My mom is the kind of beautiful that turns heads in the grocery store. Small and willowy, with blonde hair and deep blue eyes, she has always looked like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Her hair is always done and she matches her shoes to her handbag. Next to her, I used to feel like the afterthought. I’m curvier, with hazel eyes and brunette hair. Quieter by nature. I didn’t light up a room, I watched it from the corner and noticed everything.

For a long time, I thought beauty had a specific formula. That it was something you either inherited or missed out on. And if you didn’t fit the mold, if you didn’t look like my mom, you had to settle for being “nice” or “smart” or “reliable.” Beauty, as I understood it, was a very narrow road, and I was walking the shoulder.

Then one day, I met Suzanne Sugarbaker.

Not in person, of course, and my mom introduced us, actually. She showed up on Designing Women, all elegance and fire. She was glamorous and unapologetic and took up space like she was meant to. She didn’t look like my mom. She didn’t look like most of the women I was told were “beautiful.” But she was.

Watching Suzanne, something in me grew. It was the first time I saw a woman who shared some of my features, darker hair, curves, a strength, and was still the most captivating person in the room. It wasn’t about her exact measurements or coloring. It was the way she moved, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself. She taught me that femininity isn’t a fixed image. It’s not one kind of body or one kind of voice. It’s something deeper and wider and more generous than that.

But femininity isn’t always bold and sparkling either. Sometimes it’s quiet. Steady. Wrapped in a soft quilt and lit by the glow of faith.

My grammy showed me that.

As a young bride, she took on the adventure of a lifetime: teaching rural Africans in the villages of Tanzania about her savior, Jesus while raising a toddler and birthing a baby (my mom). Widowed in her thirties with four children, she went back to college and became a teacher. Later, she helped raise two bonus daughters. She did it all with grace, gentleness, and a kind of resilient strength that never needed to announce itself. She is the kindest person I know. Deeply religious. An artist with fabric and thread. Her quilts aren’t just warm, they’re beautiful, stitched with care and prayer. She carries herself with a quiet dignity, the kind that makes people feel safe. Seen. Loved.

She has never needed a spotlight to be extraordinary. She just lived her life with faithfulness and beauty, one small act at a time.

And then there’s my mom.

If my grandmother was quiet strength and Suzanne was bold glamour, my mom is rooted joy. She’s the epitome of bloom where you’re planted. A believer. Funny and fiercely dedicated. She’s been a teacher for over forty years, her classroom filled with energy, compassion, and creativity that doesn’t wear out. Some of my earliest memories are of the library with her, both of us lit up with the same excitement, fingers trailing along rows of books like they were treasure maps. She’s the one who taught me to love words. To love learning. To love showing up for people. I was lucky enough to have her all the time, since her schedule as a teacher was the same as mine as a student.

She has always, always been there for me. The kind of mom you can call with anything. The kind who remembers what matters to you. The kind who stands steady when everything else is wobbling.

And now, as I raise daughters of my own, I carry pieces of all three women in me.

I want my girls to know that femininity has room for all of it. For fire and softness, for boldness and quiet, for lipstick and laugh lines, for staying rooted and reaching wide. That it’s not about fitting into a mold. It’s about becoming more fully who you are.

Femininity isn’t a rulebook. It’s a spectrum.
And every shade matters.

My grandmother showed me that.
Suzanne reminded me.
And my mom lived it out in front of me every single day.

I am blessed among women.