategically pitted against each other in ways none of us can fully fathom. AND you are my family, not my enemy.

You are my sister. My favorite aunties. My daughters. My foremothers. Your blood is my blood. Your pain is my pain. No matter your phenotypic expression, I will fight and build alongside you for as long as I have breath in my lungs.

I love you, Sis.

Fetishization is Not Love

Dear Sis,
Love isn’t measured in how high someone places you above another — especially when that “honor” comes at your sisters’ expense. This world has a way of slicing us into shades and pretending that’s the sum of our worth. That’s not love. That’s a cage dressed as a pedestal.

Real love doesn’t flatten you into a skin tone. It holds the fullness of who you are — mind, spirit, quirks, contradictions — and celebrates you among, not apart from, the women who share your lineage and your light. It grows richer when rooted in connection with your brown, dark-skinned, and deeply melanated sisters.

Your value was never in your lightness; it lives in the soul you carry. Demand a love that sees that. Accept nothing smaller.

Not at a Table Without You

by Nastasia Guthrie / @nastasiaguthrie

Dear Sis,
Our experience in this diaspora — in this world — will not divide me from you. “Palatable” is not a word I use often to describe myself, but it comes to mind when I think of how I have traversed this world in my thirty years of life as a Black woman of lighter complexion. For a long time, I assumed that colorism was a wide brush that washed over us all, and in ways, it is; however, it wasn't until I reflected on my own experience that I began to see that my access was few and far between. Being welcomed into spaces as the only Black woman would, to some, feel like an accomplishment, but I had to take into account why the door was even available for me to walk through.

In romantic relationships, I am the Black love that is acceptable for mass consumption. In the workplace, I am the marker of change and liberalism — roles that I do not wish to fill and am not in the least flattered by. Equipped with this knowledge, I have begun the never-ending work to stand alongside you as we continue the work of dismantling these imperialist ideals that have invaded and divided our community. A table without you is one I don’t wish to remain seated at.

We're bringing it online for the first time. If it resonates, support the work: buy the Beauty Bible and subscribe to our Substack. That's how we keep going.

Tracee Ellis Ross was the first Black woman I saw on-screen who reminded me of the women who raised me: curious, independent and blessed with whimsy. Both my mother and grandmother — two of the most self-assured women I know — could be found randomly breaking into a chorus of show tunes or contorting their faces to deliver a joke. They laughed loudly and left men who didn’t serve them; their beauty didn’t begin and end with their appearance. I remember stiffening at their audaciousness as a self-conscious preteen. Gritting my teeth to say, “Mawwwm stooooop,” as she mindlessly enjoyed herself standing in line at Macy's. I had no idea she was gifting me a blueprint I would need later.

I was fourteen years old when MTV debuted a new sketch comedy series called Lyricist Lounge Show. The show, which only lasted a season, featured a slew of musical guests such as Erykah Badu, Yasiin Bey (then Mos Def) and a fresh-faced, twenty-eight-year-old Tracee Ellis Ross. Back then, I had chosen drama as my high school major, and my inherited silliness felt misplaced among my friends. So, in the first episode, when Tracee played a woman who used beef jerky to scrub her feet in a mock commercial, I thought she was brilliant.

Someone informed the room that the woman on-screen was “Diana’s daughter,” forging my first understanding of duality. I didn’t know you could be the glamorous daughter of a Motown legend and be farcical and playful. A few months later, when UPN revealed their fall 2000 lineup, there she was again, cast alongside Persia White, Jill Marie Jones and Golden Brooks in a new show called Girlfriends — more on Joan Clayton later. That summer, I, like every other Black girl alive, began a decades-long friendship-in-our-heads with Tracee.

With twenty-eight years of film and television under her belt, plus a dozen awards, and a legendary bloodline, the most impressive thing about Tracee is how human she is. It’s this notion of her approachability that settles my pre-interview jitters before Tracee joins our Zoom call. When she appears, smiling and backlit by her notorious indigo wall, I suddenly feel like I’m catching up with a friend.

In 2017, she was named Glamour’s Woman of the Year, and her acceptance speech exemplified the line Tracee walks between immense poise and larky relatability. Forty-five-year-old Tracee stood on the stage for five minutes, expressing how proud she was of her accomplishments despite society’s limited views on what success looks like for women. Tracee victoriously proclaimed that her life was her own. It was the kind of speech only she could deliver, graciously reminding the world that she won a historical Golden Globe but also noting, without missing a beat, she was missing an earring because it messed with the mic, and she “didn’t want to lose the look.”

As we chat, Tracee describes her acclaimed “my life is mine” speech as a benchmark she checks in with on occasion and, most recently, on her fiftieth birthday, which passed weeks before our chat. “The most fun part of turning fifty is realizing that I have actually gotten comfortable in my skin,” says Tracee. “I actually do have an unbreakable, unshakeable foundation for my life. I do know who I am. I intuitively know how to handle situations that used to baffle me. I can be comfortable even when I'm uncomfortable.”

Tracee says self-awareness is something she discovered, like many of us, when she stopped relaxing her hair. “I was out of the home and didn't have my mom to touch up my hair or even take me to the salon on Saturday.” In the eighth grade, Tracee attended school in Switzerland and found herself separated from the caring hands of her mother, who, until that point, was her closest hair ally. “All I knew how to do was just keep blow-drying my hair. So that was a really pivotal moment in terms of the realization that I didn't know how to care for my hair.” Tracee says when she returned home in the tenth grade, she never went back to relaxers, and so began the long, tedious process of transition. “I started to gain a relationship with my hair as it authentically grew out of my head and its texture, and learned what worked and what didn't work.”

It’s an infinitely personal matter, a Black woman’s hair story — which is never just about hair — and Tracee’s is no exception. “I could probably chronicle my journey of self-acceptance through my journey with my hair,” she asserts. Tracee’s early years became the building blocks that not only defined her as a person but inspired beloved projects, including the launch of her haircare company, Pattern Beauty. Unlike the scads of flash-in-the-pan, celebrity-endorsed beauty products, Pattern’s conception didn’t happen overnight. “I wrote my first haircare brand pitch when I first left Girlfriends, so I was trying to get the company off the ground from 2008 to 2019,” remembers Tracee, who says she was simply creating something she couldn’t find anywhere else.

The objective of Pattern Beauty, according to Tracee, is twofold: to meet the needs of the natural hair community and to celebrate Black beauty by making high-quality products that don’t beat textured hair into submission. “There were no products out there that actually matched the needs of my hair, that were designed to not only nourish and hydrate my hair but also [were made] so that I could wear it in its natural texture.” During the conception of Pattern, Tracee insisted on starting from scratch. “I had no interest in slapping my name on the formulas that existed, so I went through about seventy-five samples to get to the first four SKUs, and then we pushed our launch because I couldn't get the leave-in conditioner where I wanted it to be.”

“I've been a shopper my whole life,” she continues, “I feel the most compelled to shop when I feel good, not when I feel bad. I wanted a company that was designed and marketed to the customer as a form of celebration and joy, and meeting you where you are.”

I can attest that the care and intention put into Pattern are mirrored in the brand’s offerings. The first time I bought the twenty-nine-ounce container of the Heavy Conditioner, I felt years of trauma melt away. Instead of praying in the shower for more than “a dime size” of product made and packaged for white women, I could unabashedly pop the top off and scoop out a handful worthy of my strands. Only a woman who has been othered by a bottle of conditioner can identify usability as a central consumer need.

This is what Black women do. Self-reliance is a consistent theme among Black founders in the beauty industry. But Tracee wants the industries vying to serve us to wake up and pay attention. “I was the person who pushed for McKinsey to do the report on Black beauty,” she recalls, referring to the 2022 quarterly report, Black Representation in the Beauty Industry. “There's just not enough information, and we shop differently. We have a different hair cycle for washing. We're not listened to.” Tracee goes on to say that she thinks about how young people interpret the narratives around Black hair, especially those who are teased and bullied because of it. “They don’t see the beauty in their authentic beauty, the power of their texture and the way it tethers them to their stunning history; both the good and the bad of that history.”

Tracee’s desire to shift beauty narratives is echoed in her six-part docuseries Hair Tales, streaming on Hulu. Ross, along with Michaela angela Davis and Oprah Winfrey, executive produced and curated a series of conversations about the intersectionality and historical context of hair and Black women. She notes, “It dovetails perfectly into my life’s mission to join the chorus of people that are helping to make our world a safer and more just place so that we can all be free to be ourselves.”

Black women are often removed from the mainstream hair conversation, and the consensus is that our version of beauty is not quite right. “Often our story as Black women and Black people, in general, is decontextualized in this country,” remarks Ross, “but specifically as Black women, we are siloed off, and our narrative doesn't string together with everybody else's. We really wanted, to the best of our ability, to put together a beautiful collection of stories and use hair as an organizing principle, to share our humanity.”

Removed though we are from market research and product development, we find kinship through our shared experiences. “We almost all have a scissor story,” says Tracee on takeaways from Hair Tales, “So many of the same experiences in our culture resulted in shame for us. I don't know that we've had an opportunity on a grand scale to have that kind of connection. I feel there's never a beautiful story about our lives. So often, our story is told through struggle, hardship and difficulty, and that’s a part of the experience of being a Black woman in this country and in this world. But it’s not the only thing.” The series includes a historical dive into our relationship with hair, such as the way white-defined respectability threatened our livelihoods and still does today.

These dangerous stigmas are ones that Tracee herself inadvertently tackled by appearing on television as a Black professional woman with unaltered natural hair. When I ask Tracee what similarities existed between herself and Joan Clayton, she exclaims, “All of it!” and erupts into laughter.

Tracee admits to being incredibly organized and tactful like Joan and very much a solution-focused person. But there are two glaring differences, and one of them is Joan’s maniacal affinity for the holidays. “I'm a nut for connectedness and being with my friends and family, but I don't decorate, I don't make pfeffernusse. I'm not that person.” The other difference is Joan’s obsession with her relationship status. “The biggest epiphany for me,” says Tracee, “ is that I spent eight years playing a character whose dialogue was all based on being chosen by a man.”

It’s a relief to hear her say this. There is something so specific about growing up as a millennial when Black girls were not yet considered magic, and no one called our hair a crown. Characters like Joan Clayton confirmed a standard at the time, the wife-shaped box we were all encouraged to chase. “That was [Joan’s] underlying goal and mission in every arc of her life,” acknowledges Tracee, “I have spent the last ten years publicly changing the narrative and saying that as a woman, I’m also the chooser. It's been very important to me to frame it with Girlfriends so that there's no confusion and people don't unconsciously take on Joan and think that is the roadmap to womanhood.”

Many of us are deconstructing our ‘90s miseducation, including old lessons about self-love, work, identity and particularly marriage and parenthood that were taught before time pulled back the curtain. “You can have a fulfilling and beautiful life and choose — even if it's not something that you intended — to say I don't want to get married or don't want to have children,” says Tracee. “These are all very valid choices to have a fulfilling and robust and beautiful life that’s worthy.”

On the flip side, as women become less compliant with the patriarchy and more invested in personal growth, there’s been a collective yawn around dating in general. But Tracee, who defiantly proclaimed she would only enter a relationship that enriched her already full life, doesn’t think dating is a waste of time. “It’s just as much about meeting another person as meeting yourself,” she insists, “It's discovering what's important to you, what you care about, how you feel when you walk away from somebody and learning how to do that for yourself.” In her opinion, the most important requirement is to have fun and see it for what it is: human interaction. “You get to get dressed up; you get to go somewhere and basically practice being yourself in proximity with another person.”

Instead of discussing her ideal partner, I ask Tracee who she imagines as her ideal costar, specifically in a romantic comedy. Tracee’s face warms, and her eyes get big and curious. “If we, like, pick an actor? Wouldn’t that be fun? It wouldn’t be Idris Elba,” she reasons (sorry, Idris). “Would it be Jonathan Majors in ten years?” I suggest we toss age right out the window and focus on vibes. “Ooooh,” Tracee hums, “He was in Bullet Train . . . Brian Tyree Henry.” Collective agreement ensues; it just makes sense. Tracee’s opposite would have to be someone who is comfortable in their own skin, full of character and humor and effortlessly loveable. “I think we should pose it to the public,” says Tracee in a just-kidding-but-totally-serious tone.

Another strong parallel between Tracee and Joan is the intention of having friends who feel like family. Although Ross admits that much of the drama we watched Joan, Maya, Lynn and Toni go through on the show was for entertainment, the “thick and thin” part was as real as it gets. Tracee credits her real-life, tight-knit inner circle for helping her understand relationships and for her own personal growth. “I think I’ve learned how to show up through my siblings and my chosen family of friends,” says Tracee, who once relied on her older sister Rhonda to proofread her emails. “I can now do it on my own, but Rhonda used to be my copy editor. I've learned how to be a better person through them,” she continues, “How to be a friend, how to be a sister, how to have uncomfortable conversations. I have learned that it’s safe for me to share my vulnerability, my fear, discomfort and grief. That I’m not alone.”

When it comes to her family, Tracee undoubtedly has an incredible beauty source from which to draw. She grew up watching her mother prepare for the stage, and Diana famously did her own glam throughout her career. “No one's ever done her hair and makeup,” says Tracee, a look of reflection spreading across her face, “It's still one of my favorite things now to do for myself.”

“When I have hair and makeup done for me, and I get dressed for an event, it's fun-ish. What’s fun for me is when I transform myself. I'm transported back to what I witnessed with my mother, which is what originally helped to define beauty as a tool for agency, a tool for you to transform yourself into superhero versions of you, or a corporate version of you, or a business version of you. It's a tool, and it's an inner experience for you that you get to hold and use as you please.”

Now, at fifty, Tracee says she’s happy to still very much be herself, and possibly even more herself than she’s ever been. She has managed to arrive at this stage uncluttered by the mess of voices that tell women their beauty is determined by their proximity to youth. “I want to look like I swallowed the sun,” she says excitedly, “My mom looks like she swallowed the sun. I want to look like I'm filled with myself.” Tracee inspires us to rebuke the trite definition of beauty that stops short of seeing the entirety of a person, including the contents of their soul, the part that grows deeper and more complex with time. When beauty is defined by one’s connection to and relationship with themselves, it doesn’t require us to miraculously age backward. “I look at images of me in my twenties and thirties, and the way I remember it is different than the way it looks. My memory tells me it was tighter, prettier, younger and thinner. I look back, and I do see a tighter, thinner, younger person, but I don't see as much of me.” Tracee continues, “I look at myself now, and I see me. I see what I feel like on the inside, on the outside.”

This thing that Tracee has found through time — a deep inner acceptance — is why she’s the inspiration behind our beauty issue. Because pretty is what you wear, but beauty is what you know. “I believe that beauty is actually an internal force as opposed to a physical thing,” Tracee declares when I ask about her general philosophy. “My wish and my hope for everyone is that we start to redefine beauty for ourselves more and the language of that.”

Tracee, evolved and in her juiciest era yet, has become her own blueprint and her own source of truth. Her parting words, now scribbled inside my journal, echo the lessons my mother unintentionally taught: “Laugh as much as you can and care for your physical self as a way to put love into action.

“I did a workshop for many years with young girls, and one of the exercises we [did was] introducing [ourselves].” Eye contact, Tracee explains, was often a point of contention for the students. Some even broke into tears from the intensity. “When you soften the gaze you allow it to be a connecting space. It's not from a place of looking to discover what I like or don't like, but just to be present with myself,” she explains. “And then on days I don't feel great I put on some fucking lipstick. A lip will change everything.”

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The CRWNMAG Beauty Bible isn’t just a magazine — it’s a collectible artifact of our beauty, wisdom, and wellness. Featuring Tracee Ellis Ross and a chorus of voices reimagining what it means to care for ourselves, deeply.

“You didn’t fail.”

I’ll never forget the chubby brunette nurse’s words as she attempted to empathize with me — a brand new, first-time mother — who, against all plans and desires and will, just had my body cut open to remove my first born baby boy. After 50+ hours of labor and my first-ever surgery, this attempt of reassurance by a woman I’d met a day prior (and who’d asked absolutely nothing about me, my history or my current emotional state) felt disingenuous — condescending, even. She’d been here before — regurgitating the same shallow, tone-deaf script she’d used on dozens of mothers before.

Except I knew better.

I did everything I was told would protect me — hired midwives, made a plan, educated myself. But I still didn’t know my rights. And I didn’t yet trust my body.

I fell prey to a culture of fear that treats all birth as a medical emergency.

One intervention led to another. After literal days of labor, I ended up with a C-section I didn’t want, followed by an early postpartum experience shrouded in coercion and trauma — the very thing that made me want a home birth to begin with.

I share this not because I love talking about it (or myself, for that matter) but because you’ve likely heard a version of this story before.

That was almost six years ago. And even then, as they wheeled me out of the hospital holding my beautiful newborn son, I knew: this will not be how the story ends.

Since Then…

I’ve gone on to experience two glorious home births (with a birth team that’s now my family). I’ve trained as a doula. I’ve served mothers, pre-conception through postpartum. I’ve studied, unpacked my first birth experience and had tough conversations with other birth workers. And here’s what I know now:

I could blame my midwives. The OB. The well-meaning nurse who couldn’t actually see me. I could blame myself. But the truth is — all of us were operating inside a system, and a culture, that sets us up to fail.

Because the system isn’t broken — it’s functioning exactly as intended:

Prioritizing profit over people.
Treating birth like a liability.
Erasing culture, intuition and care in the name of clinical efficiency.

The results?

• Black women are 3-4x more likely to die due to childbirth-related causes — and rising.

• More than 32% of US births are by c-section — over double the World Health Organization’s recommendation.

• Black women are 25% more likely to birth by c-section — often unnecessarily, and against families’ wishes.

• The US is the only high-income country that doesn’t offer federally mandated maternity leave.

This is unacceptable.

Too many of us are silently enduring the unthinkable, during what could be the most profound moments of our lives — and then we’re pressured to “snap back” and get back to work. If we’re lucky.

Families are left to navigate trauma. Birth workers are left burnt out and unsupported. Children are born into survival mode — not freedom.

I created Borne to change that.

To raise the standard of care by raising our expectations — of the system, yes, but also of what’s available to us.

We offer tools, language and guidance to help families trust their bodies, advocate for themselves, and build a village that sees them — before and after birth.

And we’re here for the birth workers, too — to lighten the load, lift up their work and connect the dots.

Because we remember what they’ve tried to make us forget: birth belongs to us.

WE BELIEVE IN:

Family-Centered Care: Maternal care begins with the needs of the mother, baby and family — not the institution.
Whole-Person Care: Every individual deserves care that reflects their values, culture and full humanity.
Informed Consent: Everyone navigating reproductive care deserves full transparency and real options.
Physiological Birth: Birth is a powerful, natural process — medical care should be accessible, but not the default.
Innate Wisdom: The body knows. Our communities hold wisdom. We honor both.
Generational Healing: When we restore the rites around birth, we begin to heal what came before — and what’s to come.
Redefining Safety: Disrupting the idea that the safest birth is the most medicalized one.

WE REFUSE TO ACCEPT:

Normalized Trauma: Just because it’s common doesn’t mean it’s okay.
Survival as Success: “Healthy baby, healthy mom,” isn’t the whole story.
Profit Over People: Care should be led by values — not billing codes.
Uniformity & Elitism: There is no “right way” — only your way, supported.
Burnout as a Badge: Birth workers deserve support — not self-sacrifice.
Power Struggles: Hierarchy has no place in healing.

We’re raising the standard of care for expecting mothers and families — by raising our expectations.

Because let’s face it: the system isn’t going to make itself less profitable.

Real change will only happen from the ground up — when families are informed, birth workers are supported and communities come together to demand something better.

This isn’t just about awareness — it’s about action. Unlearning & reprogramming. Dedication. Strategy. Nuance. Humility. Sacrifice. And whole lotta love.

This is my calling.

To learn to heal myself and my family, and to support others who are ready to do the same.

Borne by CRWNMAG is here to lighten the load, to connect the dots and to build the tools to improve birth outcomes.

This burden can’t continue to rest solely on the shoulders of vulnerable, expecting mothers and overworked, misunderstood birth workers. We must work together to co-create the care we so desperately need.

So consider this an invitation.

Let’s move beyond survival mode, into a reality where family-centered care is the default standard of care.

Whether you’re expecting for the first time, planning to conceive; considering a home birth, unmedicated birth or VBAC — or if you’re a partner, auntie or grandparent ready to step up for the loved ones who need your support….

Join us in raising the standard. For ourselves. For each other. For generations to come.

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When I was carrying my first child, I couldn't find a doula that felt like "my person." I went through pregnancy feeling like there was sooo much I didn't know, that I'd never even considered, and — in addition to the various physical and emotional adjustments involved in growing a baby — it was all quite overwhelming.

By my second and third pregnancies, I had my doula, Eve, by my side; supporting me through two glorious home births. Now a student midwife, Eve carries the spirit of the “Granny Midwives” before her, sharing the knowledge our communities once passed down freely. Knowledge I’m so excited to share with our Kinfolk!

That’s why we created Ask Auntie Eve — to help democratize this wisdom about our sacred bodies. In this series, she’ll answer your most burning questions, because information like this should always be accessible. And nurturing our bodies is always the move, whether we're planning to have a baby or not.

This week, we’re talking iron & energy — because running on empty? We not doing that!

Lindsey: Iron and hemoglobin levels can be a struggle for many Black women, especially in pregnancy. That was definitely the story of my first pregnancy! My midwives at the time had me taking what felt like a million pills, but my levels weren’t improving. After much frustration, [my husband] Nkrumah suggested I focus on food and absorption instead — and that changed everything. I really want to spare other mamas (and women in general) the heartache, so I’m so thankful to you for walking us through this.

Lindsey: In your work as a doula, how have you seen low iron impact clients, during pregnancy and beyond?

Auntie Eve: Low iron doesn’t just show up in a lab result — it shows up in how you feel. I’ve worked with so many Black women who are dragging through life, thinking it’s just normal exhaustion, when in reality, their iron is in the gutter.

Low iron will have you out here like a phone on 1%, barely holding on, shutting down at the worst moments, needing to be plugged in just to function. And for pregnant mamas? That 1% is growing a whole human. You cannot build life when your own blood is struggling to keep up.

Mamas are out here chewing ice like it’s their second job. Because yeah, that’s a sign. Listen, I know low iron because I lived it. I thought exhaustion was just part of life. Push through! Keep going! Meanwhile, I was chewing crushed ice like it was my love language. Then I got pregnant and started planning my VBAC/HBAC (Home/Vaginal Birth after Cesarean) and my midwife hit me with the real: You can’t birth at home if your iron is low.

I went all in: iron pills, liquid supplements, dark leafy greens, beets, blackstrap molasses, herbs. And the wildest part? The moment my iron came up, I put the cup [of ice] down. My body had been screaming for what it needed.

As a doula, I see it all the time. I can see when someone’s iron is low before they even get their labs back. And when the results come in? They’re like, How did you know, Auntie? Because, baby — you’re Black.

Low iron can mean dizziness, shortness of breath and extreme fatigue — even before labor begins. When a mother goes into labor with low iron, she’s at higher risk of hemorrhage, it slooowwwsss down labor and can cause deep exhaustion. That makes it harder to PUSH. It’s like trying to run a marathon with no water.

Postpartum, low iron can make healing slower and contribute to postpartum depression. Our bodies need iron to carry oxygen to our tissues, and if we aren’t getting enough, we’re running on fumes…physically and energetically.

It’s not just about fixing a number on a test; it’s about getting Black women to feel fully in their bodies, strong and nourished.

When we do fix it? It’s like turning the lights back on. And that’s real power.

Lindsey: Okay, let’s back up a moment, and talk about the function of iron, which you just touched on. Also, in laymen’s terms, what are hemoglobin and hematocrit — besides scary ass words when introduced on a lab report saying you’re “deficient”!

Auntie Eve: Iron is the thing that helps your blood carry oxygen. So when your iron is low, your body is out here gasping for air like an old school preacher in the middle of a sermon.

Hemoglobin is the iron-rich protein in the blood that carries oxygen. Picture it like a bunch of little delivery trucks carrying oxygen to every part of your blood. If your hemoglobin is low that means you don’t have enough trucks on the road, and your blood is starving for air. That makes you feel cold, weak and like you could take a nap any time.

Hematocrit is the percentage of your blood that’s made up of red blood cells. If it’s low that means you don’t have enough red blood cells in circulation.

Lindsey: For someone navigating low iron, who are the key people they should have on their team, and what kinds of questions should they be asking?

Auntie Eve: First, get a provider who listens to you. Not one who just tosses you iron pills like Halloween candy. Nope, we not doing that. We do not accept bare minimum. Find someone who actually gives a damn. Work together to figure out why your iron is low: gut issues? Stress? Fibroids? Heavy periods?

We need answers:

• What type of iron should I be taking?

  • Not all iron is the same! Some will jack you up, causing constipation; some absorb better with vitamin C.

• How often should I be re-tested?

  • Because iron takes time to build, we need to track progress.

• Am I getting enough B12 and folate?

  • These work with iron to build healthy blood.

• Do you have heavy periods? Could they be contributing to this? Do you have fibroids? (That’s a whole ‘nother discussion). But if you’re losing too much blood every month, no amount of spinach is going to save you.

• How can I naturally boost my iron with food?

  • Hint: eat your greens with vitamin C, and don’t drink coffee or tea with your meals. Pick up the water, Sis.

And don’t stop there. Get a doula (hi, I’m right here!) or a nutritionist who understands Black women’s bodies. Western medicine loves to act like we’re all the same, but our risks? Higher. Our solutions? Gotta be customized.

Lindsey: Many of us (or our providers) are quick to reach for supplements, but what are some of the bigger-picture factors to consider when trying to improve iron levels?

Auntie Eve: Listen. If your body isn’t absorbing iron properly, you’re just making expensive pee. I’m pro-supplements, but I’m even more pro- getting what you need from food first. Why? Because food comes with the cofactors that your body actually needs to use the iron. Here are some things to do and foods to try:

• Gut Health: your body absorbs iron in the intestines, so if you have gut issues you might not be absorbing what you need. Bone broth and fermented foods can help.

• FOOD OVER PILLS: (when possible), but if you do take supplements, get one that won’t constipate you. Like Floradix or an herbal iron blend.

• Iron-rich foods: Liver (yes, I know, but stay with me), beef, lamb, chicken thighs, sardines, dark leafy greens (kale, collards, spinach), beets, nuts & seeds, lentils, chickpeas, black beans, quinoa.

• Extras that pack a punch: Blackstrap molasses (a spoonful a day in your oatmeal would be nice), pumpkin seeds, sea moss, dried apricots.

• Pair it right: Iron loves vitamin C (bell peppers, oranges, strawberries). It hates calcium and caffeine. Yes, you can have coffee — just don’t drink it with your iron rich meals. Drink water first, THEN have ya coffee.

• Herbs for Iron: Nettles, dandelion root, yellow dock, burdock root (perfect in teas or tinctures)

Lindsey: Stress and nourishment go hand in hand. How do you guide clients in staying mindful of their body’s needs, especially when life gets hectic?

Auntie Eve: Sis, stress eats minerals like Pac-Man. If you’re constantly running on fumes, anxious, and barely holding on, that’s not strength — that’s deficiency. Your body can’t build healthy blood when it’s sleep-deprived and burnt out. I said what I said.

• But first Coffee?? Nope. Start your day with real food, not just caffeine. Having a nutrient-rich breakfast first, like eggs, greens and a bit of fruit, can make a huge difference.

• CHEW your food. Rushing through your meals means you’re not absorbing what you eat. I know, I know, life be lifein’. But digestion starts in the mouth. You gotta give your body a chance to actually use the nutrients

• Breathe. Stretch. Rest. Repeat. Stress burns through your minerals like a wildfire (I’ve tried to give you several analogies for stress, have you noticed?) Rushing through your meals means AGAIN you are not absorbing what you eat. Are we seeing a trend here?

• Smoothies with spinach + orange juice. Soups with bone broth, snacks like pumpkin seeds. Keep iron-rich food options on deck.

• Treat yourself like someone you love. Would you let a baby skip meals, eat junk or go all day without rest? Would you let Granny go without getting a good meal? Treat yourself with the same care. I don’t care what “they” say, rest is non-negotiable. Sleep is when your body rebuilds. Honor your rest.

At the end of the day, low iron isn’t just about food and supplements. It’s about how we live. Stress, exhaustion, burnout, all of it depletes us. And if we don't stop and replenish? We’ll keep running on empty. Rest and food are not luxuries, they are our birthright.

Lindsey: What’s one piece of wisdom you wish more people knew about energy, iron, and overall well-being?

Auntie Eve: You deserve to feel good. Period. Feeling tired all the time is not your destiny. Your energy is sacred. Low iron isn’t just a “condition” — it’s a message from your body! A reminder to rest, to eat foods that build you up, to check in with your stress levels, and to honor what your body needs.

Black women: we have generations of wisdom in our blood. Our grandmothers, and great grandmothers knew the power of greens, herbs, rest and healing foods. We don’t have to just survive. Not in pregnancy, not in postpartum, not at all. We CAN thrive. It’s about knowing when to replenish yourself, knowing when to say no, knowing when to slow down and let your body heal. We are not meant to be tired all the time. We are not meant to just survive. And I need more of us to believe that. So, if you're reading this, take this as your sign: start feeding your body like you love yourself. Because you DO deserve that.

Just dropping in to share a gem from the village. After a recent, powerful conversation with one of our folks, we felt moved to pass along this excerpt from Latham Thomas' piece in our very first issue, The Manifesto. May it land exactly where it’s needed.

With love, always. ♥️
—CRWNMAG

Your uterus is a sacred portal to the past, present and future. It’s the creative matrix from which all things manifest are born: our babies, our visions, our dreams...

The Womb and Dreams Unrealized

I want you to consider for a moment that your womb is wise. [I've mentioned] that it conceives and holds our dreams…but what if our dreams never become manifest? What if we put our dreams and goals, our deepest desires, on hold — where do they go?

What if this practice of putting the needs of others first — instead of mothering ourselves first — forces us to leave the seeds of our dreams dormant, without nurturing, in our wombs?

I see fibroids as dreams unrealized, bundles of magic in suspended animation — left un-birthed and anchored in the womb.

The body will hold on to what we do not give it permission to release. What are you holding onto that you need to give rise to? What is preventing you from bringing your dreams into reality?

We must clear the womb: make space for that dream or desire to be born, or make peace with it, and release it. Sometimes, the pure acknowledgement that we have left something abandoned is an entry point to helping the body heal.

Read the full piece on pg. 40 of The Manifesto