About seven months ago, I stumbled across a small blurb on the Duval County Public Schools website. It mentioned a program called Parents Who Lead, a leadership initiative designed to help parents become stronger advocates for students and for public education.
Something about it pulled me in.
I have always believed in advocacy. It’s something I’ve done for most of my life in different ways. I’m already involved in my school’s PTA and SAC, but I wanted to do more. I wanted to grow in this space, especially when it comes to advocating for children within the school system.
So I applied.
After an interview process, I was selected to participate. Our class started with about eighteen people—fourteen of whom would eventually complete the journey. Oh, and a baby (shoutout to baby John Wick).
Our first meeting was an eight-hour Saturday retreat. It was a long day, but an important one. We met the facilitators, heard from leaders within Duval County Public Schools, and learned what the next twenty weeks would hold for us.
I remember sitting there that first day not really knowing what to expect.
I’m naturally an observer. If I know you, I’ll talk your ear off, the queen of yap once I’m comfortable. But if I don’t know you yet, I’m quiet. I watch. I listen. I take it all in.
The facilitators made it clear from the start that the program would stretch us. They talked about learning how to advocate without being adversarial, about stepping into the power we already have, and about pushing ourselves into spaces that might feel uncomfortable.
For me, that meant confronting something I’ve never loved: public speaking.
I prefer writing. Writing allows me to sit with my thoughts. It gives me time to pause and reflect before I speak.
Because if I don’t pause… sometimes the words just come out, I call that word vomit.
I jokingly describe my personality as a combination of Jesus Christ, Dave Chappelle, Malcolm X, and Trick Daddy. Depending on the day—and the situation—you never quite know which one is going to show up. Is it going to be Jesus… or Trick Daddy? I honestly cannot guarantee it.
So learning to pause, think, and communicate intentionally was something I knew I needed to work on.
And that’s exactly what this program helped me do.
From Strangers to Family
Every Thursday evening for twenty weeks, we gathered together. Dinner was provided, and we would sit and eat as a group before diving into the work.
Over time, the room transformed.
What began as a group of strangers slowly became something more like family.
We came from every background imaginable: different races, cultures, religions, and life experiences. But we shared one thing in common: we cared deeply about children and about the future of our schools.
Some nights we had tough conversations. Some nights people cried. Some nights we celebrated victories.
But every night, we grew closer.
And looking back now, I realize how rare and beautiful that kind of space is.
The Facilitators Who Shaped Us
Each facilitator brought something unique that left a lasting imprint on all of us.
Monique
From the moment Monique started speaking, I was captivated.
She carried herself with such strength and warmth that you couldn’t help but lean in and listen. It felt like she wrapped the room in a kind of hope, like a warm hug.
She wasn’t selling anything.
She was simply reminding us of what was possible.
And baby, I believed every word.
Tiffany
Tiffany felt like someone you’d meet around the way, someone who had lived life, experienced its ups and downs, and turned those experiences into wisdom.
She reminded us that where you come from does not determine your value.
Your voice matters.
Your perspective matters.
You deserve to take up space.
For many of us, that reminder meant everything. Especially me, a little girl from Outeast.
The “Feeling Weeks”
The first ten weeks were what they jokingly called the “feeling weeks.”
And they weren’t kidding.
There were tears. There were vulnerable conversations. There were hugs and moments of deep reflection.
We learned not just about advocacy, but about ourselves.
The Surprise Transition
At the halfway point, something happened none of us were expecting.
Two new facilitators entered the picture: Ms. Mickee and Marcus.
Technically, we had met them at the initial retreat, but somehow we had forgotten they would take over the second half of the program.
When we realized Monique and Tiffany wouldn’t be leading the next ten weeks, the class was visibly upset.
We had grown attached.
But as it turns out, that transition brought new gifts.
Ms. Mickee
Ms. Mickee had a presence that felt like quiet wisdom.
She reminded me of people I admire deeply, those rare individuals whose vocabulary alone can make you pause and think.
I love learning new words. And Ms. Mickee had a word bank that could send you running to the dictionary, in the best way possible.
But beyond the language was her intention.
She was thoughtful, careful, and deliberate in the way she shared wisdom with us.
She is a small woman in stature, but incredibly powerful in spirit.
Marcus
Marcus brought humor and a John Wick backpack.
He brought wisdom too, but wrapped in a voice that felt very millennial, very relatable.
That balance mattered.
Because leadership conversations need both seriousness and levity.
And Marcus knew exactly how to deliver both.
Learning the Systems Around Us
Throughout the program, guest speakers joined us—people from government, journalism, and other sectors.
They helped us better understand how systems actually work:
How policy shapes communities.
How decisions are made.
And how everyday people can influence those decisions.
For many of us, it was empowering to see how advocacy fits into the bigger picture.
Latrice: The Heart Behind It All
Then there was Latrice, the organizer and point person behind the entire program.
She was there with us every week.
At first, she seemed guarded—quiet strength, observing from the background.
But as time passed, we saw just how deeply she cared about this work.
Latrice is what I like to call a water baby in the most respectful way possible. When I say water baby, I mean: someone whose heart runs deep.
Her passion for children, for public education, and for the communities we serve was impossible to miss.
One of the most powerful things she said to us was this, and I’m paraphrasing:
All of our children belong to all of us.
The work we do is not just for our own kids.
It’s for every child in our community.
Seeing her emotion, her vulnerability, and her dedication reminded us that advocacy isn’t just about strategy.
It’s about heart.
The Thing I Was Most Afraid Of
When this program started, I was very clear about one thing:
I did not like public speaking.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted.
These facilitators and the people in that room with me, pushed me beyond the limits I had placed on myself.
And by the end of the program, I stood up and did the very thing I feared most.
I spoke.
Not perfectly. Not flawlessly.
But authentically.
And that moment meant more to me than I expected.
The Children Who Were Watching
There is another layer to this story that I cannot leave out.
While the fourteen of us were gathering every Thursday night—learning, stretching ourselves, and building community—there were other people quietly connected to this journey.
Our families.
For twenty weeks, many of us made sacrifices. Some parents stepped away from evenings with their spouses. Some missed time with friends. Some arranged childcare so they could show up week after week.
And many of us stepped away from our children.
Parents Who Lead does provide childcare, but for my family that wasn’t always possible. My daughter has activities—taekwondo and other commitments—that often kept her on a different schedule.
So most Thursdays she simply heard me say, “Mommy has class tonight.”
Over time, she grew curious about what exactly this “class” was.
What was mommy doing every Thursday?
Who was she with?
Why did it matter so much?
And then graduation day arrived.
That day, she finally got to see what those twenty Thursdays had been about.
She watched the room. She saw the people. She saw the work.
At one point she picked up my iPad and started recording. And she said something that completely melted my heart.
She said:
“Mommy, I get to record you at your award ceremony like you record me at mine.”
And in that moment it hit me.
All those years of showing up for her—sitting in the audience, recording her moments, cheering her on—she was now doing the same for me. I don’t cry in public but at home, I get it in and trust me after I reflected on that moment in the privacy of my own home I let the happy tears flow.
She’s only seven years old.
But she understood something very important.
She understood showing up.
Not long before that, she had given a presentation for Black History Month at her school. Her teacher told me she had been nervous—but she got through it.
And I understood exactly how she felt.
Because I was nervous too.
Public speaking has never been my favorite thing. But during this program, I stood up and spoke anyway.
She was nervous.
I was nervous.
And we both got through it.
What may seem like a small moment was actually something much bigger.
She saw her mother do something hard.
And she saw that doing something hard doesn’t mean you stop—it means you do it anyway.
Planting Seeds
As I reflect on these twenty weeks, I realize something else.
This program didn’t just shape the parents in that room.
It shaped the people watching us from the sidelines.
Our spouses may have seen new courage in us.
Our friends may have seen new purpose.
And our children—who this work is ultimately for—got a front-row seat to what it looks like to become a changemaker.
Not all of us aspire to be in the spotlight. Some people are comfortable behind the scenes. Some prefer writing over speaking. Some simply want to do the work quietly.
But every single parent and grandparent in that room shared the same heart:
We wanted to make a difference.
And our children were watching that happen in real time.
They watched their parents and grandparents sacrifice time.
They watched their parents and grandparents push through fear.
They watched their parents and grandparents build community with strangers who became family.
Those are the kinds of seeds that shape the next generation.
Seeds that say:
You can be nervous and still be brave.
You can be uncertain and still step forward.
You can find your people, your tribe, and build something meaningful together.
So while this program was designed to develop parent leaders, I believe something even bigger happened.
We planted seeds in the children watching us.
Seeds of courage.
Seeds of advocacy.
Seeds that may one day grow into the next generation of changemakers.
The End… and the Beginning
Now that the twenty weeks are over, I find myself asking a strange question:
What do I do with my Thursdays now? (I know my pastor is happy my Thursdays are free to come to Bible study lol)
Those nights became sacred in a way.
They were filled with conversation, growth, laughter, and sometimes tears.
They were filled with people who began as strangers and became something more.
Each of us also created a community project, and every single project reflected the heart of the person who designed it.
And the most exciting part?
These projects have the potential to change our city.
To strengthen our schools.
To support our students.
The facilitators reminded us that this program was never meant to be the end of something.
It was the beginning.
And as I sit here reflecting, with tears in my eyes and gratitude in my heart, I realize something important:
Some of the best weeks of my life were spent in that room.
And the work we started there is only just beginning.