May 26, 2025, marks my great-grandmother’s second heavenly birthday. As I sift through family photos with my mom, the memories and emotions start to flood in. While other kids spent their summers at home or at summer camps, I was at Mother’s house. Going to church in itchy stockings and poofy dresses, praying she’d let me take communion, even when I didn’t fully understand what it meant. Riding passenger side in her classic silver Cadillac DeVille on the way to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal. Sitting with her on the patio, waiting for the tea to steep in the sun. Getting completely caught up in her TV rotation: “Judge Judy,” “Cheyenne,” “As The World Turns,” “The Young and the Restless,” and “Family Feud.”
I was in awe of her. She was witty, sharp, charming, and kind to everyone she met, always drawing people in with her smile. She never left the house without her brows done, her nails painted, and her hair laid. And her collection of fur coats, power suits, and church hats would bring any fashion enthusiast to their knees.
She was stylish and extremely particular about the execution of her looks. When her weight fluctuated, she still made sure her looks were pristinely tailored. Her shoe collection was extensive, as it was mandatory for her footwear to match her outfit. Her clothes were always meticulously pressed and intentionally creased, and if there was a hat that completed the look, you better believe it was atop her head, skewed perfectly. She kept a power suit in rotation, whether it was for the Knights of Peter Claver, the American Business Women’s Association, or the Red Hat Society, each tied to a community she poured into.
She also loved a matching moment, especially with my grandmother. She’d call ahead of a get-together just to ask, “What are you wearing?” so they could coordinate. Fashion was a way for her to connect, but it was also deeply personal. She sewed, like many women from her generation did, and taught me that style isn’t just about how you look, it’s about the care you take in the pieces you wear and making them your own.
That mindset deepened my appreciation for clothing and shaped my entire career trajectory. It led me to fashion design, where I created both personal pieces and collections for broader audiences, and ultimately to fashion journalism, where I now explore and share the deeper stories behind why fashion matters. Her influence didn’t just impact me professionally; it was deeply personal, embedded in the everyday moments I shared with her.
Among all my memories of my great-grandmother, some of the most vivid are the quietest ones. I remember sitting on the edge of the tub, watching as she powdered her face, misted herself in a cloud of perfumes, and layered on chunky gold rings, hoops, and necklaces. Those rituals felt like magic to watch, and they sit vividly with me as if it were just yesterday. It’s one of my earliest memories that shaped the way I saw beauty. But she wasn’t just enchanting in the way she carried herself. She was the foundation for everything my family stood on.
Her name was Odella Major, but everyone called her Mother. Whether you were blood-related or not, she was always Mother. She treated everyone like her own. During her 96 years of life, she led four generations of women, each of us catching a different era of her, yet all learning the same lessons through her unwavering love. She brought us together through food, celebration, a mean game of spades, and shared history. She was our sun, the center, the constant, the keeper of stories and traditions. Even now, after she’s gone, we orbit her memory. For me, that orbit looks like a gold necklace. One of the few pieces I have of hers.
Mother passed two months short of my 27th birthday, which happened to fall on Easter last year. As my family began the tender process of sorting through her belongings, my mom mailed me an Easter basket of goodies. Nestled among the treats was a stuffed bunny wearing my great-grandmother’s necklace. A gold religious medallion necklace, ornate but not flashy, with a delicate chain.
Even in this simple inheritance, Mother’s thoughtful nature shone through. She modified it to have a magnetic clasp, so it’s easier to take on and off—always so innovative. The pendant itself is an image of the Virgin Mary, encircled by a sunburst-like filigree frame. Around the edge, a prayer is inscribed, “Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.”
The Virgin Mary believed to be born without sin, is said to intercede for those who turn to her for help. It’s a plea for comfort, protection, and grace. In many ways, that’s exactly who Mother was to us. A devout Catholic, she never missed a Sunday mass, and she always had her Bible close by. Though I’m no longer religious, I’ve come to find comfort in the necklace. The prayer, once foreign, now reads like a blessing. It’s a call for protection, for mercy, for love. Wearing this necklace now feels like I’m still wrapped in her care. Still being covered.
It wasn’t until recently that I noticed that in one of the last pictures I have with her, she’s wearing the very same necklace that was passed down to me. I must’ve seen the photo a dozen times, but this time, it landed differently, like the necklace had been meant for me—that she meant it for me. The necklace that once sat close to her heart is now what I covet close to mine.
Grief has a way of attaching itself to the smallest things. A scarf. A scent. A photograph. Or, in my case, a necklace. These objects become extensions of love, reminders that the people we’ve lost are still with us in ways that can easily go unnoticed when we cling to the past. In a way, it’s them urging us to stay present. In the craziness of life, it can feel like her memory gets lost, but in the small acts of getting dressed and putting on her necklace, it feels like she’s right there with me. And in those moments, I’m reminded that fashion, at its most powerful, isn’t just what we wear, it’s how we carry memory.