Witness Statement

taking the meat, leaving the bones

Starr Davis — Fri, 03 Jul 2026 15:01:34 GMT

My daughter has lost her front teeth, and the gap that is now there is where we both live. I have stepped into the unknowns of the life-after-a-custody-battle, and each day is foreign and new. There is a part of me that looks around at my home, a modest home, a start for me and my children, and all our things seem as if they too have been dragged through a yearslong war. The couch with a permanent marker signature across a cream cushion, the dog’s scent now so deep, so trapped it is animal, that we have all ignored it for so long. It feels wild, the ways I have lived, although neat with hints of Pine-Sol and boiled rosemary lemons, wild as in I have been ignoring the baseboards, the ceiling, I have ignored my own teeth, the dentist, I lost one contact lens and only wear glasses that are always fogged and smeared with the baby’s fingerprints, or me, and my own sweat and oils.

When my daughter comes to me toothless, her smile a little wider, she asks me if the Tooth Fairy is coming to bring her money, and her issue, as always, is whether she can keep her tooth. She insists on knowing why the fairy must have the teeth. She cradles her tooth in her hand, much like me and a good book, much like me and her on any given day, because I can see the little girl budding in her eyes, I can see her transformation, and I am watching as she balances her innocence in her eyes, in her mouth, as her tongue explores what isn’t there and feels what is coming next. I tell her that I agree, it isn’t a fair exchange. Her teeth are priceless jewels, anatomy, a part of her that can’t be duplicated. She is only listening and smiling, only wondering if the fairy is even real, and it is a year, a season, a time where the veil is being torn away from all of us, and everything we thought is challenged by miracle. I thought I would be fighting in a courtroom for all eighteen years. I thought my heart would grow sick. I thought so many times my heart would grow sick and tired, but it’s like new life, watching a new tooth grow in, magic, and I remember that beginning again is all we can ever do, and I am looking in my wallet in the middle of the night for a dollar to sit next to my daughter’s tooth, that I won’t take from her.

Thanks for reading Witness Statement! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Before you go, leave me a note below. I’d love to know: What have you carried with you into your next season? What have you chosen to keep? I read every comment, and I genuinely love hearing your stories.

And if this is your first time reading my work, welcome. My debut poetry collection, AFFIDAVIT, is now available, and I think it speaks to many of the same questions this essay asks—about motherhood, memory, faith, the body, and surviving long enough to imagine another life. I’d be honored if you read it next.

https://afterviolenceproject.org/crime-is-a-mother/

Crime is a Mother

Starr Davis — Tue, 19 May 2026 19:54:48 GMT

i used to hate this mugshot. but i don’t know. now i think it’s just a photo like all my others. A real one in a real moment in time.

yeah im a little tired. scared. swollen with grief and postpartum survival. but still looking directly at the camera. still, there. and still here.

there was a time i thought this image marked the end of my life. maybe not so much an end but now i understand it as part of the beginning of a new kind of archive. part of the testimony. part of the woman i had to become to write my way back to myself.

i wanted to share my newest essay. i wrote “Crime Is a Mother” with the After Violence Project during a period of my life where i was trying to understand motherhood, criminalization, memory, and what it means to survive publicly as a woman.

this essay hurt to write. it asked me to return to places i once wanted to disappear from. but i’m grateful now for spaces that allow us to sit with our histories slowly and honestly.

“crime follows women home. it sleeps beside us. it mothers us too.”

if this piece resonates with you, i hope you’ll spend some time with it, share it, or send it to someone thinking deeply about motherhood, justice, survival, archives, or what happens to women after harm.

with love,
starr

What It Cost Me

Starr Davis — Tue, 14 Apr 2026 11:05:43 GMT

Last month, I won custody of my daughter. After five years in court, the judge heard me, saw me, and reversed the order. I am now the sole parent.

A judge told me, “You can return to Ohio, Ms. Davis.” I smiled, small and tight. What is home now, after all this?

I left Texas because my daughter’s father was abusive. I took her with me to Ohio, believing I could begin again somewhere safer, somewhere we could breathe. After I left, he ran to court, filed first. By the time I understood what he had done, the court had already begun to side with him. They called my leaving a violation. I was arrested in Ohio for having my own child with me. And I learned then that home is not where you go, it is where the law allows you to stay. So I came back to Texas. And I stayed.

In 2022, I lost my rights to my daughter. She was two. I became a weekend mother. The court took her from me, and then her father did. For thirteen months, he refused me access to my own child. In 2024, she was abused by her father and returned to my care, but even then, it took months to be heard, months of trying to serve him, being turned away, reset, dismissed. In May 2025, after I had begun to rebuild her life into something safe, something steady, he came to my home and took her again. She was found on the southwest side of Houston, abandoned at a gas station. I remember thinking, how is this allowed. But it was. The courts allowed it. The law allowed it.

While she was gone, I built something anyway. I fell in love. I had a son. I made a home in a place I did not choose. I adopted a dog who had never met my daughter, but when she came back, he watched her like he had been waiting for her, like he knew she was his to protect. This is the home she returned to. Not the one I came from. The one I made.

When I called my mother to tell her I had won, I expected something like relief, something like pride. Instead, she blamed me for the kidnapping, and then she said, “She isn’t safe with you.” I felt the heat rise between my ears. I was not in my home, I was not her daughter, I was back in a courtroom. Some women do this work quietly, through silence, through gossip, through doubt, they question you until you question yourself. My sisters followed. Friends followed.

I had not realized my crisis had made people uncomfortable. And some people were already uncomfortable. Being in court means a lot of life is uncertain and on edge. And I have lived at the edges of life, and built my little home on its hill.

Five years ago, I did not think I could lose. I could not imagine a court taking my child from me. And when it happened, something in me left, not in a poetic way; I lost my foundation. I realized the people I come from are not diplomatic. There was no code for a custody crisis, just stress, just hurt and worry.

Everything I knew about who I was stopped mattering the moment I became a mother and then lost her. Those months are not behind me. I circle them still vulture-like, looking for the pieces of myself.

and here’s the real truth:

No one from my immediate family came when I was on fire. Not to the court hearings, not to the hospital waiting rooms, not to the lawyer meetings, not to the days where everything could change or nothing would. Just my partner these past three years has shown me this kind of peculiar, unconditional love. I learned how to stand in those rooms alone. I learned how to speak when no one stood beside me. Even this last time, when the judge told me I could go home, I stood there by myself, and I knew.

Home is not something I long to return to. It is something I’ve already built.

Thank you for reading. Some of you already know this story, and I’m grateful you’re still here with me.

Paid subscriptions directly support me right now, helping with debt, court costs, and the work it takes to keep writing. Thank you for being part of that.

If you’ve ever had to rebuild your life in a place you didn’t choose, I’d love to hear what home means to you now.

Wintering in Texas

Starr Davis — Tue, 27 Jan 2026 12:02:46 GMT

Photo by Jonathan Randolph

It is still January, and I keep noticing that, like, it means something. I haven’t fasted yet. But I have prayed every day and eat only one meal a day, so it seems I might be fasting but in reverse.

I feel stuck in the hell of this month and its promises. Old things still haven’t loosened their grip on me yet. I am still waiting for breakthroughs.

I saw a moose on Instagram. A drone capture. The moose stood in the snow and shook its antlers until they came loose, heavy falling from its body. It was raw. Something about the violence of it, I don’t know, that release I felt in myself. It made me start crying immediately. It felt spiritual. Like a callout. My man comforted me, saying, “That moose is about to level up, its new antlers will be better, bigger.” Yes, I thought. Okay. It’s time.

I have been quiet in Texas. Sad in ways that don’t announce themselves. I have been mothering myself deep into myself. Nestling. Nurturing my son, who is now walking, now catching the wind, now gone from my arms for longer stretches of time. He has robbed me of his warmth in the way children do when they grow. I am proud of him. But I feel so cold, too.

This month is layered with grief. First, I lost a friend to cancer on January 12, the day that would have been my grandmother’s birthday, who I also lost to cancer. Dates stacked on top of each other. Loss remembering itself.

No one around me really knows how layered my sadness gets. It is so layered, my life, that I can barely revise my own memoir to meet its deadline. Everyone keeps asking about it. Anticipating it. Waiting. But revising is not editing. Revising is realigning. It asks you to touch the wound again, just softly. That kind of work hurts. That kind of work takes time. What I am supposed to deliver may be delayed. Saying that out loud feels like news, even though it feels like the truth in my body.

My year has started with me being back at odds with my mother. In the heat of things, she likes to remind me that I only have one mother. That it is only her. As if without her, I would be nothing. As if I am not already a mother of two. As if my life does not extend outward now, and I have not extended back. Motherhood is not my death. Neither is winter; Both are my constant rewakenings, and both require me to know when to hibernate, hold myself, and when to restore and return.

The real “winter” weather came to Houston this weekend, halfway answering my five-year-old’s long wish for snow. Freezing rain is all. Ice on the ground. Innocence and bliss. I was happy to see it outside my window. There hasn’t been snow yet, and my bones tell me there won’t be. Still, I can taste a vicious, vegetative spring coming. The veins are already spreading. New life does not wait for permission.

I see my new self signaling to me everywhere. In my daughter’s small, determined cry to ride her bike without training wheels. I stand there with her in the cold, watching her wobble forward. Afraid. Brave. Letting go. I am standing there too.

If you’re new here, welcome! My name is Starr. I write here through motherhood, grief, and survival, without rushing myself into clarity. Thank you to my paid readers for supporting the time this kind of work requires, and to everyone who reads along for being here, for staying, and for meeting this writing where it is.

Is there something you keep noticing this month that feels like it means something, even if you don’t know why yet?

It is Not 2016. I Will Not Resurrect Her.

Starr Davis — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 15:08:56 GMT

I am currently stuck in the Januaries. I am watching the world respond to this trend, this idea that 2026 is the new 2016, as if that year was bliss. And it is freezing in Houston, because the cold touches us all this time of year, when so much of the goal is to change, to be new. And yet. And now… there is a nostalgic spell in the air. People are reaching backward, trying to resurrect their 2016 selves and those moments and moods, hoping to manifest that version of happiness into this year, not quite sure if it was ever real or if it was just the last time they did not yet know what was coming.

I know better than to reach. I know how to bend at the will of the coldest month of the year and just… stand still. The 2016 version of me is long dead, and I will not resurrect her. This week I have to finish edits to my book, maybe take my daughter to a strawberry farm, we need to buy a baby gate for my now walking 10-month-old son, oh, and write, mother, maybe sneak away to a movie with my man, and find time to inhale the possibilities of what this year might still hold, because parenthood, or maybe the swing of it, is always forward thinking. Tomorrow and next week and next month are already happening. They are already in effect. I can see the childcare invoices before they arrive, the past dues, the messages that start with hey just checking in to see when we can expect. This is my life. And maybe because my life is one of reform, maybe because I had to practice the art of never looking back one too many times. I understand the death of nostalgia. The risk of lingering in it too long. The slow thrill of it. The quiet kill of any new selves. My past is not romance. My past is creatively recorded. Digitally Archived. Even against my will, the internet showed me my 2016-self just this morning. And I wanted to click her, touch her. The girl I was in the picture but I did her one better. I kept moving. Yeah, maybe against my own will there is a soft trail of memory and musing online somewhere, threads of who I almost was, almost an MFA, almost a writer, almost important, almost not-so-invisible, and even realizing that journey, the spiraling and scrolling to find myself there, feels like too much legwork now. If I ran, it was because I had to. If I stayed, it was because I did not know yet. Either way, I know now that standing still is wiser than chasing myself backward. Here is where I am. Here is where I will be.

Thanks for reading Witness Statement! This post is public so feel free to share it.

If you feel yourself reaching for who you were in 2016, ask what you are actually longing for. The person, or the permission you never had back then.

It is 2026 and I Have Court Again

Starr Davis — Mon, 12 Jan 2026 12:03:39 GMT

It’s January, and I am thinking about goals and all my dreams and the texts from my lawyer regarding court this week. And it’s all there. The evidence and all the paperwork of paid notarizations. All my blood is there, clean, plainly for the judge to see what all has happened, what’s all been happening, since she granted my ex primary custody in 2022.

Three years of Januaries. Three years of a court making all my daughter’s parental decisions. Three years of being called and often referred to as her noncustodial parent. And every January, I have prayed the same prayer for recompense. And maybe, it’s finally here, and the anxiety I feel in my body is just routine, maybe, maybe.

This week, I have court again regarding my daughter’s snatching in May 2025, when her father took her and refused to return her, setting off months of legal filings, police reports, and a slow, grinding attempt to get the system to respond to what a mother already knows in her body. At the same time, I am in the thicket of editing my memoir, I Am Mostly Bad Blood, forthcoming with Autumn House (https://www.autumnhouse.org/winner-of-the-2025-autumn-house-nonfiction-prize/). The question looming over all of this is about the gaps of my case. The whys. The hows. And the infamous questions. Did you ever love him? Was there ever happiness? What did you ever see? Why didn’t the court believe you?

Everyone wants answers: the lawyer, the editors, and maybe you, too. But this week, I don’t have answers; I just have court. And maybe that’s where the answers are.

This week, like most weeks, is about my survival, my daughter’s safety, and my family’s stabilization. And I am holding my breath still, even though my ex is in jail. It is not about him. No. It is about a system that has given me a judge, and a judge who has taken my rights. There is a western in the making in my blood. I want to see a court rule in my favor. I am dreading this, and I am exhausted. But that’s every mother, fighting silently or fighting outright.

I lost a friend last week to cancer. Another mother. Someone I cannot stop thinking about. She donated many times to my family to help with legal costs to get my daughter back. All the while, she was dying. I held that last week. And this week, I have to make more room for the grief. Maybe that is what this year might be about. Not living in the fear of anticipation, but being in the habit of making room for grief. Knowing grief is certain and massive. Knowing it too well. Which isn’t to say joy isn’t in full bloom, waiting to vindicate us. I might need to make room for joy, too, maybe?

How do you make room for grief and still let joy find you?

2025: A Motherhood War Story

Starr Davis — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 15:24:32 GMT

Last year nearly killed me, and some of you might not know that.

Last summer, my daughter was kidnapped, snatched right from under me at sunset, yes by her father, my baby dad, and at the beginning of the year I had vowed to find myself, but all I found was more milk, more honey, more responsibility, more motherhood.

Friends learned quickly that I had nothing else to talk about, and then the world learned it too, that I had nothing else yet to write about, and all I had was mothering and motherhood, and this vow is for my soul, not for anyone else, and I do not apologize for it, because last year being these kids’ mama was all I could afford to be.

I knew something was wrong when I worked on Martin Luther King Day, and the very next day I waddled into a courtroom still fighting for rights to my first baby girl, unable to get her father served, unable to sit upright, my son seven months of bread in my belly, and when the judge reset the date I waddled back home, smiled on Zoom for work, picked my daughter up from school, and drove us toward my first poetry reading in three years, only to get the call on the way that my man had lost his grandfather. Right before Valentine’s Day we paid for a funeral and a bassinet, and even though my man does not do funerals, he went, and I do not think we really did February at all. Time collapsed, I made cards for my daughter’s class, I felt my son kick inside me, and somewhere else, my daughter learned to write her name while I was busy forgetting mine.

My son came in the middle of the night, and I looked into my man’s eyes while I pushed that last time and there God was again, and there love was again, and he was early, not close enough to St. Patrick’s Day like I hoped, and my daughter held my eyes in that room and she became something that day too, and we all did, because after that I was no longer an I, I was a we.

When the rain came in April we carried the plants back outside, and my maternity leave was unpaid so I was unemployed with a newborn, waiting for income to come calling, forced into softness and reliance and the sweetness of quiet mornings, the house hushed, the wonder of new motherhood blooming, double love, double affection, my daughter helping with the baby, and I understood that what I had was a family and who I was was its mother, and I think I fell in love again, maybe too deeply.

Because evil is always close, my daughter disappeared after Mother’s Day on our way home, and the police reminded me of paperwork, and her kidnapper was her father, and her father was never served while I was pregnant with my new world, and my old world came slithering back, and the sun fell, and so did we.

By June I smiled on Zoom for interviews, we paid a lawyer, my son slept on his belly now, and I disappeared inside his heartbeat because my own were gone. July was hot, and on my birthday I wore orange because my daughter loves oranges, and oranges are so sweet in July, and I had not had one since she had been gone, and that was all I could think about even though love was seeping down the walls of my house, love in my baby boy, love in my man, love in my eyes whenever I woke to the world God left me, and I held them and I held my grief and I found my pen…

August came with my man’s lion heart birthday and I bought a strawberry cake, and grief became a game, and the humidity was harmful, and someone told me I won a book prize and it startled me awake from depression, and someone reminded me that I did not just have one child, I now had two, and I shook with postpartum blueness and sorrow, and something pulled me out of my prayer closet, my calling, reminding me I was more than what I carried.

After Labor Day I shared the weight of my daughter’s absence with the rest of the world, and I wrote my way through it, and I worked, and I mothered, and I cried, and I fed everyone, and my man lost his best friend, and I think I lost one of mine, and I said no to being a bridesmaid, no to a trip home, no to are you okay, no to breakfast, no to my baby boy grabbing my glasses.

October was a lie because it is never fall in Houston, and nothing changed, not the clothes, not the prayers, not the worry, not the desperate look in the mirror, and I smiled on Zoom, and I cleaned my daughter’s room, and we put her brother in there, and we cried a little more, and we slipped a little more.

By November, my mornings belonged only to God, and I became mean to some and changed to most, not a good daughter or sister or friend, just thankful for what was left of me, and Thanksgiving was just us on our knees, no turkey just chicken, no food stamps just the freezer, just enough, still enough to believe.

And then my sweet daughter returned, like the God we knew she was, and we were grateful and depleted and whole, and in court one last time maybe, and justice hovered, and my daughter asked me where I was and she asked me why, and there was no snow but it was the coldest day of the year, the day she came home, and on Christmas we waited for Santa without a tree and we still prayed and we were still thankful and we were together, and I cooked and cleaned her room and her brother was in there and she was in there and we were all here, we, we, we.

So in 2026 this is my vow, not to mother you to death with this war story, not to make survival my only language, because I have mothered my way through 2025 and that was the work and the cost, and now I hope the story reroutes itself as I learn how to have my daughter back, how to hold this thin slice of justice without choking on it, how to find myself in the rubble…

Thanks for reading Witness Statement! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Witness Statement is a reader-supported publication. This space honors my ongoing fight for justice for my daughter, the holiness of Black motherhood, and the truth that survival is not the end of the story. If this moved you, stay with me. And tell me, what vows are you making for 2026, and how are you returning?

No Presents, Just Presence

Starr Davis — Tue, 23 Dec 2025 15:09:02 GMT

I don’t have presents for my kids this year. And that feels like a relief.

After everything this year has held, my son’s birth in March, my toddler daughter being taken from me in May, the daily mental fight to remain patient, prayerful, steady, hopeful enough to believe regulation would return to my world, I had to ask myself a quieter question than usual. What can my spirit actually afford to give right now?

The answer came back soft and simple. My present self, fully available. The gift of just myself.

That sentence carries more weight than I expected. It keeps brushing up against old memories. My mom used to say that the lights being on were a gift. The rent is paid. Food in the fridge. Survival dressed up as a celebration. Back then, it sounded like a joke. Now I understand how serious she was.

We sometimes measure ourselves by holiday cheer, how much money we save or don’t save, how happy we can make my babies with how much we can put under a tree. This has been tradition and yet, not always. I went many Christmases presentless. My mother coming into our rooms to say, “Maybe next year.” And sometimes there was disappointment, but most of the time, I would not care. I knew my mother was struggling, even when I was my daughter’s age. I was aware of how impossible my mother’s job was each day. And I would find myself yearning less for presents, and more for a breakthrough.

We don’t have much right now. Just enough. Just love. What we do have is going toward a lawyer, toward keeping our footing after a year that rearranged everything. Trauma has a way of turning time into rubble. Rebuilding is rarely festive. It is paperwork. It is court dates. It is learning how to regulate your nervous system while still nursing a baby, still mothering, still showing up.

I am trying to steady my life, not decorate it.

This season insists that love should look like wrapped boxes and visible proof of provision. But what I am offering my children is continuity. Safety. The lights are on.

For those of you who are new here, a brief truth about me. I am a domestic violence survivor. I am also a mother surviving state violence. My daughter was taken from me by an abusive partner, and I carry the familiar weight so many women know, the weight of being labeled a baby mama, of mothering without protection, of having motherhood turned into a battlefield. I live with the knowledge that loving a child outside of safety changes you. And still, I am here.

I am learning that this was never meant to make me small. Only precise. Only honest about what love actually costs.

Maybe this is the gift this year. Honesty. It may be too abstract for my five-year-old and my nine-month-old to understand right now. But it will live in their bones. When life asks them hard questions, when love costs something, they will remember that hard times can hold soft moments.

Maybe that is the antidote.

Thanks for reading Witness Statement! This post is public so feel free to share it.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for witnessing.

MY DAUGHTER IS HOME

Starr Davis — Tue, 09 Dec 2025 14:16:43 GMT

MY DAUGHTER IS HOME. ANOTHER BATTLE WON. THIS IS HOW WE FOUND HER. SHE IS NOW SAFE AND SECURED, BUT SHE IS SHAKEN. TWO DAYS BEFORE HER FIFTH BIRTHDAY, WE RUSHED TO THE HOSPITAL TO RECOVER HER, AND WHEN SHE FIRST SAW ME, SHE GAVE ME ONLY HALF OF HER EYES. IT HAS BEEN 6 MONTHS TOO LONG. AND “MOMMY, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” IS WHAT SHE ASKED ME. THE POLICE FOUND HER. SHE HAD BEEN ABANDONED BY HER FATHER, LEFT IN THE COLD NIGHT ON THE EDGE OF THANKSGIVING DAY WEARING ONLY SANDALS AND SHORTS. WHEN I TOOK THIS PHOTO, IT WAS 6 AM. SHE HAD NOT BEEN ASLEEP. SHE HAD JUST FINISHED TELLING ME SHE WAS HUNGRY. AND I KNOW MOTHERHOOD IS AND WILL ALWAYS BE NOTHING BUT FIELD NOTES, EVIDENCE OF HOW WE TRIED TO PROTECT THEM WHILE THE WORLD LOOKED AWAY. I STILL DO NOT HAVE THE LANGUAGE TO DECODE THE TRUTH OF ALL THIS. I AM SO GRATEFUL SHE IS ALIVE AND WITH ME, BUT THE GRATITUDE SITS BESIDE A DEEP AND RIGHTFUL ANGER. BACK HOME, I HELD HER, BUT SHE WAS MORE COMFORTABLE HOLDING HERSELF UNDER THE WEIGHT OF HER PINK FUZZY BLANKET. SHE WANTED TO WASH HERSELF IN THE SUDSY BATH AND INSISTED I STAY NEAR THE DOOR, CLOSE ENOUGH TO PROVE I WAS STILL THERE. I WILL SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE PROVING TO HER THAT I ALWAYS COME FOR HER. I AM WEARY OF SYSTEMS THAT PROMISE PROTECTION WHILE CHILDREN PAY THE COST OF EVERY FAILURE. I HELD HER UNTIL SHE SLEPT AWAY HER REALLY BAD DREAM, THE ONE WHERE SHE AND I WERE ONLY IN HER DREAM, AND NOW WE HAVE TO KEEP BLINKING TO BELIEVE IT IS REAL. IT IS REAL.

HEALING COSTS MONEY. IT REQUIRES THERAPY. LEGAL PROTECTION. TIME TO BREATHE. A MOTHER WHO CAN STAND HER GROUND WITHOUT FEAR OF LOSING IT ALL. I AM STILL CATCHING MY BREATH. AND IF YOU FEEL MOVED TO STAND WITH US, TO HELP US STEADY OURSELVES WHILE WE REBUILD, THEN YOU ARE HELPING MAKE SURE SHE NEVER HAS TO BE FOUND AGAIN, AND YOU CAN SUPPORT US DIRECTLY AT PAYPAL.ME/STARRNESHADAVIS OR VIA CASHAPP AT $STARRDAVISPOET

EVERY OFFERING COUNTS, EVERY PRAYER COUNTS, EVERY WITNESS COUNTS.

WILL YOU SAY A PRAYER OF THANKS WITH ME, FOR RETURN, RESTORATION, FOR REAL TIME MIRACLES. FOR HEAVELYNN.

WITNESS STATEMENT: MY DAUGHTER’S DOLL

Starr Davis — Sat, 15 Nov 2025 17:44:43 GMT

I’ve been avoiding my daughter’s room for 6 months. Not because I don’t love her, but because I do—so much that the silence in there makes my chest ache. It’s been long enough that the dust has settled like a second layer of skin across her dresser, her toys, her books. But I remember the morning she left for preschool, how she tucked in her doll before grabbing her backpack. And it’s the doll I can’t face.

She pulled the blanket high, patted it down, like she knew the doll would need comfort while she was away. I never moved it. I couldn’t. The doll became something more in her absence: her mirror, her echo, her proxy. The doll perched in her baby doll bed watched as I washed the last of my daughter’s clothing. Skirts and t-shirts, I am sure she has outgrown by now — and yet I fold them, I hang the dresses marked 4T. When she is likely 5T. I come across her Halloween costume from last year. I laugh, remembering how she insisted on being a vampiress, not for the dress or the gothic dark clothes, but for the teeth. She wanted to show her fangs. She is fierce like that. Wild like that. Full of shadow and sparkle. A storm of a child, stubborn in the ways that made me proud and tired at the same time. But she always came back—out of time-out, always ready to say “I’m sorry, Mommy” in a voice so deceptive and sweet, and fold herself into my lap like she was still small. Small like her newborn brother. And I rocked her a few times after his birth, because I wanted her to know she is still small. Still mine. Still everything.

And so today, I go back into her room to dust. To reclaim a corner of its space for my son’s crib. I move the doll’s bed, her looking eyes wondering if she will still be my daughter’s baby when she comes home, will she notice her or the curly-haired live-child now nestled in the corner crib, will she notice her there where she left her still tucked so tight. And I might just understand a doll— a dead beautiful thing, because in that moment I sat her up. I kissed her.

Even if the world has made me wait, this room still belongs to my daughter. And the doll, still tucked in, waiting, already knows she’s coming home.

If you’ve read this far, thank you for holding this small, tender moment with me. I’m learning that memory is a living thing — and sometimes it feels like it’s carrying me, and sometimes it feels like I’m carrying it. I don’t always know which is which.

I’d love to hear from you: What object, story, or sound has helped you remember who you are in a hard season?

Or, if you’re in the thick of it like I am, what are you trying to remember or forget so you can keep breathing?

Your words don’t have to be perfect. Just honest. We’re building this archive of survival together — one witness statement at a time.

WITNESS STATEMENT: The Truth About My Custody Case

Starr Davis — Fri, 17 Oct 2025 11:38:33 GMT

In America, nearly 80% of custody cases are awarded to mothers. The remaining 20% belong to the exceptions, the outliers, the mothers who lost. Mothers who were not believed. Mothers who were punished for leaving. I am that twenty percent.

Truth is, I am in limbo. America is in limbo. The courts are in limbo. Everything that claims to protect us is stalled between law and mercy, between record and truth.

My case is simple. I left the state of Texas when my daughter was two months old. Before I could build residency elsewhere, I was served custody papers from my ex. He wanted full custody. He wanted child support. I had never been inside a courtroom. Never had to defend my identity as a mother—something I had just become.

II.

I was ordered back to Texas to live in the same city as the father. Poverty was a factor. Fear was a factor. Trauma was a factor. I had little police evidence of abuse. A little baby. A little self-esteem. These are all things the family court system does not have language for yet. What becomes of mothers in protection mode? Survival mode? There are no policies for us.

III.

My inability to relocate properly was perceived as a violation of the court order. I lost custody when my daughter was two years old. My ex got what he wanted. Since I was unable to wrap my mind around the language of state versus mother versus father versus violence versus the “best interest of the child.” I was detained, and my child was taken back to Texas under court order. And so, “the gift of love is the gift of suffering.”

When she turned three, we were reunited. My ex was arrested a year ago. My daughter returned to me and has been living well, rejoining herself almost back to my body. She was taken by her father under the existing order — an act that, to me, still feels like kidnapping. She has not been returned home since. I am reminded once more what’s in the paperwork: my noncustodial status.

She is four now. Beautiful. Bright. And somewhere in deep bloom.

VI.

The truth is, my case is the paradox in a broken system. It is a systematic mistake. A legal illusion. My motherhood is measured in compliance, in paperwork, not presence. This is what happens when survival becomes evidence against you. When love becomes contempt. When the system mistakes endurance for defiance.

VII.

And maybe, there is state violence. Texas is the place where the court rules from. It is the place I must stay if I want to keep my rights. Texas declared itself the only place my daughter belongs. And so, the state is playing a part. And the state holds my biggest prayer for repair.

Because America is broken. Forever limbo. Neither heaven. Nor hell. Just lost.

VIII.

A lawyer said my case is interesting. She said my ex is not interested in parenting. He is interested in my pain. That is the truth. That is what has been weaponized. Not protection. Not safety. Not logic. Just pain.

IX.

The truth? Weapons have formed. Deep waters are running deeper. Rivers are staggered. The law isn’t fair.

Yet nothing has prospered.

My daughter is seemingly safe. I know this not through a report. Not through the court. Not through conversation. I know it because I have been gifted glimpses. In dreams. In moments. In whispers from God. I know she is divinely protected. I know this even when I am not allowed to touch her hand.

What I do not know is when the hands of the court will move in our favor. Or when the truth will be heard.

Or how long this limbo will last.

XI.

But my feet are flat on the ground now. I am standing. I am breathing. I am writing. I am not waiting without peace. I am not drowning. I am alive.

And that feels like a breakthrough.

Thanks for reading Witness Statement! This post is public so feel free to share it.

This is my witness statement.

Let this page be a courtroom. What injustices are you facing—or have you faced—in parenthood? How are you managing?

Proceeds go toward bringing my daughter home. Thank you for reading. Thank you for standing witness.

What My Dreams Are Saying About My Daughter

Starr Davis — Tue, 30 Sep 2025 11:02:28 GMT

I am in a dream cycle. My daughter is there, sleeping, somewhere I don’t recognize. But I can see her. She is alive. She is at peace. I walk away from this room—someplace in another realm, and I, too, am at peace. Each night, it’s the same cadence: a recurring dream of me watching my baby girl sleep. Then, a few nights ago, in a dream, as if in real life, she peeped her eyes open from her rest. My son was there, nestled next to her. And she spoke: Hi, Mommy. Call me crazy for waking up with that sound still in my ears. Soon, I whispered to myself. Soon. Dreams are tricky. Dreams of a mother are powerful dreams, coming from the core. When I was pregnant with my daughter, I dreamed of nothing but war. Usually, I was on a horse, riding with a sword in my hand. I will admit—I watched a lot of Viking fantasy movies at that time, lol. Anyways, my sweet girl is a child of war. And I’ve always wondered: do we ever stop, as mothers, dreaming of, and dreaming about, our children? It has been four years since we were last joined as one, and yet the cord is still tugging. My wildest thoughts are: Is she thinking of me? Pulling for me in a dream? Is she okay? Because Lord, dreams from a mother can be dangerous battlegrounds for answers, for prophecy. It has been four months since I last held her. And in all her four years, I wonder if she’s sleeping more eagerly now—not fighting it as much—just to run and meet me there. Did I mention I was in a grief cycle? Or a dream cycle?

I’m not sure what all this dreaming means yet, only that I don’t want to ignore it. & Soon. Soon. Soon.

If you’ve ever dreamed of your child—before they were born, after they were taken, or while they were simply far from you—I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment, share a dream, or just whisper soon with me.

Heaven rush in | A Prayer for my Daughter

Starr Davis — Mon, 22 Sep 2025 01:26:10 GMT

A Prayer for Heavelynn

Tonight, I pray for Heaven. For Heavelynn. For Heaven to rush in. September wind. September, win. I have been talking to angels about her—talking to You, God, about her. Is it possible we are dreaming the same dreams again? Like when she was in the womb and I was in deep maternal fantasy. I pray we have a power like that—to be tethered in spirit still, to meet one another in the dream. So much for her must be growing. And I pray—wilder, wildflower. Let her bloom safely, bravely. I am thinking of pinks, the kind that kiss the sky when the sun falls low. I remember the last time we were out shopping, how her eyes caught the shade of the sky like it belonged to her. I am thinking of her totality. What dreams is she dreaming now, Lord? I pray they are radiant. I pray they are safe. I pray they are soft. I am thinking of her body asking mine once more—the scent of her hair oils, the softness of her skin against my chest, the familiar weight of her. I am praying for fall, to fall through. For something to shift. For her to return. I am praying for reunion, for warmth, for redemption. I am praying for the innocence I once held in my arms to be waiting for me still. God, I pray—she still be my little girl next time I hold her again.

My daughter is gone. Again.

Starr Davis — Tue, 16 Sep 2025 12:30:39 GMT

May 10, 2025, three days before she was taken.

This happened three days after Mother’s Day — as if to remind me that motherhood is a right for some, and a privilege for me.

This is what I did not want to write — that again, my daughter was taken from me by her father. It happened after school. After just coming from the car wash, where the purple lights got stuck in her eye and she jumped up laughing. After she kissed her newborn baby brother, placed the pacifier back in his mouth, handed me her bag of green grapes, slung her book bag around her shoulders, and jumped out of the car, dancing between the aisles.

It was an ordinary day. And then it wasn’t.

She was taken. Swiftly. By her father, who has had her ever since.

My ex had not seen my daughter in over a year. Navigating what happens when a parent pleads guilty to crimes, goes to jail, gets out, and reclaims legal ground — it's a mess. A mess that lands, every time, on the body and spirit of the mother. She has yet to return because he has rights. And though I have rights too, those rights are withheld from me. The police have told me once more that this is a civil matter. And yet, it all feels criminal.

Why ‘Witness Statement’

I am witnessing my daughter go through things no child should. I am witnessing the system harm us. I am also witnessing faith, return, and hope. That’s what I’m here to tell.

This is more than a newsletter.
It is testimony.
It is evidence.
It is prayer, poetry, and resistance.
It is what I have seen — and what I refuse to unsee.

Some of what I share here will be free. Some of it will be for those who choose to walk with me more closely as paid subscribers. That support helps me survive this season — both emotionally and financially — and keeps this testimony alive. Some of what I share here will be free. Some of it will be for those who choose to walk with me more closely as paid subscribers. That support helps me survive this season — both emotionally and financially — and keeps this testimony alive.

April 10, 2024, 6 days after she returned home last year.

I was eight months pregnant with my son, pleading with the judge to act in my daughter’s best interest. One hand on my womb. The other hand holding legal paperwork. The judge looked at me and said: Have your baby. Come back later with a lawyer.

Well, I have a lawyer now. Because panic brings desperate miracles — like hiring someone you pray you can afford. For the sixth time, they tell me: This is an interesting case.They say how easy it will be to solve. How much they’re going to help.

I know the dance now. So well I can tango in my sleep. No heels. Just the balls of my toes. And my ex is still a ghost. Hiding in plain sight. With my daughter.

And each day, I can only pray that the sun is still in her eyes. That she still remembers our faces and can feel the warmth of our prayers. That she knows I am coming.

I reenter the fight once more.

This space is where I will speak from the fire. I don’t know what the outcome will be. But I know how to tell the truth. And I know how to write it down.

I’d love to hear your reflections in the comments — or feel free to reply privately. Your story matters, too.

Welcome to Witness Statement: the gospel of mothering and survival — in courtrooms, dreams, and memory.

Notes on Baby Blues and Black Mama Songs

Starr Davis — Tue, 15 Jul 2025 14:27:38 GMT

For every child, there is a new song in my heart, and for my son, it was Sparkle by Cameo — a song buried somewhere deep, originating from 1979, rising through marrow I didn’t know I remembered. The YouTube comments confirm what I felt: “This was my mama’s favorite song,” “This was me and my wife’s anniversary song,” “Classic,” “This song reminds me of my mama.” And yes — that’s where I first heard it, in my childhood home, the song blasting through the sound system we loved, big and bulky the way things used to be in the ’90s. My mama, barefoot and dancing across our living room, her cigarette burning slow between two fingers, sweet smoky breath singing over me, lifting me so I didn’t fall. Who imagined that same song would carry into my belly, into my son?

I began to sing, seven months pregnant, coasting through the backcountry past Houston, past Richmond, beyond where my auntie’s house sits nestled between a field of horses and an Exxon. I rode with my thighs wide open, my belly wedged against the steering wheel, and that song slipped out of me like prophecy. Then, months later, the baby blues came — not soft, not sweet, but blue like distance, like doubt. It came late in the night when my four-year-old daughter climbed through diaper boxes and slid beneath the bedsheets to find me, her small body pressing into mine as I clutched the edge of my son’s bassinet like it was a ledge. My man’s arm draped over my waist, my daughter’s fingers curled near my throat, warm Coca-Cola tears slipping down my cheek, and I wondered why they call it baby blues — when babies are so sweet, when this feeling should be sweet. But my body, my mind, panicked.

The blues came slow, like a Marvin Gaye song, starting with a sad, acoustic longing, a cooing, it came as a soft alarm of yet another internal battle on the rise. Before motherhood, I lived a quiet but fast life in New York — sharp, cunning, hidden when I needed, visible when I had to be. I knew how to survive. My daughter’s song was Teena Marie’s Déjà Vu, because she came to me like a soul from long ago, a promise wrapped in old wisdom. “I am young, I am old, I am rich, I am poor,” I sang when she was only three days old. She smiled. And I knew. But our journey has been beastly — custody battles, courtrooms, silence from the system, and trying to cooperate with a father who sees himself as the only authority. Texas is hard for a mother. For a Black mother, it is harder. For anyone who isn’t a man, impossible. And yet here I am, again — mothering, fighting, falling in love again, now with my son. There is a sadness rising from guilt, wondering why my daughter gained the strength of a wise, strong, and beautiful song entering the world, and why my son manifests the softer, finds comfort in the sweet romance of Sparkle, at my healing time when I am stronger than I was during my pregnancy with her. It might be a question of purpose, callings, and prophecies—a realization that these are beyond my control as a mother, but things my heart constantly reflects on. The reality is that my two babies are not the same; and how I raise them, won’t be the same either— because they were born at two different times in my life and the world, with two different songs; the only thing that binds them, holds our entire family, and all of us connected, is me. And so, I sing, I sing, to my babies as much as I can.

Becoming a mother again has meant I disappear a little more into duty, a little less into myself. With one, I am a mother, with two, I am a mom. The condensing is felt in the marrow. It feels sometimes as if the part of myself I have lost is the softness, the mystery of motherhood. The wonderment of not knowing what parenthood will bring. I know now that it can bring unwarranted situations, mistakes, grief, and pain. I know it can bring anxieties beyond my wildest. It can bring injustice. And yet, and yet, and yet…. My sweet baby boy with his almond butter skin, his olive eyes, his chubby cheeks. His song comes soft, romantic — like a new romance, or like the whisper of motherhood back to me, saying, here’s a light coming at the end of the tunnel. At seven months pregnant, I sang it to him, and now, in the early days of his life, I sing it again, trying to crawl out of the blues, conjuring Sparkle like a spell.

Even in sorrow, I hold on to the intimacy he and I are forming, that somehow predates us both. This song helps me remember — there is still something so sweet, and mystifying about motherhood.

What’s the song your mother would sing over you, or what songs are you singing over the people you love? Will you tell me about it, I’d like to make a note of it.

Notes from a Babymama

Starr Davis — Tue, 03 Jun 2025 11:14:15 GMT

Circa 2021, Columbus, Ohio

Hearing my ex call me his babymama in court unnerved me. Especially while I sat next to my loving, protective partner, who likes to remind me at random that he knew what he was signing up for when he decided to be with me, and that this isn’t going to run him off.

Not just the word—babymama—but the his. The possessive. The quiet violence of “mine.”

Share Notes from a Writer Mama

As I loomed over what it means—to him, to me—to be called this, I wondered if it was a term of endearment, a curse, or some sick way of still laying claim. The my before babymama. The my before ex. And I suppose I do this too, in my own way. Because a child binds us. But it doesn’t hold us prisoner.

And I know this—because my father was in prison my entire childhood. And he and my mother never spoke or wrote love letters. Not for long. My mother isn’t a writer. But more than that—she isn’t patient.

My daughter’s biological father is not in prison, but he holds a fantasy prisoner in his mind. One of family. One he lost. One the courts will say, is legally, still his. My fight in family court is ever-present. Always in the room. Always on my breath.

I am not friends with my daughter’s biological father. Simply because I can’t be. Because his love language was control. Abuse was his tool to get it.

And when my daughter was two months old, I made the decision: I wasn’t going to be friends—nor pretend to be—with an abuser.

I have always stored hope in my heart. But the lack of protection in the early stages of my motherhood destroyed a great deal of that hope. It turned me feral. It made me afraid. And there is no love where fear is the foundation. Not the real kind.

Not the kind I want to show my children.

It took five years in litigation, three out-of-pocket mediations, and every ounce of my energy to finally realize he didn’t want healing. He didn’t want peace. He wanted me to suffer because I left him—in the winter, the only day it snowed in Houston in years. And that wound is open, and he has made it clear: it will never close.

And what is a father doing, if not teaching his daughter protection from the very day she is born? This is apparent.

But not for little girls like me. Or like my daughter. Our fathers taught us perseverance before we even knew what protection meant.

My daughter is a playful little lion, with still eyes. She knows the art of being silent. How to make people wait. How to make someone bend. At two months old, she started mimicking my independence. She could hold her bottle at three months. She was walking at eight. Her first words after “mama” were “no” and then “go.”

I have wanted nothing more in this life but to show my daughter what a two-parent household looks like. What love between a father and mother sounds like. But more than that, I want her to see my ability to be friends—best friends—with the man I am raising children with.

My mother once told me: the best thing a woman can be to a man is his friend. And often, when my partner and I—both romantics, both givers, both artists, both extreme in our love—are arguing and fear takes hold of us, it is our friendship that saves us from being swallowed by the lies. It is our friendship that saves our relationship.

I’ll have to spend a great deal of time teaching my daughter how to tame her prowess.
I’ve already taught her how to paint.
How to stick jewels to her nail bed.
How to moisturize her skin with coconut milk.
How to plant seeds in her garden box—where my partner secured her pop-up butterflies and plant tags.

She waters the plants. And all of us, with her laughs, with her songs.

And yet I cannot confirm her softness is embedded. I can’t say she knows how to feel safe.

Maybe it’s mother’s intuition. Or maybe it’s every night, when I put her to bed, the small act of her grabbing hold of my ear—a gesture she’s done since birth—that tells me she’s not too far from my womb. Maybe she’s still aching to get back there.

I am torn between grief and gratitude.

I grieve that I could not give her the luxury of a safe parent. Safe in the emotional, sacred ways.
And yet—I am grateful she has known battle. Grateful she has seen war. Because now, she is armed with the very arsenal life was going to hand her anyway.

She has unshakable stealth.

I’m learning—painfully, honestly—that I cannot protect her from her path. Not from the courts. Not from family dysfunction. Not from child protective investigations. Not from him.

I can only steward. I can only tarry. The way I did when she was still a little coconut in my arms.

Motherhood is not sainthood. It is not performance. It is not sacrifice for the sake of being sanctified.

It is staying. It is trying. It is growing—even in the dark.

Mantra for the week: My motherhood is holy, even when it’s under attack.

As the court proceeds, will you pray with me for justice for my sweet baby girl? What is a battle you’ve had to face in parenting? Will you share it with me? I’d like to make a note of it.

Notes from a Noncustodial Mom

Starr Davis — Tue, 29 Apr 2025 11:44:26 GMT

The week before I went into labor with my son, I was standing in front of the judge for a custody trial. Nine (9) months pregnant with my second child. Fifty-two (52) months postpartum since having my four-year-old (4) daughter. Thirty-three (33) months since a custody order has been in effect—the one that states my ex is my daughter’s primary and I, the noncustodial parent. The order I have petitioned the court to modify for twenty-three (23) months. Which makes it twenty (20) months since the day we were coming home, my daughter and I, from work and daycare, when Children’s Services would take her from my arms and I wouldn’t see her again until April 2024 (2024). Making this eleven (12) months since my daughter has been home.

If you are new here, hi. My name is Starr. I started this Substack at my most dangerous hour. It was over a year ago. I had just relocated to Texas, where my daughter was living with her father after he managed to win her in a custody trial. It has taken me years to prove this narcissism to the court. It has taken me years to heal. Many systems have failed me as a Black woman—and especially as a mom. Emotional systems. Court systems. You name it. I am here because systems fail us all, and maybe that’s a good thing. Breakdowns lead to new infrastructure. That’s where I am, 1-month postpartum, 3-months post court verdict. Most of the country is struggling with identity around family, parenting, and raising children. Everything involving childbirth is a political topic. When systems fail, we can focus on what truly matters: justice. We can build a community with passion to help us through that.

I write about social injustice towards moms in America. Especiall Black mothers in America. I tell my story. An unpleasant, very disappointing story about our justice system and what happened to me and my daughter. I write about my mistakes. Motherhood is full of them.

On this page, whether it be a poem, a story, or something unapologetically political about my motherhood journey, you will find truth. & passion about the truth. My debut poetry collection, AFFIDAVIT, is forthcoming this fall with Hanging Loose Press. I have other work in the world making its stamp that you can read here.

#MOMMYSDESK

The balance between motherhood and art is a myth. I am not here to offer you answers about how to do anything. Motherhood, in my eyes, is an art. Mothering in America is an extreme sport. We are all barely hanging on for our lives in this economy. On top of all the small, mundane things that come with raising children, there are the creative parts of ourselves always knocking: reading, writing, constructing. All I offer here is truth and space for the truth to live comfortably. For starters, I will begin a community soon for mom writers, simply in their space. Here is my space, the table I set up shop at two weeks postpartum to write again. I call it Mommy’s Desk. In this community, we will share the chaos of our writing spaces and share a writing goal for the week.

Lastly, I offer opportunities to continue being whoever you are, aside from being a mother. This July, I will be at the Torch Literary Retreat in Austin, Texas, for a week, working on my memoir project. A few months ago, I wrote about opportunities for mom artists—check it out. Making time for yourself is a must.

Journeying into the unknown realms of the legal world is unnerving. So, thank you for being here to support me, yourself, and others who are all trying to nurture what means most to us: our children, our inner child, and our work.

There are so many amazing mothers writing on Substack about their journeys, offering so much space and community to others. I would highly recommend who talks about fatherhood, healing, and self-discovery. who writes on motherhood, the small intimacies, down to the complexes that go unnoticed. who just featured me on their page, you can check that out here. But this page talks about parenting and writing, and existing, please follow. I recently joined the directory for parent substacks. Feel free to go on and search this list as well for encouraging pages around these topics: https://unpopularparent.substack.com/p/parent-stack

Tell me about your parenting journey, how I can support you, and how we can uplift each other in community as artist-parents?

ARTIST MAMA: WHAT I KNOW & WHAT I DON’T + OPPORTUNITIES

Starr Davis — Mon, 17 Feb 2025 13:54:09 GMT

I HAVE ALWAYS MOTHERED SOMETHING, SOMEONE & SO, IN 2020 UPON LEARNING I WAS PREGNANT, IT WAS A NEW AND YET FAMILIAR FEELING AS AN ARTIST-WRITER, SOMEONE WHO IS ALWAYS CARRYING, HOARDING, AND BIRTHING. I KNEW ONCE MY CHILD WAS BORN THERE WOULD BE HURDLES, STRUGGLES, AND TIME, SPACE. A NEED TO BE ALONE SOMETIMES TO BE WHO I AM, AND DO WHAT I DO. PEOPLE LAUGHED AT ME. “YOU THINK YOU CAN STILL WRITE AND TRAVEL WITH A BABY? NOT WITHIN THE FIRST THREE YEARS….” MY MOTHER WAS DISGUSTED WHEN I WON THE PEN AMERICA WRITING FOR JUSTICE FELLOWSHIP, WHICH ALLOWED ME A WEEK IN NYC, AND LA, A TRIP I TOOK ALONE, LEAVING MY BABY WITH HER SITTER. “YOU ARE A MOTHER FIRST,” SHE SAID. I HAVE STRUGGLED WITH GUILT, MANY, MANY TIMES OVER, AND IT WASN’T UNTIL I ACTIVELY HAD THERAPY, THAT I LEARNED I AM DOING EXACTLY WHAT AN ARTIST MOM DOES. I AM MOTHERING, ALWAYS, ALL THE TIME, STILL. JUST WITH NEW GUILTS, NEW CHALLENGES.

THIS POST IS NOT A HOW-TO-BE-A-MOTHER-WRITER-ARTIST-WHATEVER YOU CALL YOURSELF. THIS POST IS MY HAND. I AM HOPING TO EXTEND WHAT I KNOW ABOUT THE LITERARY/ARTISTIC WORLD AS A MOTHER, TO THOSE, LIKE ME WHO ARE STILL TRYING TO FIGURE IT ALL OUT.

MY FIRST YEAR OF MOTHERHOOD, I READ ENDLESSLY. THE FIRST BOOK OF MANY WAS BODY FULL OF STARS BY MOLLY CARO MAY. THE SECOND BOOK WAS BLACK MILK BY ELIF SHAFAK. ANOTHER BOOK I AM STILL CARRYING AROUND IS THE LONG DEVOTION: POETS WRITING MOTHERHOOD. AS YOU CAN NOTICE, I WAS, AM STILL DESPERATE TO FIND OUT HOW OTHER MOTHERS WRITE AND DO THEIR ART. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND THESE BOOKS TO ANYONE JUST LOOKING FOR THEMSELVES IN A BOOK, ALONG WITH PROMPTS, ESSAYS, AND UNDERSTANDING.

LAST SUMMER, I STUMBLED UPON THIS AMAZING BOOK, HOW NOT TO EXCLUDE ARTIST MOTHERS. IT HAS AN AMAZING COLLECTIVE OF ESSAYS AND RHETORICS AROUND ARTIST-MOMS, MYTHS, AND THE HARD TRUTHS ON HOW YES, WE ARE OFTEN EXCLUDED. THERE ARE PLACES WE CANNOT GO BECAUSE WE DO NOT HAVE SITTERS. THERE ARE OPPORTUNITIES WE WILL OFTEN MISS OUT ON BECAUSE THEY ARE EXCLUSIVE ONLY TO THE ARTIST AND NOT THEIR FAMILIES OR CHILDREN. HERE IS MY TWO CENTS ON THE MATTER:

WE GET TO DEFINE MOTHERHOOD & ARTISTHOOD.

WE CAN EXCLUSIVELY INCLUDE OUR CHILDREN IN OUR EVERYDAY ARTISTIC LIVES.

WE CAN FIND OR PROVIDE THE SPACE FOR RETREAT, WHETHER THAT BE HOME, A PLACE NEARBY, OR ELSEWHERE, WITH OUR CHILDREN AND INCLUSIVE TO OUR VILLAGE.

ALL THIS STUFF I’VE READ IS HELPFUL, BUT IT HAS ALSO BEEN BULLSHIT.

YES, I HAVE CRUMBLED AS A MOTHER. I HAVE HAD MONTHS, DAYS, SEASONS OF WRITING STAGNANTLY. YES, I WISH I WERE FARTHER ALONG LIKE MY SINGLE PEERS, AND YES I WISH I COULD ATTEND MONTH-LONG RESIDENCIES. BUT HONESTLY, MONTH-LONG RESIDENCIES HAVE NEVER ATTRACTED ME. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A HOMEBODY, ALWAYS BEEN A HOME TO “SOME” BODY, WHETHER IT BE MY PLANTS, ANIMALS, OR JUST MYSELF.

AND SO, HERE ARE SOME MOTHER-FRIENDLY OPPORTUNITIES I KNOW THAT I FEEL HAVE BEEN INCLUSIVE TO ME, MY LIFESTYLE, AND MY CHILD BEING A PART OF MY ARTISTIC JOURNEY:

NOTES ON RESURGANCE: BABY NO. 2

Starr Davis — Fri, 07 Feb 2025 00:06:21 GMT

Photography: Jonathan Randolph

& I FIND MYSELF APOLOGIZING TO THE DOCTOR AT MY INITIAL APPOINTMENT. I WAS NOT EXPECTING TO BE PREGNANT RIGHT NOW—AT SOME POINT, YES, BUT NOT QUITE THIS SOON. & TO MY SURPRISE, SHE LAUGHED… & HOW OLD ARE YOU? SHE LOOKS AT HER CHART. 33? WHY ARE YOU APOLOGIZING? BLACK WOMEN APOLOGIZE. AT LEAST, THIS BLACK WOMAN APOLOGIZES. & FOR DAMN NEAR EVERYTHING. LIKE BEING 1 MINUTE LATE PICKING UP MY DAUGHTER FROM PRESCHOOL, OR FORGETTING TO FEED OUR DOG AS I APPROACH THE DOORWAY TO HIS CRIES, OR FOR WINNING ANOTHER WRITING CONTEST WHEN MY FRIEND JUST RECEIVED A REJECTION, OR FOR BEING IN LOVE WHEN THE REST OF THE WORLD IS ON FIRE, FOR BEING PREGNANT… WHY WAS I APOLOGIZING? I SAT ON THE TABLE THINKING TO MYSELF ALL THE HORRIBLE THINGS A WOMAN WHO JUST FINDS OUT SHE IS PREGNANT CAN THINK: I MIGHT LOSE THE LITTLE FRIENDS I HAVE NOT LOST AFTER HAVING MY FIRST BABY. MY MOTHER IS GOING TO BE FURIOUS BECAUSE MOTHERHOOD MAKES HER FURIOUS, & THERE IS LITTLE I CAN DO ABOUT THAT. HOW A CLOSE FRIEND OF MINE JUST RECENTLY SUFFERED A MISCARRIAGE & WHAT MAKES ME ANY DIFFERENT THAN HER, WHEN I’VE TASTED THE BLOOD OF DEATH TWICE, & WONDERED ALL THIS TIME, WHAT DID I DO DIFFERENT TO HOLD THIS LIFE TO TERM? WAS IT SOMETHING I ATE? WAS IT SOMETHING I READ? WAS IT FINALLY A PRAYER GONE ANSWERED? & NOT TO MAKE GRIEF YOUR GOD, BUT MY KNEES ARE HARD FROM MANY ALTARS, ALL UNDER MY MAKING. I HAVE DANCED WITH DEATH MY ENTIRE LIFE. & IN THAT, LONGED FOR SO MUCH PROPHECY: I KNOW WHAT IT IS TO SAY TO THE YOUNG, YOU ARE TOO YOUNG, & TO THE OLD, YOU ARE NOT TOO OLD. I KNOW ABOUT PREGNANCY SCARES & PREGNANCY PRAYERS. I KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO WANT SOMETHING I AM NOT READY FOR & TO LOSE SOMETHING I WORKED SO HARD TO ACHIEVE. & WITH ALL THE WISDOM THAT COMES FROM KNOWING & NOT KNOWING, I FIND MYSELF AN APOLOGIST STILL, IF NOT BY ROUTINE THEN BY BLOOD, BECAUSE BEING A BLACK WOMAN HAS OFTEN MEANT NEVER BEING ON TIME, OR RIGHT, OR GOOD ENOUGH…

IN THE STUDIO, UNDER THE SUNLIGHT, I LOOK INTO THE EYES OF MY CHILD’S SOON-TO-BE FATHER, & HE BALANCES HIS CAMERA IN ONE HAND, & THE WEIGHT OF THE REST OF THE WORLD WITH THE OTHER. & HE SAYS SOMETHING LIKE, “IF YOU WEREN’T ALREADY PREGNANT, YOU WOULD BE PREGNANT, BECAUSE YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL.” & I LAUGH. WHEN WE MET, MY FIRST WORDS TO HIM WERE AN APOLOGY: I AM SORRY, BUT I AM NOT SURE IF I SHOULD BE DATING OR TALKING TO ANYONE. I HAVE LOST MY DAUGHTER, & I AM NOT WELL… & HE CORRECTED ME: WHY ARE YOU APOLOGIZING FOR SOMETHING THAT ISN’T YOUR FAULT? WHO MAKES IT OUR FAULT, OR WHERE WAS I WHEN I DECIDED TO TAKE THE BLAME FOR THE WORLD’S PROBLEMS? WHEN I WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD, I WATCHED MY OLDER SISTER’S BEST FRIEND, ONLY 16-YEAR-OLD STAND IN FRONT OF THE CHURCH & APOLOGIZE FOR BEING PREGNANT. THE ELDERS SURROUNDED HER AND PRAYED FOR HER AS SHE STOOD IN HER DECISION TO HAVE AN ABORTION. I HAVE WATCHED BLACK WOMEN HAVE TO EXPLAIN THE COURSE OF THEIR LIVES ON TALK SHOWS, AND INTERVIEWS, EVEN TODAY, I ASK MY DAUGHTER TO EXPLAIN WHY SHE' HAS ACTED A WAY, BEHAVED A WAY. I SEARCH HER EYES SOMETIMES FINDING THE ANSWER AS CLEAR AS TEARS. SHE IS ONLY 4-YEAR-OLD. SHE IS CURIOUS. SHE IS HUNGRY FOR ATTENTION. HUNGRY FOR EXPERIMENTATION. AN ADVENTURESS, LIKE ME, HER MAMA.

Photography: Jonathan Randolph

IN MY LOVE’S EYES, I AM RIGHT WHERE I AM SUPPOSED TO BE, UNDER THE SUN, UNDER THE SHADE OF PROTECTION, SOMEWHERE DEEP INSIDE MYSELF HARVESTING A WORLD OF MY OWN, OUR SON… & MOTHERHOOD MIGHT LOOK LIKE A NEW MOUNTAIN. A NEW VENTURE. ANOTHER TERRIFYINGLY BEAUTIFUL EXPERIENCE AHEAD, BUT IT WILL BE MINE. & I AM LEARNING NOT TO APOLOGIZE FOR MY JOURNEY, BECAUSE PLACEMENT IS SPIRITUAL, & I AM SOMEHOW ALIGNED TO BE HERE, TO BE THIS ALIVE TWICE MORE. & NOT SO MANY BEINGS CAN BE BLACK & SAY THAT…

HAS MOTHERHOOD/FATHERHOOD EVER COME KNOCKING AGAIN WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECTED IT?

IF SO, HOW DID YOU EMBRACE THE JOURNEY AGAIN? WOULD YOU SHARE IT WITH ME, I’D LIKE TO MAKE A NOTE OF IT…