This is a Story about a Talented Mother:

This is a story about a Talented Mother:

When my middle daughter was in kindergarten (circa sometime between 2015–2017), I forgot to pick her up from the bus stop THREE DAYS IN A ROW. That bus driver was really doing me a solid—and while the trauma of the situation leaves some memory gaps, I do remember him being a homie.

CAN YOU EVEN?

In a society that crucifies mothers for imperfection, I was beside myself with humiliation. And to make matters worse, this wasn’t the first time I’d been mugged by time and her slippery little ways. Nope. I’ve spent my life standing in places while people around me (or so I imagined) silently wondered how I made it this far.

I wanted to have my shit together… but somehow, “together shit” kept evading me. Looking back, I can see how much fear I carried. What would people think? Would they think I was a bad mom?

That fear flipped a switch in me, and one of my best coping mechanisms kicked in: humor. Self-deprecation. Laughing at myself as a way to regulate my nervous system.

I can’t remember the details exactly, but somewhere in that fever dream I was yapping on Instagram stories about what a shitty mom I was, cracking jokes and spiraling with charm. My Instagram handle at the time was still spencerandjami—I was in the early days of being salty at the patriarchy (seeds of apostasy, if you will) and itching to make a name for myself. No disrespect to DP.

At some point, I must’ve made a sarcastic comment like, “You should follow me—I’m so talented.” And that word—talented—lit something up in my brain. Nothing could be done at that point. Dopamine hit. I remembered a nameplate I had once bought as a gift and never gave away: it said “TALENTED” and underneath, in smaller script, “motherfucker.”

My fingers took on a life of their own and tried to change my username to talentedmotherfucker—but Instagram doesn’t allow profanity (boo). Fortunately, scarcity is the mother of invention, so I got creative. I deleted “fucker”—my ancestors exhaled—and tried talentedmother. Taken. Added a period.

And that, my friends and fans, is how talented.mother was born.

A name that began as an oxymoron—because I didn’t feel like a good mom. Or even a good anything.

But here’s the wild part: I kept the name.

The dopamine wore off. The cringe settled in. And I still kept it. I can’t tell you exactly why, but this Jami—right now—is so glad that young-mom Jami didn’t delete it in a panic. Because what started as a joke became a mirror.

I didn’t feel like a talented mother. But giving myself the title—even sarcastically—was a step in the right direction.

It’s taken a lot of work (therapy, journaling, going to nursing school, the development of my prefrontal cortex), but I’m learning to see my talents. And my god—it’s been amazing getting to know myself.

I still have crippling fears. I still project some of them onto my kids. And yes, they stress me the fuck out. But I hope—I really hope—that what they’ll see is a woman who fought hard for her confidence. And who kept showing up, even when she didn’t feel worthy of the room.

This story starts in motherhood—but it’s about so much more. It’s about fear. Identity. And the wild, beautiful process of coming home to yourself.

“To create a being from

Oneself is something very serious. I’m creating myself. And walking in complete darkness in search of ourselves is what we do. It hurts.” -Clarice Lispector