“Mama, You Protected Me… But You Didn’t Prepare Me”

This was a comment from a single mother after a conversation with her son. She said he looked her dead in the eye, with a calmness that carried the weight of generations.

“If you really loved me the way you said you loved me,” he told her, “you would’ve taught me how to survive the situations you were afraid of. Instead, you tried to protect me from the world—but never taught me how to protect myself in it.”

That statement, she said, hit her harder than any sermon, harder than any switch, belt, or backhand from the elders of old. It was truth. Raw, unfiltered, and undeniable.

And it made me think.

Far too often, in their sacred and relentless effort to shield their sons from the pain and pitfalls of life, Black mothers forget that love isn’t just about protection—it’s about preparation.

You can guard a boy from harm, but if you don’t equip him to face harm when it inevitably comes, then you haven’t saved him—you’ve delayed his destruction.

This is what happens when mama tries to raise a man without the presence—or principles—of a father or father figure. The love is deep. The intentions are pure. But without the balance of preparation, that love can smother rather than strengthen.

You cover him. Coddle him. Create a sanctuary thick with worry, full of warmth—but missing the lessons that steel the soul. Then one day, at 17, 18, or 19, when his voice deepens and he starts to smell himself, that wall of safety cracks. You say he can’t stay under your roof, and you send him out.

Out into a world that doesn’t know him.
Out into a system that doesn’t care about him.
Out into streets that are more than willing to teach him.
But the streets don’t teach with compassion. They teach with consequences.

This is not an indictment.
This is a plea.

To every Black mother raising a son:
Love him—but prepare him.
Don’t just shield him from the storm. Teach him how to build a boat. Show him how to row.
Teach him how to lose, how to hurt, how to heal.
Teach him how to fight—not with fists, but with faith.
How to rise—not just from sleep, but from failure.
How to stand—not just on two feet, but on principles.

Let him fall—just enough to learn how to get up.
Let him struggle—just enough to develop strength.
Don’t silence every tear or solve every problem.
Sometimes, the silence is where boys first hear the voice of manhood calling.

Because one day, mama, you won’t be there to catch him.
So give him the tools now to catch himself.

The world is waiting.
And it doesn’t wait kindly.
If we don’t prepare our boys for life, life will prepare them the hard way.
And the price for that lesson?

Too many times, it's paid in blood, in bars, or in burial.

So love him deeply. But prepare him completely.
Because your love, no matter how strong, can’t stop a world that was built to break him.
But your preparation just might teach him how to bend—and not break.