Doing It Scared Anyway: A Women’s History Month Tribute to My Mom
As Women’s History Month comes to a close, I find myself reflecting not only on the trailblazers and boundary-breakers we’ve celebrated throughout March, but also on the woman who taught me what courage really looks like—my mom.
You see, history isn’t always made in grand speeches or historic votes. Sometimes, history is made in quiet living rooms and early morning bus rides. It’s made in the whispered prayers of single mothers trying to stretch paychecks. It’s made in kitchens turned into homework help centers and bedrooms turned into makeshift home offices. And it’s made by women like my mom—who, despite all the fear, fatigue, and obstacles—chose to do it scared anyway.
This phrase, “do it scared anyway,” has become a sort of personal mantra for me. It’s something I repeat to myself when I’m stepping onto stages I never imagined I’d speak on, or walking into boardrooms still learning to own the power of my voice. But before it became my mantra, it was her lived truth. My mom didn’t call it that. She just called it surviving. Thriving wasn’t a luxury she could afford to envision—yet somehow, she built the foundation for me to dream beyond survival.
FEAR NEVER STOPPED HER
Growing up, I saw my mom face challenges that would’ve knocked most people down for good. From the South Side of Chicago, she navigated systems that weren’t designed for someone with her background. She had a limited formal education, but that never limited her wisdom, her hustle, or her heart. What she may not have learned in a classroom, she lived out in real time—with resilience, instinct, and an unwavering drive to give me a better future.
She raised me knowing she wanted something different for me. Something more. And she worked tirelessly to show me that a different path was possible. Her dedication and commitment were the throughline of my childhood—present in every early morning, every late shift, every decision she made to put me first. And sometimes that even meant taking me with her to work when she didn’t have another choice. I grew up knowing exactly what hard work looked like because I saw it up close—no filter, no buffer, just the raw reality of what it means to show up and keep going, no matter what.
There were times we didn’t have enough, but we always had direction. What my mom did have was a quiet conviction. She believed, somehow, that better was within reach—not for herself, necessarily, but for me. And so she did what women across time have done: she pushed forward. Even when fear showed up. Even when the odds said she couldn’t. Even when her hands shook and her knees buckled. She did it scared.
LEGACY IN ACTION
This Women's History Month, I’ve been thinking about what legacy really means. We often think of legacy as something left behind, something static. But the truth is, legacy is alive. It breathes through every barrier we break, every hand we extend, every table we build for others to sit at. And my mom’s legacy lives in me.
Every time I speak up in a room where I was taught to be quiet, that’s her voice echoing in my confidence. Every time I pour into someone else’s potential, that’s her nurturing spirit living through my actions. Every time I decide that being afraid isn’t a good enough reason to back down, that’s her resilience leading me forward.
She may not have had the spotlight. But her light? It’s been illuminating my path since day one.
BECOMING A MOTHER MYSELF
Since I’ve taken on the role of becoming a mother, I’ve come to understand her sacrifices in a whole new way. There’s a certain kind of clarity that only comes with parenthood. The late nights. The early mornings. The constant hum of responsibility that never truly quiets. It’s love, yes—but it’s also labor. It’s an emotional, physical, and spiritual investment in someone else’s future.
Now, when I reflect on how she showed up for me—with limited resources but unlimited love—I understand the weight she carried. I understand what it means to give even when you're empty. To stretch your patience, your time, your dollars, and still find the strength to smile, to hope, to believe.
Being a mom has softened me and strengthened me all at once. It’s made me more grateful. More grounded. And more determined than ever to carry my mother’s legacy forward—not just by honoring her, but by modeling the same kind of intentional love, sacrifice, and bravery for my own child.
She was building a legacy long before she realized it. And now, I’m doing the same.
DOING IT SCARED ANYWAY: FOR ALL OF US
The thing about fear is that it never really goes away. Not entirely. We learn to move with it. Around it. Through it. And if we’re lucky, we learn to dance with it—awkwardly at first, then more freely, more fiercely.
That’s what I want to leave you with as we close out Women’s History Month: a reminder that courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s choosing to act in spite of it.
So to every woman who’s questioning whether she’s enough—whether she’s ready, whether she’s too loud or too quiet, too much or not enough—this is for you. You don’t have to wait until you’re fearless to begin. You just have to begin.
Start the business. Speak up in the meeting. Go back to school. Run for office. Leave the situation. Stay and fight. Tell your story. Ask for help. Set the boundary. Say yes. Say no.
Do it scared.
You’re not alone in that trembling. You are not the first to feel the weight of doubt. But you can be the first in your family to rise in a new way, to break cycles, to build bridges. You don’t have to be fearless to be powerful. You just have to be willing.
MY MOM’S STORY IS HISTORY
As I close this chapter on Women’s History Month, I’m reminded that our mothers, our aunties, our grandmothers—the women who raised us, who poured into us with weary hands and hopeful hearts—they are part of history too.
They may never be featured in textbooks or documentaries. But they are the reason we are here. They are the shoulders we stand on. They are the blueprint. The backbone. The reason we believe that better is possible.
So today, I honor my mom.
I honor her laughter—warm and contagious.
I honor her strength—quiet, enduring, and deeply rooted.
I honor her sacrifices—the ones I saw and the ones I didn’t.
I honor her love—fierce, faithful, and unconditional.
I honor her fear—and the fact that she moved forward anyway.
A CALL TO ACTION
As we move into April, I invite you to carry this energy forward. Women’s History Month isn’t confined to March—it’s a lens we can carry all year long. It’s a mindset. A movement. A recognition that the world is better when women rise, lead, heal, build, and yes—when we do it scared anyway.
Here are three ways you can continue honoring this month beyond its final day:
Share your story. Your voice matters. Your lived experience matters. Whether it’s through a blog post, a voice note, a social media caption, or a conversation with a friend—tell your truth. You never know who needs it.
Lift another woman up. Whether she’s your colleague, your daughter, your friend, or someone you’ve never met—affirm her. Recommend her. Mentor her. Support her business. Write her name in rooms she’s not yet in.
Honor your roots. Take a moment to thank the women who made your journey possible. Reach out to them. Tell them what they mean to you. Carry their legacy forward in the way you live, lead, and love.
FINAL WORDS: TO MY MOM
Mom, if you’re reading this—thank you. Thank you for being the first example of grace under pressure. Thank you for choosing love, even when life didn’t make it easy. Thank you for staying up late, waking up early, and showing up always. Thank you for doing it scared.
Now that I’m a mother myself, I see you with new eyes. I feel you in every decision I make, every bedtime story I read, every moment I question whether I’m doing enough. And in those moments, I think of you. I think of how you made a way. How you did it scared. And how you never stopped believing in me—even when I didn’t yet believe in myself.
Everything I am is rooted in you. You gave me wings before I even knew I could fly. And because of you, I know that fear doesn’t have to be final. It can be the beginning.
I love you. I honor you. And I carry your legacy forward—bravely, boldly, even when I’m scared.
Because if you could do it scared, so can I.
And so can we all.
