On Juneteenth — & Every Day — I Honor The Enduring Resistance Of Black Motherhood

My father was born on a plantation in Mississippi, decades after the Emancipation Proclamation freed enslaved people, but in a time when the legacy of slavery still held strong. The real lesson that I carry, though, isn't just about where he was born. It's about his mother — my grandmother — a woman who, in the dead of night, packed up her children and fled the Jim Crow South. Her reason was simple and fierce: She refused to care for the plantation owner's children at the expense of caring for her own.

Decades later, I find myself mothering two daughters, ages one and three, with the legacy of that night resting deep in my bones. My grandmother's decision to leave was more than a hushed escape to a new city up north. It was a claim to her family's freedom, a whispered but firm declaration: We are not yours, and we never were.

As a new mom and a dietitian who talks about nourishing moms and moms-to-be for a living, I see how those old pressures have taken on new forms. The systems many moms move through, including myself, still demand endless giving of time, energy, and care, not just for their own families but for the needs of others (corporations included). Too often, they do this without proper healthcare, paid time off, or affordable childcare.

The high costs of simply raising children today create a heavy burden — one that is different, and in some ways more privileged, than the one my grandmother carried, but which still echoes the same message that mothers are expected to give everything, no matter the cost.

Though I teach about nourishment, I often slip into the worn rhythm of mothering through depletion, working with an empty cup, and giving more than I have to offer. I often ask myself: How can I teach others about nourishment when I struggle to protect my own? Especially when things like medical care, mental health support, and women's rights, many things my grandmother never had, feel less certain by the day. In moments like this, protecting my well-being feels less like self-care and more like an unspoken resistance.

We're no longer picking cotton, but the pressure to produce at all costs hasn't disappeared. Now we get paid, but the message is the same: Absorb the extra labor, smile through the stress, and say, "I'm fine," even when you're not. Rest feels like a luxury and something you have to earn or feel guilty for.

Lately, however, I find myself returning to the image of my grandmother on that quiet night, declaring that enough was enough. She walked away from a life where her labor was expected but never valued. The lesson she left us, the one I carry into motherhood, is that true freedom can mean the right to be whole, nourished, and to take pause without shame, as a way to show up fully for the ones you love.

Juneteenth reminds me to tell my girls the truth. Every time I choose to slow down, care for myself, or center joy in our home, I'm unraveling a pattern they were never meant to inherit. I want them to know that freedom means resting without guilt, saying no without fear, and mothering without losing themselves in someone else's demands. Nourishment is more than food; it's having enough of yourself left to savor life. That kind of rest and joy was denied to our ancestors, which is exactly why it must be protected now.

Too many of us live in a culture that praises resilience but punishes rest. But I want something different for me and for the daughters I'm raising. On Juneteenth — and every day — I want them to know their worth does not come from overextending or silencing their needs. Their wholeness, joy, and rest matter now. Not after everything else is done. Now.

Julianka Bell, MS, RD, is a registered dietitian and the founder of MotherKin, a women's health nutrition practice focused on supporting people through fertility, pregnancy, postpartum, and beyond. Her expertise has been featured in Real Simple, Good Housekeeping, Yahoo, and more.