A Love Letter To The Women Who Raised Me

I was lucky enough to have both.

I was raised in the Caribbean, where womanhood isn’t something you’re taught in words.  It’s something you witness. It lives in posture, in presence, in the quiet confidence of a woman who knows exactly who she is.

It’s in the way she enters a room, the way she carries herself, the way she moves through life with intention.

The women who raised me were confident but not loudly so. Their confidence didn’t ask for attention. It didn’t seek validation. It was rooted. Steady. Unshakeable.

They were poised. Not fragile, not delicate but composed. Even in chaos, there was a calm about them. A sense that no matter what came their way, they would handle it.

And they always did.

There was no applause, no audience. Just early mornings, long days, and a deep, unwavering commitment to the people they loved. They built lives, homes, families.  Often with very little and somehow made it feel like more than enough.

There was my neighbour, Mrs. Ronald, who treated me like her own granddaughter. I spent more hours than I can count playing dress-up in her closet.  

Layers of clothing, bold jewelry, textures and colours that felt like another world. 

She never left the house without her signature purple lipstick and her endless, intentional layering. 

Looking back now, I like to think my eclectic taste, my love for pieces that feel a little unexpected, a little bold, started there; in her closet, watching a woman who dressed entirely for herself.

My grandmother, Daphne, taught me patience without ever needing to say the word. 

With twelve children and what felt like endless grandchildren, her home was never quiet. And yet, she was. Soft-spoken, steady, grounded. Her calm never competed with the noise around her.  It softened it. 

I remember watching her move through the kitchen, effortlessly feeding all of us, making something out of nothing, over and over again. 

To this day, the way I cook, the instinct, the rhythm, the care, it comes from her.

My godmother, Celeste, was elegance personified. Poised in a way that felt almost effortless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her flustered, rushed, or out of sorts. 

I remember being five or six years old, looking up at her and thinking, this is what a woman looks like. 

There was something about her presence; refined, intentional, composed, that stayed with me. 

Even now, when I’m rearranging a room or reworking a space in my home, I think of her.  Of beauty, of order, of creating something that feels just right.

And then there was Miss Anne!  My mother’s secretary who lived life with a kind of joy that couldn’t be ignored. 

She had her share of challenges, more than most, but you would never know it by the way she showed up. 

Not just with a smile but with a full, contagious, belly laugh that you could hear from rooms away. She saw the silver lining in everything, and she meant it. 

And she carried herself with a confidence that was impossible to miss. 

Miss Anne loved to dress in a way that made her feel good.  Effortlessly sexy, unapologetically so and she owned it. Completely. There was no shrinking, no second-guessing. She wore what she wanted, how she wanted, and never once apologized for it. 

It’s because of her that I learned you don’t ask for permission to feel good in your own skin.

And then, my mom, Sieana.

Where do I even begin?

I am who I am and I am here because of her.  Because of her love, her strength, her prayers, her resilience. 

She is the hardest working person I know, and the strongest. The kind of strength that doesn’t need to be announced, because it’s felt in everything she does.

Everything I am as a woman and everything I am as a mother comes from her.

There isn’t enough space in this piece to fully capture her. So the best way I know how to say it is this: if I ever needed someone to show up, no questions asked, no hesitation, she would be the first person I’d call.

Every single time!

Most of them have never heard me say this out loud.

But I would not be the woman I am today without them. I would not be the mother I am today without them. And I would not be as deeply committed to women, their independence, their strength, their ability to build and create and lead, as I am today without them.

They taught me that you can be soft and strong.

That you can carry others and still carry yourself.

That you can build something meaningful, even when no one is watching.

And that how you show up in the world matters.

Not for anyone else but for you.

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about them.

Not just the titles they held but the way they lived. The way they moved. The way they showed me, without ever needing to explain, what it meant to be a woman.

Long before this brand.
Long before any role I hold today.
I was raised by women like this.

And maybe that’s why Sandy Bottom exists the way it does.  Rooted in women, shaped by their hands, and built to honour the quiet strength, pride, and presence I saw in them long before I ever had the words for it.

Because everything we create is, in some way, a continuation of them.

And everything I am carries a piece of them.