I remember the conversation so clearly.

It was right before our wedding when an older man—someone I barely knew—asked me, “Are you prepared for what you and your family will experience, seeing as how you are marrying a Black man?”

I was offended. Completely.

I told him that love was love. That people were good. That the world was different now.

I believed that.

Now, two and a half years later, I see things I didn’t see then. And our five-year-old son, with his soft curls and deep brown eyes, is starting to notice too.

The Reality I Wasn’t Ready For

Like the time my husband was pulled over for expired tags. A routine stop—or so I thought. But when I reached for my purse to grab the insurance, the officer’s voice turned sharp. My husband was out of the car before I even understood what was happening.

Face down. Handcuffs. Knees pressing into his back.

And me, standing there with my hands shaking, screaming that this was a mistake. That he was a good man. That he was my husband.

Or the time a woman at the park called security because she thought my husband was trying to take our own child. The way she looked at me with relief when I rushed over—like I had saved our little boy from a stranger. Like my own husband didn’t belong to us.

And then there are the stares. The comments. The subtle, biting things people say that stick in my mind for days.

“You’re such a good person for adopting him.”
“He must get his smarts from his mama.”
“She could have done better.”

I don’t regret love. I don’t regret our family. But I do regret my naivety. I regret not being prepared for the world my husband has lived in his whole life—the world my son will now have to navigate.

Because love is not enough. It never was.

The Moment It Hit Me

One day, Micah came home from kindergarten with tears in his eyes. Some older kids had made fun of his hair, telling him it was “weird” and “different.” His teacher, Ms. Brand, did her best to handle it, but I could tell she wasn’t sure her words had made a difference.

That night, as I tucked Micah into bed, he looked up at me and asked, “Mama, why do people think my hair is funny?”

I crouched down so we could look each other in the eye. I told him that all hair is unique and special. But I could see the sadness in his eyes that wouldn’t go away with easy words.

When I told my husband, Josiah, about it, he sighed. He had expected it. He had lived through it himself. But watching our son go through it? That was different. That was painful.

So we did the only thing we could: we stood by our son and told him the truth. That his hair is amazing because it’s part of who he is. That it’s okay to be hurt, but he never needs to be ashamed.

A Hard Lesson at a Family Gathering

Not long after, we were invited to my cousin’s baby shower. Josiah hesitated about going—he had overheard some of my extended family make questionable remarks in the past. But we decided to go together, wanting to celebrate.

Most people were friendly, if a bit awkward. But then Aunt Barbara pulled me aside and asked, “So…how do you handle raising a child who looks so different from you?”

She didn’t say it with malice, but it still stung.

I forced a tight-lipped smile and told her, “Our son might have a different hair texture and skin tone, but we share the same heart and love.”

What I really wanted to say was, “It’s not about ‘handling’ anything. It’s about embracing him—fully, completely, and without hesitation.”

The Weight of the World on a Five-Year-Old

One night, Micah climbed into our bed and clung to Josiah’s arm. “Dad, I’m scared… Scared you’ll get hurt again like when that policeman was mean to you.”

Josiah and I locked eyes, and I saw the tears welling up in his. Micah had carried that memory with him all this time. We had tried to move on, but his little heart couldn’t forget.

Josiah held him close and said, “I can’t promise bad things will never happen. But I can promise we’ll face them together. You, me, and Mama.”

At that moment, the weight of that older man’s words before our wedding came back to me: “Are you prepared?”

No, I wasn’t prepared. Not for this.

But maybe that question missed the point. Maybe none of us can be fully prepared. Maybe all we can do is choose, day after day, to show up. To listen. To learn. To love fiercely.

What I’ve Learned

Looking back, I don’t regret the challenges. Each stumbling block was a lesson in humility and courage. Every ignorant comment taught me how to be patient yet firm. Every painful memory reminded us why we need to stay strong as a family.

And my marriage? It’s richer for it.

Josiah and I have grown in ways I never anticipated. Our son is finding his voice, learning to stand up for himself and others who feel “different.” He’s only five, yet he’s already discovering that love isn’t just something you feel—it’s something you do.

Because love is not passive. Love is action.

Love is standing up when the world tries to push you down.
Love is having hard conversations instead of looking away.
Love is choosing to build a world where your family is seen, valued, and safe.

I no longer believe that the world is automatically fair just because I have good intentions. But I do believe that, step by step, we can create small changes that ripple outward—to our friends, neighbors, coworkers, and even strangers.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: Being prepared doesn’t mean having all the answers. It means being willing to learn, to stand up for what’s right, and to never let your loved ones feel alone.

So if you ever find yourself facing challenges you never expected, let me offer this:

Lean into love. Let it be your reason to fight for understanding, for change, and for a world where no child has to ask why their hair is “funny.”

It’s not easy. But it’s worth it.