Where I Come From
I was born in St. Louis, where I attended middle school through the desegregation program. I became a first generation college student at a historic institution created to educate the descendants of formerly enslaved people. My grandparents had worked as sharecroppers.
My family and my church prayed for my success.
Long before I understood what my purpose would become, faith was part of my foundation. My faith in God has carried me through every chapter that followed.
Journalism Gave Me a Voice
In August 2014, I was taking engagement photos—white dress and blue heels—when I learned that an unarmed 18-year-old had been killed by police just minutes from my home.
I changed shoes, called my weekend producer and went to work.
I became the first reporter to speak on camera with his grieving mother. Instead of waiting for the evening newscast, I shared her story on my Instagram account.
It went viral.
That moment changed the way I understood journalism. Social media meant we no longer had to wait for someone else to decide when a story was important enough to be heard. One person with a phone could help a voice reach people across a community, a state, a nation and even the world.
That experience taught me the power of speaking up.
Years later, I became one of the people fighting to be heard.
Why Domestic Violence Is Personal
I didn't just report on domestic violence.
I lived it.
What I know now—and didn't have the language for then—is that abuse doesn't always begin with a hand.
It can begin with words that cut. Control disguised as care. Isolation. Blame. Intimidation. A slow erosion of what you believe you deserve.
By the time I understood the pattern, emotional abuse had become physical, and leaving felt harder than staying.
I share this because someone may recognize herself in my story.
Emotional abuse is abuse. Control isn't love. Abuse can escalate. And leaving can be a process rather than a single moment.
Surviving the relationship, however, wasn't the end of my fight.
Motherhood and Family Court
My divorce brought me into the family court system in St. Louis County.
Legal Services of Eastern Missouri represented me in my divorce. I walked away believing I had joint custody of my son. I later learned that the final order did not give me the rights I believed I had.
Today, I remain separated from my only son.
That experience changed me.
I learned how frightening the legal system can be when you are a survivor and a mother trying to understand complicated documents, court procedures and your own rights while your family hangs in the balance.
It is one reason I am training as a paralegal and hope to attend law school.
I want people—especially mothers who feel alone—to understand their rights, ask questions and know what they are signing.
When My Own Story Went National
Family court wasn't the first system that made me understand the cost of speaking up.
In 2017, I was a morning television anchor in Jackson, Mississippi. I was pregnant with my son and worked until I went into labor while on air.
After he was born, I asked if I could stop straightening my hair and wear my natural hair on television.
I was eventually told my natural hair was “unprofessional.”
I also fought for a place to pump breast milk at work. I filed complaints within the company and later filed a complaint with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.
In 2018, my employment ended.
Then I spoke publicly.
My story traveled around the country and became part of a much larger national conversation about the treatment of Black women, natural hair and discrimination in the workplace.
That conversation helped fuel the movement surrounding the CROWN Act—Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair—which seeks to protect people from race-based hair discrimination.
My experience has been covered by Essence, The Washington Post, Yahoo, Inside Edition and other national and local outlets.
Once again, I saw what could happen when someone decided to tell her story.
Why I Keep Speaking
Through journalism, domestic violence, motherhood, family court, discrimination and some of the hardest seasons of my life, my faith in God has carried me when I did not know how I would keep going.
And every chapter has taught me the same thing:
Having a voice matters. Knowing your rights matters. And having the courage to speak up matters.
I have seen one story reach millions.
I have also experienced what it feels like to believe no one is listening to mine.
That's why I believe our stories are bigger than us.
Speaking up can help another person recognize abuse. It can expose a problem in a workplace. It can help another mother ask one more question before signing a document. It can start a conversation in a community. Enough voices can change policies, states and nations.
Sometimes one voice can help change the world.
Today, I use mine to encourage other people to use theirs.
Speak up for yourself. Speak up for someone who cannot. Ask questions. Tell the truth. Share what you know. Use whatever platform God has given you—no matter how big or small.
Your story may help someone you will never meet.
Your voice may be the one that starts the change someone else has been praying for.
That is my why.
I shared part of my experience with domestic violence on Roland Martin Unfiltered because silence is one of the things that allows abuse to continue.
“Black Women Are Being Killed. Abuse Is Still Being Called ‘Love.’”
Roland Martin Unfiltered
If telling my story helps even one person recognize the signs sooner, ask for help or realize that she deserves something different, then speaking publicly was worth it.
If You Need Help Right Now
National Domestic Violence Hotline
Call 1-800-799-7233
Text START to 88788
Visit thehotline.org
If you are in immediate danger, call 911.
You don't have to have everything figured out before asking for help. You can start by reaching out.
Share Your Story
If this page found you at the right moment, share it with someone who may need it next.
And don't underestimate your own voice.
Stories matter. People matter. Your story matters.