My Daughters are My Center

With so much to express after a three-year hiatus from writing, I feel compelled to simply ramble. And yet, part of me knows that not everything from these past seasons needs to be shared. So, I’ll start with this: my daughters. Da’Vey and Brandi are my center.

In moments of heartbreak, financial hardship, or mental confusion, it has always been my daughters who brought me back to the core of my purpose on this earth—the purpose of shifting the narrative within my family and creating a new, positive legacy for the generations to come.

Staying consistent in that purpose has been a struggle—not because I didn’t want to walk in it, but because I often felt unworthy of it. I’ve been invited to share my story in different spaces, and many have encouraged me to author a book. But it’s that same feeling of unworthiness that has held me back. That, and finances. I mean, how much easier would it be to tell my story with an on-call editor and a fully stocked publishing fund? But that’s neither here nor there.

Something is different this time. This is real. I genuinely believe my words have the power to inspire. And what makes this moment different is this: I’m writing to my daughters—and to the little girl inside me.

Da’Vey has recently begun expressing her own discernment when it comes to my relationship advice. She’s come to realize that, while she values my encouragement, it’s hard for her to accept guidance in areas I’ve yet to master—especially intimate relationships.

My oldest has seen me at my most vulnerable. She’s watched me navigate heartbreak, rebuild from homelessness, move through seasons of restoration, celebrate the hope of house-hunting—only to return to renting. She’s seen it all. And what she’s witnessed has shaped her view—not only of what she wants to carry forward, but more importantly, of what she refuses to repeat.

This is my fear. This is what makes this time different.

My daughter does not want to be like me.

And I think one of the most painful realizations a mother can face is the moment her daughter looks at her journey, the very one paved with sacrifice and good intentions—and decides not to follow it. Let me be clear: I know she loves me. I know she sees me as a great mother. But she does not want to endure what I’ve endured. And in truth, I don’t want that for her either.

Still, I wrestle with this: how can I guide her in areas where I haven’t found my own footing? How can I encourage her to choose healthier paths when she’s never seen me walk them? How do I tell her a relationship isn’t serving her, when I’ve never modeled one that did?

All I know is—but God…

I have not given up hope. I’ve never believed the goal was to be perfect. What I want most for Da’Vey is to see me—not as someone who always knew the right way, but as someone who never stopped trying to move forward. Even if I can't always point her in the right direction, I can show her what to avoid. I can show her what survival, resilience, and renewal look like in real time.

For me, that looks like walking in purpose. That looks like living my truth in front of her. That looks like lying face down before God—again—and asking for guidance. It’s my cry to every mother: walk the walk, with your child in mind.

Though I haven’t yet acquired everything I desire, I believe it’s coming. I believe that as I keep moving—imperfect but intentionally, the path ahead will become a little less muddy. A little more clear.

What I envision is this: as I step, Da’Vey will step and refine. And as I keep stepping, she will keep refining. The path I carve may not be perfect, but it will be there. And prayerfully, she’ll walk in those footprints—not because they’re flawless, but because they lead somewhere better.

I just want her to know the steps are here for her to build on, not replicate.

Be blessed,

De'dria Louise Bynum