21 years on my motherhood journey

 Today I stand proud because it has finally dawned on me—I made it. I survived being a teen mom, and I raised a man… one I can stand behind and say, this is the fruit of my labor—literally, lol.

I feel a deep sense of pride because for 21 years I was told how I would fail, how I was not good enough, how unqualified I was. I lived in constant fear and overwhelm, facing a life-sized task I could barely comprehend at the time. And to add insult to injury, I was abandoned on the job… well, maybe I walked away from my partner in that job due to irreconcilable differences.

I remember Anthony was 7, and I was in way over my head at just 23. I had chosen to be a single mother of two. Now, as a 37-year-old woman, I don’t think I would have chosen that path… or maybe I wouldn’t. But I have to acknowledge the courage—the absolute guts it took to walk away from my newfound security and step into the abyss of the unknown with very little family support.

Looking back, it should have been clear that I was not okay, lol. And I’ll admit, those first five years were so hard. I often thought about backtracking, but I couldn’t—I had burned all my boats. Moving forward was the only option left, and it became the only one that could ever serve me or bring me joy.

By the grace of God, I made it through—through the ups and downs, the countless tears, the despair. I often felt like an imposter. No matter how much I learned or healed, there was always a part of me that felt like I alone was not enough. But what could I do? I took each day as it came… and I kept going.

And before I knew it, there stood a whole man—still barking mum orders at me, lol 😆

I share my journey not to claim victory, but to encourage anyone who feels like the road ahead is vague and filled with trouble. Truth is—it will be vague, and it will be tough. But you will come out okay, of that I am sure. As long as your heart is pure and you’re moving from a place of love and good intentions, you will be okay.

Hang in there. It does get dark and lonely sometimes—but never forever. In between, the sun will shine, memories will be made, and somewhere down the road, you will look back and realize you painted something beautiful. A life full of meaning, memories, struggle, and growth—a grand work of art that you should be proud of.

Today, I’m proud of my son and of myself—for choosing the tough road, for choosing each other, and for coming out of it quite decent.

I know without a doubt he knows I have his back until the wheels fall off.

Happy 21st birthday, AC. May this be the start of a brilliant new chapter in your life. I love you now and forever—keep shining in your own special way 🙌

Grieving the Childhood I Didn’t Get to Have

I grieve my childhood — the shame I carried from as early as I can remember, believing I was not worthy enough, not deserving enough of my parents’ love, care, or acknowledgement. I understand now that I was placed in what was believed to be the safest environment for my growth, but it was not easy. I lived with a constant sense of fear. I felt unwanted. From a very young age, I embodied the feeling of being a burden — a belief that was never true, yet one that still weighs on me today. I felt unimportant because no one seemed to take ownership of me or treat my care as something of real importance.

I grieve the loss of my innocence — the confusion of experiencing unsolicited sexual advances at an age when I could not understand them, and the shame that followed, leaving me feeling responsible for something I did not cause. I also struggled with thoughts and feelings I did not understand, which deepened that sense of shame and isolation.

I grieve a childhood I was never fully allowed to enjoy. I became my grandmother’s confidant, carrying emotional burdens that belonged to adults. She shared her disappointments, her opinions of her children — including my father — and her frustrations about commitments that were not always honoured. In doing so, I became aware of my own perceived cost and inconvenience to her. I understood far too early what it meant to feel like a weight someone else had to carry — a burden I am still quick to assume today. She did not do this out of malice, but likely from her own unhealed trauma. Still, the impact remained. This exposure gave me an understanding of life far beyond my years, but it also took something from me.

I grieve the way I was parentified — not through raising younger siblings, but through co-running a household alongside my grandmother. By the age of fourteen, I found myself helping my sister recover from hospitalisation while also caring for my grandmother. I was not a nurse or an adult, yet I carried responsibilities that required me to become one.

I grieve my lost adolescence. I became pregnant at sixteen, and shortly after my son was born, my father passed away. Two weeks later, my beloved grandmother died as well. The weight of those losses was an earthquake in a life that had barely begun. I was never prepared for such tragedy, nor was I given the space to grieve. Life simply moved forward, and so did I, carrying losses I never learned how to mourn.

These experiences have shaped how I move through relationships today. I have become agile in escape; whenever I feel heavy for another person, I run. When faced with the discomfort of love or compromise, I retreat. I break my own heart before I expect another to reject me. Waves of unworthiness still surface, and impostor syndrome appears without warning. I try to acknowledge these feelings and understand where they come from rather than letting them quietly dictate my choices.

I recognise now that there are times when my emotions sit closer to the surface, particularly in the days before my menstrual cycle, when the grief I have long pushed down demands to be felt. On those days, I try to allow myself release — through writing, through tears, through honesty. I am learning to be gentle and loving with myself, to understand my body and its cycles, and to treat myself with kindness and care.

Perhaps this is what healing looks like for me now — not the absence of grief, but the willingness to sit with it. To give space to the child who learned too early to be strong. To allow imperfection without shame. And to believe, slowly but surely, that I am still worthy of love.

My conversations with God........

Before I begin my rant, I want to start with gratitude.

Thank you.

My circumstances this year have improved so much from last year. I am no longer struggling for the basics, and I don’t take that lightly. And yet—despite the stability, despite the provision—I still find myself frustrated.

God, I don’t understand so much.

I’m trying my best to make sense of it all, but the process isn’t easy. Still, I have no doubt that You love me. I’m learning, slowly, to love and trust You too—and that part is beautiful. I am deeply grateful for the opportunity, even when the journey itself feels wild.

So often I don’t know if I’m coming or going, or whether I’m truly on the right path. I rely on my “tummy test” more than ever now, and I feel calm more often about most things. But there is still uncertainty—about outcomes, about timing, about what’s next. I admit that uncertainty feels gentler than anxiety, and perhaps that is growth.

I’ve noticed something else too.

I am no longer willing to overlook what I once let slide. Rudeness and disrespect are louder now. Manipulation and emotional abuse no longer whisper—I hear them clearly. And more importantly, I no longer accept them. I demand more. I deserve more. That realisation is unsettling, especially when it shifts the coasters of my life.

I don’t understand everything—but I am wise. I am sure of this. I am even more certain of my expertise. I am not the Donna I once was, and settling into this new version of myself requires adjustment, patience, and grace.

I came here to complain.

I came here to cry.

Instead, I find that I am growing.

And growth, I realise, is what I desire most.

I ask for emotional intelligence. I ask for wisdom—to release those who no longer belong close to me. And above all, I ask that You do not leave me. Finding You has been everything I needed, and somehow even more than I imagined.

I have often said that I was not loved for 37 years. Perhaps that was true through my own broken lens. Perhaps it was incomplete. I see now that I am loved—and loveable—with a rich and complex experience of love and life behind me.

I struggle with reciprocity.

But I am learning to need it less.

And I am learning to give more to little Donna-Ray.

I have tried to love my children in ways I was never cared for, and I hope I have not failed them. It is both terrifying and extraordinary—to parent while healing. Still, I trust that presence, honesty, and love matter more than perfection.

This journey is scary.

And it is amazing.

I wish I knew more. But I trust that in time—if I continue to do the work—it will all come together.

I am grateful for the opportunity to be alive.

To learn.

To seek.

To explore this beautiful world.

I do not ignore my privilege—it is immense. And I know that to whom much is given, much is required. I have been given so much: beauty, intellect, depth, sensuality, emotional intelligence, meaningful work.

For all of it, God, I am profoundly grateful.

Thank you. 🙏🏾

A modern day crime......sexiness!

The hardest part about being a beautiful woman is not the beauty itself, but the way the world responds to it.

For many of us, it begins quietly and early — a sideways comment, a look held for too long, a growing awareness that the body you are becoming is suddenly being watched, judged, and discussed. Sometimes this scrutiny begins within your own family. Curves appear, maturity follows, and instead of guidance or protection, shame too often takes its place.

As adolescence unfolds, the commentary multiplies. Friends, classmates, strangers — everyone seems to have an opinion. Remarks, subtle insinuations, and unspoken expectations accumulate, and without realising it, you begin to carry them within you. They shape how you see yourself long before you are old enough to question them.

Life, of course, is not linear. Sometimes choices are made before we are fully ready, or circumstances unfold in ways we never planned. Too often, instead of being met with compassion, women are met with labels. Our stories are reduced to assumptions; our character is questioned before it is understood.

What usually follows is a long, quiet journey back to self. Learning to be gentle with your body. Learning to see it as yours again. Learning that confidence and sensuality are not flaws, but natural expressions of comfort, ownership, and self-acceptance.

Yet even then, the world does not always know how to respond to a woman who is both self-possessed and sensual. Confidence is mistaken for availability. Ease in one’s own skin is misinterpreted. Over time, this becomes exhausting — until eventually, it becomes clarifying.

With age comes discernment. You learn that peace is not always found in explaining yourself, but in choosing distance. In protecting your energy. In surrounding yourself only with those who see you fully and treat you with care.

I embrace my sexiness now not as rebellion, and not as armour, but as truth. It is not something I wear for validation. It is simply part of who I am.

Being sexy does not diminish my values. It does not define my worth. And it certainly does not place a price on me.

I am a woman with a good heart, doing her best to honour her responsibilities, care for her family, and grow into herself with integrity. I work hard. I love deeply. And I no longer apologise for taking up space exactly as I am.

This is not defiance.

It is self-respect.

Year End Message by Delani Makhalima

My friend shared his words with me and I couldn't keep them to myself....I hope this message resonates with you diamonds as it did with me 💜💜💜

We talk about vulnerability in relationships a lot. We call it courage. We call it intimacy. We call it growth.

Yet few truly understand what vulnerability requires or what it exposes.

Let me be clear: vulnerability is not weakness. It is not oversharing. It is not self-abandonment.

Vulnerability is the courage to speak your truth from a grounded place, to reveal your heart and mind - even when doing so carries risk, even with someone you trust.

Here’s the truth many miss: vulnerability doesn’t just deepen connection.

It tests the emotional capacity of the person receiving it.

When vulnerability is met with judgment or criticism, the test is active and the future of the relationship is quietly defined.

Many of us have opened ourselves to someone we love, shared a fear, a doubt, a tender part of ourselves… only to hear:

“You’re insecure.” “You’re too much.”

“You’re this, you're that.”

Those words can land in two ways: As an invitation to understanding - seeing the triggers, the history, the humanity in another.

Or as a dismissal - disguised as insight, but in truth a refusal to hold, witness, or care.

Being a mature partner and person means recognizing that insecurity is not identity. It is a signal:

A signal that something has been triggered.

A signal that care, sensitivity, reassurance, or attunement may be needed.

An unhealthy response turns that signal into a label - a label that shrinks you, diminishes your truth, and closes the door to connection.

Sharing is not easy. We don’t reveal our inner worlds to just anyone.

We choose carefully who we trust with our past wounds, our fears, our triggers.

We hope they will hold what we reveal, preserve it, protect it - not use it against us.

When a partner weaponizes our vulnerabilities, just because we allowed them to see us - even subtly, it’s not just disappointing.

It’s unsettling.

It erodes emotional safety.

Once trust is broken, honesty becomes heavy to share.

Intimacy starts to feel transactional.

Every word from then carries risk: risk of judgment, measurement, weaponization.

In mature, healthy relationships, vulnerability is met with care, not critique.

Insecurities are explored together - not returned as labels, blunt statements of flaws, or markers of incapacity.

Honesty should strengthen the bond. And it can sound hurtful at times. But care, yes needs to worth together with honesty. 

Care works with the insecurities, nurtures them, helps them grow not punish them. That’s love. That’s partnership. That’s what it truly means to care.

When vulnerability is mishandled. Openness feels unsafe.

Truth becomes filtered.

Words are rationed.

Emotional presence is replaced with politeness.

Not because love died - but because safety did.

Over time, a quiet, permanent shift occurs.

It is not anger.

It is not resentment.

It is withdrawal - the self stepping back, choosing silence over exposure.

The most dangerous moment in intimacy is not conflict. It is the moment one partner decides it is safer to stay silent about who they are than to be fully seen. Once honesty becomes ammunition, it stops being offered.

Note: I said destructive, not constructive. Vulnerability can be met with discomfort but there’s a difference between care and critique:

- Constructive guidance says: “Here’s a way to improve. Here’s something to consider.”

- Destructive labeling says: “You are this or that.” Nothing else, nothing more. 

When we fail to nurture the vulnerability of those around us, withdrawal inevitably follows. Emotional withdrawal is not cruelty. It is self-preservation.

If you choose to be vulnerable, remember:

Share openly. But do not allow others to reduce you to your insecurities.

Again, this is not defensiveness - it is self-respect. Zithande #LoveYourself

The measure of a relationship is how imperfection is handled.

Handle each other’s flaws delicately. 

Pause before responding and ask yourself these first 

- Does your honesty bring clarity or confusion?

- Does it foster safety or spark judgment?

- Does it encourage more openness or fear of revealing their heart again?

Your answers will speak louder than any words ever could.

Love (relationships, friendships, kinship) don’t end when people stop caring.

It ends when they stop feeling emotionally safe enough to be vulnerable.

Vulnerability is a gift, not a burden.

It deserves protection, not punishment.

Anyone who cannot hold it with care will inevitably lose access - not to love itself, but to the intimacy it creates.

Secure connection is quiet, grounded, mutual.

It is where real love matures and stays.

True vulnerability builds safety, security - not silence or selectiveness.

By Delani Makhalima

2025

Somehow, all I want to do today is cry — and I’m not even sure why.

Whether these are tears of joy, pain, sadness, or simple relief at reaching the end of this year, I’m allowing them to exist.

This year has been everything: hard, rewarding, relentless.

There was so much shedding, so much pushing, so much becoming.

I don’t have the energy to jump up and down today — but I am deeply grateful that I made it.

I look ahead with quiet confidence, knowing that the hard lessons were learned, fear was confronted, and necessary seeds were planted. I trust that harvest season is coming.

2025 broke me and rebuilt me in ways I could never have imagined.

For that, I am grateful — grateful for the strength I found, for the courage I stepped into, and for the woman I emerged as.

As I step into the year ahead, my prayer is simple:

for softness, for kindness, and for space to fully embrace my feminine energy — allowing my masculinity to finally rest.

I am profoundly grateful for every person who loved, supported, and held me through this year.

I step forward gently now — no longer proving, no longer forcing — just trusting that what I planted will rise in its own time.

Thanksgiving

My new favourite holiday of the year—quite shocking for a Zimbabwean, I know, considering we don’t traditionally observe it. But the concept speaks to me deeply. It began as a day of giving thanks for the harvests of the preceding year, yet in life, the idea of pausing simply to be grateful feels profoundly necessary. A day to break bread with family and friends, to hold gratitude like a warm flame in our hands. In my little world, this day holds great importance.

For me, it’s a day to share my creativity, my time, my effort, my love. In the kitchen, I come alive. I feel like an orchestra conductor—every chop, stir, spice and scent moving in harmony. Cooking, to me, is composing a symphony, and I stand front-row as the audience tastes joy. I pray before I begin, and once Toni Braxton fills the room, my soul opens, and then the magic starts. My focus becomes razor-sharp. When it all comes together, the results never disappoint.

This year, one of my newly found aunts looked at me and said I have the gift of hospitality. What a powerful decree. It felt like a blessing and a mandate from the bloodline itself—to cook with love, to serve with joy, to let my talent flow freely. And so I did. I have been Van Gogh’ing in the kitchen, splashing colour into pots and laughter into rooms. Not a single complaint—only grateful bellies and smiling hearts. A win-win, I would say.

But I digress.

The heart of my rambling is this: today, let us be thankful.

Thankful for surviving a turbulent year.

Thankful for breath and belonging.

Thankful for family, for friends, for our careers and callings.

Thankful for every small victory, every quiet miracle, every moment that carried us forward.

Let us give thanks, deeply and deliberately. 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

Resilience.....

“She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her way, she adjusted her sails.” — Elizabeth Edwards

The best definition I’ve ever found for resilience is this: the capacity of a person to maintain their core purpose and integrity in the face of dramatically changed circumstances. It’s the ability not just to overcome setbacks, but to move forward — to rise again and again, even when the ground beneath you keeps shifting.

This year, that word — resilience — became the thread that held me together. I’ve often said I’m tired of being resilient, and perhaps that’s true. Yet somehow, all the resilience I’ve built up over the years was summoned in full measure in 2025. Every hard lesson, every scar, every moment I thought I wouldn’t make it — all of it found its purpose this year. And for that, I am grateful. Grateful that I didn’t break in the furnace.

It was, without question, one of the most trying years of my life. Each time I thought I could finally exhale, a new storm appeared on the horizon. I’ve never known fatigue quite like this — the kind that seeps into your bones and tests your will to keep going. I’ve been on overdrive, pushed beyond what I thought possible. And yet, here I am — speaking about the struggle in the past tense. What a blessing that is. With only two months left in the year, I refuse to believe that defeat will make an example of me. Perhaps that’s my stubbornness — but it’s a stubbornness that has kept me standing.

Through it all, I found solace in wisdom, routine, and consistency — the quiet pillars that kept me grounded when everything else felt uncertain. I remember telling a young woman recently that it took me nine years to achieve the body I’ve always wanted. I could see the disappointment flash across her face — the instant-gratification generation hates hearing that kind of truth. But if you have no skin in the game, how can you expect to win? Growth, real growth, takes time.

I’ve come to realize that the marks of the great are their battle scars. If you emerge from battle untouched, be wary — you’ve likely learned nothing and may not survive the next one. I used to see my scars as shameful — proof of mistakes, missteps, and inexperience. Now, I wear them proudly. They are symbols of survival, of grace under fire, of lessons learned the hardest way.

This year, resilience was not just a trait — it was a lifeline. And as I step toward the final stretch of 2025, I do so with gratitude for every wound that healed, every tear that taught, and every moment I almost gave up but didn’t.

Because sometimes, survival itself is the victory.