As I reflect on my mom's journey, I'm reminded of the work of sociologist Stuart Hall, who wrote extensively on the concept of identity and its relationship to culture and power. Hall argued that identity is not fixed, but rather a process of becoming, shaped by our experiences, relationships, and cultural contexts. My mom's story is a testament to this idea, as she's navigated multiple identities and come to a place of greater self-awareness and understanding.
This is not an easy story to tell. It involves no villains, no single catastrophic event, no tidy resolution. It is a story about watching a parent slip into depression, into addiction, into the shadowlands of chronic illness, and feeling utterly powerless to pull them back. If you are reading this because you have searched for those words — "watching my mom go black" — I suspect you already know something about that powerlessness. And I am sorry.
She has gone black in the sense that she has finally allowed herself to be fully alive—and for her, that aliveness is inextricably linked to the Black community that embraced her when her own world was pushing her away.
Then went the bigger things. Her ability to follow a recipe, something she had done without thinking for forty years. Her sense of time—she would call me at 3 AM convinced it was afternoon, would show up for appointments a day early or a week late. Her recognition of familiar places. She got lost driving home from the grocery store three blocks from her house. Watching My Mom Go Black
Witnessing global movements for racial justice can trigger a desire to stop shrinking and start speaking out.
Black is the color of absence. It is what remains when light has been subtracted, when information has been removed. A black room isn't a room painted dark—it is a room from which illumination has been withdrawn. Watching my mom go black meant watching the illumination drain from her eyes, from her responses, from her very presence in the world.
I remember the exact day I noticed something was wrong. Not the day the doctors finally uttered the word "dementia" or the day she forgot my name for the first time. Those came later. No, I'm talking about the Tuesday afternoon in October when I stopped by her house unannounced—something I had done a hundred times before—and found her staring at the television. As I reflect on my mom's journey, I'm
What is the of this article? (e.g., a personal essay, a sociological analysis, or fiction?) Who is the target audience for this piece?
Whether interpreting the phrase through the lens of a caregiver navigating a medical crisis or a child witnessing a mother's profound cultural and racial awakening, the underlying theme is one of transition. Witnessing a parent undergo a significant physical, mental, or identity shift requires deep empathy, patience, and a willingness to adapt to a changing family dynamic.
I kept showing up. Not perfectly — there were months when I pulled away, when I could not bear the weight of her darkness on top of my own. I am not a saint, and this is not that kind of story. But I kept showing up enough. I called when I could. I visited when I was able. I sent money for groceries, ordered takeout to her door, left voicemails that said "I love you" even when I was not sure I meant it. This is not an easy story to tell
The Language of Grief: Watching My Mom Go Black Grief does not always announce itself with tears. Sometimes, it manifests as a quiet, physical transformation that leaves families searching for answers. When people use the phrase "watching my mom go black," they are rarely speaking metaphorically. Instead, they are usually describing a terrifying medical reality: a parent’s skin, limbs, or extremities darkening due to severe illness.
The phrase "watching my mom go black" can carry deep resonance across various contexts of family life, cultural identity, and personal history. It often captures a profound moment of transformation—whether a mother is reclaiming her ancestral heritage, embracing a political awakening, or undergoing a distinct shift in her personal identity that reshapes the entire family dynamic. Witnessing a parent step into a new version of themselves is a complex, eye-opening experience that forces adult children to re-examine their own roots, biases, and definitions of family. The Catalyst for Transformation