A Tribute to My Mother
By Jarvus Ricardo Hester
You ever watch someone turn a scrap into sanctuary? I have.
My mother has always had the kind of magic that doesn’t need money. Give her a yard of fabric and some stuffing, and suddenly you have a pillow so beautiful you’d think it came off a showroom floor. Some drapes from the discount rack? She’ll have them stitched and folded into something regal. Not because she was trying to impress anyone — but because she believed everything, and everyone, could be made whole again.
That’s the real inheritance she gave me: the ability to see possibility in what others discard.
New York is the most giving place I’ve ever lived. I’ve been all over — Chicago, Charlotte, Springfield, Lakeland — but nowhere gives like New York. People here will give you the shirt off their back, but they’ll cut you if you try to take it. There’s a code here, a rhythm. And one of the rhythms is this: people are always upgrading. The amount of nearly-new, high-quality things people put on the curb would shock you. But my mother? She could walk past that pile and see the promise. A chair with a wobbly leg? That’s a future throne. A beat-up lamp? Just waiting for the right shade and love.
My apartment, my studio — they’re filled with pieces I’ve rescued, rehabbed, and reimagined. And every piece reminds me of her. The way she taught me that making a home isn’t about money, it’s about imagination. That beauty isn’t found — it’s created. That healing, real healing, comes when you see value in what the world has labeled “damaged.”
But the truth is, it wasn’t always easy between us.
Growing up, my mom and I had a very challenging relationship. She’d make passing comments like, “I could’ve been an opera singer,” and for a long time, that stung. There were years I barely spoke to her. Years where I was chasing my own voice, trying to figure out who I was in the shadow of all the things we hadn’t said.
It wasn’t until I moved to New York — a city that breaks you open just to show you what you’re made of — that I realized something essential:
I am who I am because of her.
I am who I am because of my dad.
Because of every lesson, every word, every silence.
You are a product of your environment. And to deny acknowledgment or gratitude to the people who sowed into me — even if imperfectly — would be an insult to myself. And to the Creator who gave me this life.
A couple of months ago, my mom told me she was proud of me — maybe for the first time in my life. And those words? They healed places in me I didn’t know were still waiting.
DIY Kings: Restoration as Resistance
That’s why we’re launching a new lifestyle series here at Mood Magazine, part of our healing vertical: DIY Kings.
This isn’t just about refurbishing furniture — it’s about rebuilding lives. Every month, we’ll take something someone else has thrown away — a lampshade, a chair, a pillow, a frame — and we’ll show how to bring it back to life. But we’ll also talk about how we bring ourselves back to life. Because it’s the same process:
Strip. Sand. Restitch. Repaint. Love.
We’re building events, workshops, and community gatherings where creativity becomes therapy. Where restoration becomes a way of life. Where we stop waiting for permission to heal and start creating beauty on our own terms.
My mother taught me that.
This piece is for her — while she’s still here.
Because we don’t wait until the flowers are for the funeral.
We give them now.
Thank you, Mom.
You taught me how to find beauty in ugly things.
And because of you, I never stopped believing in revival.
