All The Women Who Made Me

Jasleni Brito
Apr 27
5 min read

A Mother's Day reflection on the patterns we inherit, the wounds we carry, and the gratitude that lives in all of it

Picture of Jasleni Brito and her mom — My mama and me!

My mother walked herself to the hospital when she was in labor with me.

Not because she had to. Because that's just who she is.

She had been working at a bodega in The Bronx, felt the contractions coming, and walked. Alone. Through the pain. To the place where she would bring me into the world. And if that one image doesn't tell you everything you need to know about the woman who raised me, I don't know what will.

My mother, Iluminada, which translates to "illuminated", is a warrior goddess in the most literal sense. Tough in a way I have never seen replicated in another human being. Resilient in a way that defies logic. She built her business success through 14-hour days, for over 30 years, all the way into knee replacements — and kept going. Her intensity is the kind that fills a room before she even speaks. It drives me crazy. But I also recognize it for what it is: the full, unapologetic manifestation of her power. And I am in awe of her for it.

But I didn't grow up with just one mother.

I grew up with many.

Picture of artist Jasleni Brito and her sisters Ari and Jasmin — My sisters and me at my brother's Gender Reveal Party

Ari (my eldest sister) is the voice of reason I reach for when life gets complicated and I need to think clearly. She is calm where I am chaotic, measured where I am impulsive. She's the person I call when I need to make a smart decision. She's also the person I call when I'm deep into a really good show and need someone to dissect every character's choices with me. She is wisdom and warmth in equal measure, and I don't take that for granted for a single second.

Jasmin (my second oldest sister) is my co-conspirator. Chaotic in the best way. Overflowing with heart. She is the person I call when I have a wild, quirky, slightly unhinged idea and need someone to look me in the eye and say yes, absolutely, do it. Every creative person needs a Jasmin in their life. I got lucky mine is my sister.

And then there is my nanny, who held us when we were small. The neighborhood women with rollers in their hair who watched out for us from across the street. My aunts. My grandmothers. The mentors... business coaches, life coaches, therapists, and yes, even my accountant, who helped me completely reframe my relationship with money in a way that I can only describe as healing.

All of these women. All of this love. All of this shaping.

As Mother's Day approaches, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be mothered. Not just by the woman who gave birth to you, but by all the women who show up — who see something in you, who pour into you, who hold you accountable, who let you be messy and still choose to stay.

I've also been thinking (honestly, uncomfortably ) about what we inherit from these women.

Because it isn't all soft and golden.

Art by Jasleni Brito. Dominican faceless doll on top of a table with flowers next to it.

My mother taught me by example what it looks like to power through. To be tough. To conquer. To achieve. She drilled those values into me with love and intention, and I am grateful for every single one of them. And I also see how those same values have made it hard for me to rest. To be soft. To extend to myself the kind of gentle compassion I freely give to everyone else.

This is what my friend Caroline and I were talking about recently. She's a Latina artist (ceramicist) and the two of us were deep in conversation about our mothers, about the complicated, layered, nuanced thing that happens when the women who love you most also pass down the wounds they never got to heal. Some people call it the mother wound. We felt it was more complicated than that. It's more like... an inheritance. A mixed one. Full of gold and full of weight, often at the same time.

As a Dominican American woman, I live between two cultures — and both of them have something to say about what a woman should be, how hard she should work, how much she should sacrifice, how little she should ask for. The immigrant work ethic is real and it is powerful and it is also, sometimes, relentless in ways that cost you things you don't realize you've lost until much later.

I've been sitting with all of this in my art studio.

My upcoming show, Patterns of Generation, was born from exactly this place. I've been painting portraits of women — resilient, fierce, soft, curious, joyful, free — set against backgrounds of literal patterns. Because that's what we're always painting over. The patterns we inherited. The ones that served us. The ones that didn't. The ones we're choosing, consciously and bravely, to transform.

Each painting is a woman in the middle of that moment, not after the transformation, but during it. Still carrying the old thing. Already reaching for something new.

That's where most of us live, isn't it?

So this Mother's Day, I want to celebrate all of it... the warrior goddess who walked herself to the hospital, the sister who talks me off ledges, the sister who pushes me off them, the nanny, the neighbors, the mentors, the women with the rollers in their hair.

The love that was given imperfectly and still changed everything.

Think about the women who made you. Not just the easy parts — all of it. The gold and the weight. Because you can't fully receive the love that was given to you until you're willing to see it whole.

Call your mom if you can. Sit with her memory if she's gone. Honor the woman who mothered you even when it wasn't her job.

And if you're ready to look at what you've inherited — the patterns worth keeping and the ones ready to be released — I made something for that.