La’Erica Conner-Sims

Moms Like Me Presenter 2021

I am a motherless child who grew up to be a motherless mother. These two parts of me make me who I am today.

Resilient.

Aware. 

Determined.

My mother was my rock. She was my first best friend in this ever-changing world.

But I did not know that when I lost her when I was 9 years old, I would be losing a piece of myself as well.

My mother, Linda, will forever and always hold a great space in my heart, although her death has created a black hole in my life. I tend to compare myself to the tall, lean woman I remember her being when I was a child. Elegant and regal perfectly describe the soul that she embodied. She was a single mother of two children, dealing with ongoing health conditions of her own. But she somehow made it all work out for us every day of her short-lived life. From my mother having an unexpected hospital stay when we lived in Los Angeles, to shortly residing in a women’s shelter after a hasty move to Las Vegas, my mother held herself together through it all, not once showing any anguish despite the many hardships she had to face.

Over 20 years later, and here I am as a mother. I have two free-spirited children. Yet, I suffered internally from depression, anxiety, childhood trauma, postpartum depression, and postpartum anxiety. After becoming a mother to my son in April 2020, I noticed an instant shift in myself and realized that I was suffering terribly from PPA, postpartum anxiety.

I started to experience more episodes of being afraid to leave the house with the kids. Fearful of an unknown thing happening or afraid of the looks I would receive from others. Maybe those we pass on the street would think I am a single mother. Or not like the fact that I am Black. These intrusive and uncomfortable thoughts were my day-to-day norm. They raised my anxiety. They led me to become a silent victim. Although I was, and still am, present on social media addressing these issues, I would only let others see a small glimpse of what living with mental illness while being a mother was like.

I had panic attacks due to being overwhelmed by my own children. It was difficult to face myself during these times of stress.

My children are my pride and joy, yet I found their playful, intrinsic nature irritating. One day, my oldest would not go down for a nap. She did not want to stay in her room, not even to play, and the stress that I felt from her high, energetic spirit caused me to yell at her. I felt like I was in overload. My mind was racing as was my heart. My infant son was adding to the commotion with his hunger cries. I became lost within myself. I did not have any clarity on what to do aside from isolating myself from my daughter so I could nurse her brother. The incident ended with my daughter running to her room, her face full of tears. I lay down in bed with my son, nursing him while crying and thinking about how I needed to find help.

This moment is forever in my mind. I felt like I was at my breaking point. The way my daughter ran away from me after I yelled and shut her out broke my heart into pieces. I knew that it was finally time to speak with a therapist to help me heal from my past trauma. I have to say that having a support person there for you helps tremendously when you are as reserved as I am. I have spoken about my maternal mental health issues with others, but talking about past traumas is never easy or comfortable to do with anyone.

Having someone there, even just once a week, helped me feel validated and let me release memories that I suffered from.

Being a Black mom in Montana with biracial children led me to be self-reflective and more aware of the interactions I have with others. I noticed how strangers responded to our family in public. It was a surprisingly positive environment, but I have seen a few outliers in the past. Those who stare blatantly at us when we walk into a store and do not acknowledge us. Those who choose to ignore my daughter’s kind and friendly greetings when they notice her.

People also make comments I know are meant to be compliments, but they seem to focus mainly on my children’s appearances, specifically their skin complexion or hair texture. Before getting into an interracial relationship, I knew that if I had children one day, these might be concerns. Since having biracial children, I see how common it is to get lost in the mindset that children who are multiracial have “better features” than if they were only of one race. Being a Black woman, I try to divert those thoughts out of my own head since I do not want my children to grow up thinking they are better than the next child based on their racial makeup.

After becoming a mother, I have tried to embrace my natural self as much as possible. To not treat myself less than I deserve to be treated based on my skin complexion or kinky hair. Having multiple mental illnesses makes it complicated at times. I have been afraid to wear my afro in public because of unwarranted comments made towards me. Although I have never heard any negative comments, I know that they could still occur. I am aware that by having lived in Montana, I was a part of a very minuscule community of Black people. We are here, and we are present, but we are still outnumbered and left with little or none of the culture familiar to some of us.

I aim to teach my children about their history, so they know each part of themselves. My job as their mother is to keep them safe from hatred, but also acknowledge it whenever it presents its hateful face.

I am learning how to be mindful of those around me. I feel like I need to be extra cognizant of how I react in public. I never want to be viewed as an angry Black woman, the stereotype that still lives on in today’s generation. If the kids are stressing me out in public, I must keep myself together. I try to fit into the mold I believe others hold for me. Whether this mold exists or not, it is very triggering for me. It runs full circle back to me being afraid to leave the house during moments of high anxiety. I perceive that others might view me in a certain light if I say or do something that does not align with their ideals.

When you are a young Black woman living in Montana, your senses heighten, especially when you suffer from anxiety. Paranoia sometimes gets the best of me. It makes being social more awkward than it needs to be. I end up as a hermit who stays huddled up within myself. Thinking and overthinking of unspoken words that I imagine other people are saying about me behind closed doors. This paranoia becomes worse when you are followed around the local Target by an older white woman, unclear on whether she thinks you are trying to steal when you are simply a mom picking up dinner for your family. My paranoia increased dramatically when I sensed that someone was following me. I started judging my own appearance. I had lounge pants on and a work hoodie, a very casual outfit, and here I was stereotyping myself because of this woman who insisted on closely trailing me down each aisle.

I spoke to other Black moms in a Facebook group, and most said that they would have confronted the woman. I told them, as well as myself, while the incident was occurring, that I did not want to be viewed as the “angry Black woman” if I were to confront her. Progress needs to surface to free Black women from this insulting description. I censor myself at times and have hidden emotions to appease others, not wanting them to feel uncomfortable if I spoke on my own feelings.

This pattern of holding in feelings has been a part of my way of living since my mother died when I was nine years old. Having to experience this high level of grief at such a young but pivotal age has led to my normalization of internalizing every emotion, whether it be positive or negative. I let my emotions rise and simmer until my body can no longer contain them anymore. When I experience sadness and grief, I shut down entirely and cannot gather myself to interact with anyone. I sulk and let the sadness take over my body like a blanket of comfort. When anger rears its hotheaded self, my body and mind cannot rest. I must be on the move, even though most of the time I find myself completing tasks around the house in a great hurry, not giving myself a moment to sit down and reflect on the energy moving through my body.

My depression and anxiety walk alongside one another. These conditions make my emotions run rampant throughout my entire soul. I think of nothing and everything all at the same time.

My mind fills with memories that never happened due to my mother’s unexpected death. My high school and college graduations were not complete without her. The births of my children. I know that I will always have the moments we spent together ingrained in my memory, but the physical memories I would have made with her will never be. I strive to keep her memory alive through my children. I tell them about their guardian angel, their Grandma Linda, who would have loved to have met them. They already share a love for her, even though they only know of her face from the limited photos I have of her.

My grief for my mother runs deep, but I know that she would be proud of the internal work I am doing to become a better and healthier mother and woman.

Thanks to my therapist, I have learned various ways of paying attention to my body and my thoughts when I am experiencing times of anxiety. I have bad days where nothing seems to work, and I become stuck in a spiral of negative thoughts.

Other times, I can connect with myself and see the woman and mother I am striving to become. She is slowly emerging through the cracks that have formed around the barrier that I have held around myself.

The woman I envision for myself is brightly smiling from ear to ear, no longer trapped by the life-plaguing trauma that made her afraid to be herself. She is the kind and courageous woman she dreamt of being as a young, hopeful girl. I dream that I am healed and not a victim of my own intimidating imagination. The anxiety-ridden mind I have become accustomed to does not hinder my ability to leave the house any longer. I walk with my head held high and confidence in my soul.

I am radiant.

Strong-willed.

Empowered.

I am me.