This morning was a first for all of us.
For my sons—15 and 14 years old—who had been given the honor and opportunity to serve in the Georgia Senate Page Program, sponsored by Lieutenant Governor Burt Jones.
As Senate Pages, my sons stepped into the heart of Georgia’s legislative process, standing among the very people who shape laws in our state. Their role was more than just symbolic —they were entrusted with delivering messages, distributing bills and amendments, and ensuring that legislative materials moved efficiently between officials. It was hands-on, it was fast-paced, and it was an education in leadership, service, and civic duty—all experienced from the Senate chamber floor. They weren’t just watching history happen; they were part of it.
For my youngest, Wynton, 10 years old, who supported his older brothers in the best way he could, adjusting his schedule so this day could happen for them.
And for me—a mother watching her boys step into a world that once seemed so distant, now standing tall inside it.
The night before, no one could sleep.
The house was filled with a nervous kind of energy—the kind that comes when something new and important is about to happen.
They prepared themselves, taking the steps of young men embracing responsibility. They washed their own hair, carefully detangling every coil, picking out their fros so they stood full, round, and proud. It was a process—not just of grooming, but of self-care, of making sure they presented their best selves in a space where they knew they belonged.
Their suits were neatly laid out, ties draped over hangers, shoes placed just right near the door. They were excited. They were anxious. They wanted to be ready.
And I watched them, smiling, knowing that this moment was going to be one they would remember for the rest of their lives.
The morning was meticulously planned. Every minute counted.
Wynton, my 10-year-old, had to be dropped off at school early—before the teachers even arrived. That’s not something his school usually allows, not for him or for any child. But when I explained to the principal and administrators that today was special—that his older brothers had a duty to serve at the Capitol, that I had only an hour to get downtown—they showed us grace.
They allowed him to sit in the lobby, supported by the kindness of his school community, waiting patiently for his own school day to begin. A simple act of understanding, yet so deeply impactful.
With Wynton safe at school, we were off.
Downtown Atlanta was just as I expected—crowded, hectic, with cars fighting for a spot in the chaotic parking deck near the Capitol. Two streets bottlenecked into one entrance, cones everywhere, drivers honking in frustration.
But I knew better.
Instead of getting caught up in the mess, I went straight to a hidden parking deck behind the church across from City Hall—one of those things you only learn after spending years working in and around the Gold Dome.
And then, it was time.
As we walked toward the Capitol, I saw my sons—tall, educated, melanin-rich young men—fully present in the moment. Their suits fit just right, their fros shaped to perfection, their shoulders squared, walking with quiet confidence.
They were stepping into a new world.
We took the stairs instead of the elevator—not because we had to, but because I wanted the world to see them.
On the third floor, outside the Senate chamber, I checked them in. I handed over their NRA-branded bookbags, packed with snacks, sandwiches, and water, making sure they had everything they needed.
Then, I looked them in the eyes and gave them a final pep talk.
“Today isn’t about being tired. It’s not about being hungry or thirsty. Today is about showing up. Today is about proving that you belong here. You represent yourselves, your family, and your community. Walk with purpose, stand tall, and outwork everyone in this room.”
They nodded. They understood.
We took pictures, capturing the moment forever.
I stayed close but gave them space, watching with the unwavering gaze only a mother knows. Every senator, every legislator, every visitor who passed, I made sure they knew:
“These are my sons. Look at them. Look at what they are becoming.”
Then, the moment came.
They were called into the Senate chamber. It was time to let go.
We prayed together—three times. We smiled. We hugged. And yes, I embarrassed them one last time, telling them in my proudest mom voice just how much I loved them.
They smiled—half amused, half exasperated—but I saw it in their eyes. They felt it.
Yes, weird moms build character.
As they stepped inside, I made my way downstairs, where I stumbled upon an event hosted by the Georgia Peanut Commission for International Peanut Butter and Jelly Day. I wasn’t expecting much, but curiosity got the best of me.
I grabbed a sample of a grilled peanut butter sandwich.
And let me tell you—it changed my life.
As I stepped outside, I exchanged warm words with Georgia State Patrol officers, thanking them for their service. They congratulated me on my sons’ achievement, and for a brief moment, we simply stood in mutual respect.
Then, just outside the building, I ran into an old neighbor (Phil Lunney) from East Atlanta. We don’t always see eye to eye politically, but today, that didn’t matter. We had a friendly conversation, and before parting ways, he suggested I try Café 244 down the block.
Still riding my wave of joy, I thought, Why not?
I walked the block, turned the corner, and stepped through two large gold doors—ADA-compliant, by the way. I scanned in, greeted everyone in the lobby, and entered the café.
It wasn’t crowded—most people were busy working—so I had the rare opportunity to take my time, to fully embrace the moment.
I grabbed a Smartwater, then filled my plate with a full Southern breakfast—grits, cheesy scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, two boiled eggs, strawberry banana pudding, and yes, pork bacon (which I knew I’d pay for later).
Then, I saw it.
Libby’s corned beef hash.
And suddenly, I froze.
My mind stuttered.
Hash brown? I said out loud before catching myself.
Then, I paused again.
Hash.
And finally, on the third try, I pointed at it, my voice barely above a whisper.
Corned beef hash.
For just a few seconds, time collapsed.
I was 19 again. Married. One child. Struggling.
That child—my firstborn—is now 15. The same child I had just dropped off at the Gold Dome, dressed in a suit, standing tall in the halls of power.
I shook the moment off with a smile, made a joke to the café worker, and carried on. Because if you know me, you know I’m a talker. And I didn’t want to explain what had just happened.
I sat down, opened my foam takeout container, and let the realization settle in.
No matter how much life has changed.
No matter how much I continue to push my children to have more, to be more, to reach further than I ever could…
I will always be reminded of where I started.
Of where we come from.
It’s humbling. It’s grounding.
And it’s a reminder of why we all serve.
Because today wasn’t just about my sons walking into the Georgia State Capitol.
It was about Wynton, waking up early, adjusting his schedule so his brothers could have this moment.
It was about the administrators and principal who showed grace when they didn’t have to.
It was about the officers, the café workers, the old neighbor, the strangers who became part of this story.
It was about always remembering where I come from.
And most of all, it was about my sons—standing tall in spaces where they belong.
Because no matter how high we climb, we must always remember to reach back and lift others up with us.
Today was our first.
But it won’t be our last.
A Heartfelt Thank You
This incredible day would not have been possible without the kindness, generosity, and support of so many.
A special thank you to Lieutenant Governor Burt Jones for giving my children the opportunity to step into greatness—to experience leadership beyond their neighborhood and witness firsthand the power of service and dedication.
To Janelle King, Denese Sampson, TJ, and Sebastian—your support, encouragement, and belief in my family mean more than words can express. I am deeply grateful for each of you.
To the Georgia Peanut Commission, Libby’s Corned Beef Hash, the elementary school and its administrators, and the educators who showed us grace this morning—thank you for your kindness.
To the senators, state legislators, Georgia State Troopers, Capitol staff, and every passerby who greeted us with warmth—your kindness did not go unnoticed.
To the City of Atlanta, a place I’ve poured my heart into for years, and to the church standing tall, shielding the parking deck from frustrated drivers in desperate need of a space—thank you for playing your part in this story.
To everyone who played a role, big or small—thank you.
