The Unseen Game: Motherhood, Risk, and the Power of Women’s Basketball
There’s a moment in every working mother’s life when she realizes the world sees her differently. For me, it came during a Teams meeting, my 6-month-old babbling in the background, as a colleague casually asked for photos from my time covering the Las Vegas Aces’ championship run. What she didn’t know was that those photos—or the lack thereof—told a story far more complex than any game recap.
The Invisible Pressure to Disappear
Personally, I think one of the most fascinating—and heartbreaking—aspects of modern motherhood is the unspoken rule that pregnant women should fade into the background. It’s not just about social media aesthetics; it’s about fear. Fear of being seen as less committed, less capable, less valuable. When my belly began to show, I found myself retreating, not because I was ashamed, but because I was terrified of how the journalism world would judge me.
What many people don’t realize is that this fear isn’t just personal—it’s systemic. The U.S. has the highest maternal mortality rate among high-income countries, and Black women like me are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications. Yet, instead of addressing these risks, society often expects mothers to prove their dedication, even at the expense of their health.
The Dagger of Doubt
One thing that immediately stands out is how quickly the narrative shifts when a woman announces her pregnancy. A colleague’s response to my news—“You had so much potential”—felt like a dagger. It’s a sentiment that lingers in every industry, but in sports journalism, where the grind is relentless, it’s particularly suffocating.
From my perspective, this isn’t just about one insensitive comment; it’s about a culture that equates motherhood with career stagnation. What this really suggests is that we’ve failed to create systems that support working mothers, especially in high-pressure fields. Instead of asking how I’d balance work and pregnancy, why didn’t anyone ask how I was advocating for my health?
The Maternal Health Crisis: A Silent Opponent
A detail that I find especially interesting is how even high-profile athletes like Allyson Felix and Serena Williams have faced life-threatening complications during pregnancy. If they can struggle to get proper care, what chance do the rest of us have? My own battle with preeclampsia—a condition Black women are 60% more likely to develop—was a wake-up call.
If you take a step back and think about it, the fact that I had to rely on my family to advocate for me in the hospital is a damning indictment of our healthcare system. My aunt, a hospital executive, and my mother-in-law, a former ICU nurse, had to step in because doctors dismissed my symptoms. This raises a deeper question: How many women don’t have that kind of support?
The WNBA: A League of Its Own
What makes this particularly fascinating is how the WNBA became my sanctuary during this tumultuous time. While other assignments felt like minefields of judgment, covering women’s basketball was different. Becky Hammon, the Aces’ coach, didn’t treat my pregnancy like a liability—she treated it like a shared experience.
In my opinion, the WNBA isn’t just a league; it’s a community. A’ja Wilson’s parents gave me parenting advice, Cheyenne Parker-Tyus shared delivery tips, and UNLV coach Lindy La Rocque checked in on me postpartum. This level of support isn’t just heartwarming—it’s revolutionary. It’s a reminder that women can uplift each other in ways the world often doesn’t.
The Universal Struggle of Working Moms
One thing that’s often misunderstood is that the stigma against working mothers isn’t unique to sports or journalism. It’s everywhere. A coach publicly calling me out for taking “more time than I said I would” after maternity leave was a stark reminder of this. But here’s the thing: I didn’t miss the Aces’ championship parade. I watched it from a hospital room, my newborn son on my chest, feeling more fulfilled than ever.
What this really suggests is that motherhood doesn’t diminish our capacity to achieve—it redefines it. My son didn’t derail my career; he gave it new meaning. Now, in my new national role, I get to tell stories of women in sports who are breaking barriers every day, both on and off the court.
A New Kind of Victory
If you take a step back and think about it, motherhood and sports aren’t so different. Both require resilience, teamwork, and the ability to adapt under pressure. The WNBA taught me that, and it’s a lesson I’ll carry into every story I write.
Personally, I think the most powerful parades aren’t the ones with confetti and crowds—they’re the ones we throw for our children’s milestones. And one day, I’ll tell my son that he made my championship season even sweeter. Because in the end, the greatest victories aren’t the ones the world sees—they’re the ones we feel in our hearts.
