10 Truths Every White Parent Raising Black or Brown Children Needs to Hear

By a white mom of Black twins who's still unlearning - every single day.

The moment your child enters your life, everything changes—including what you thought you knew.

The journey to becoming a parent is filled with unknowns. You simply don’t know what you’re getting into until it begins. For me, the path to adoption was far from straightforward. I was first matched with a birth mother who after giving birth decided to raise her child herself. That loss hit me hard. Then followed two long months of silence from the adoption agency, a quiet that unsettled me deeply and made me doubt if this was truly my path.

Then, suddenly, the phone rang: “Congratulations! You’re a mom!” I gasped — overwhelmed with emotion. And then they added, “Of twins.” Twice the love, twice the responsibility, twice the unknown. My heart raced.

I flew to Florida to meet my babies when they were just five days old. From that moment, everything changed — including what I thought I knew about motherhood, race, and family. I stepped into uncharted territory: being a white mom raising Black children. The trust those tiny beings placed in me was immediate and humbling, yet the learning curve was steep.

This journey has been an ongoing process of learning and unlearning—grappling with my own whiteness while showing up fully for my children’s lives and realities. If parenting is the hardest and most fulfilling thing most people ever do, add to that the challenge of raising Black and Brown children as a white mom, and you find yourself on a road less traveled.

And that’s the road I’m walking — and inviting you to walk with me.

The history you were taught was incomplete—and often written by the oppressor.

I was born and raised in the Netherlands, inside a very white bubble. The history I learned was, of course, written by the victors. But it wasn’t until I started seeing the world through my children’s eyes that I realized what that actually meant: my childhood education was curated by the occupier. The colonizer. The supremacist.

Trevor Noah shared in one of his podcasts that in his 40+ years of living as a South African, he had never once met a single person who claimed to support apartheid. And I thought: Wow. The word apartheid is Dutch. That’s embarrassing enough. But the deeper truth? A 7% white minority controlled an entire Black nation. Just like European settlers wiped out 90% of the original population in the Americas. Just like a criminal and rapist can be re-elected president in this beloved country I now call home.

What do these stories have in common?

Whiteness.

Listen when Black and Brown people give you feedback—even when it stings.

When my twins were toddlers, I remember being called out by Black strangers about their hair. At the time, I thought they were being overcritical. Now, I look back at those photos and cringe at how dry their curls were. They were right.

That feedback felt harsh in the moment, but it came from a place of care. It was a lesson in listening, in humility, and in getting over myself. You don’t know what you don’t know—until someone with lived experience tells you.

Guidance will come in mysterious ways—if your heart stays open.

One of the most comforting pieces of wisdom I received came not from a friend or mentor, but from a billboard. It was the one closest to my house. An ad recruiting foster parents. The image was of a Black parent and an even darker-skinned child. The scene: frying chicken gone awry. The headline?

“Parenting isn’t about being perfect.”

That message that showing your kids how to find answers and repair your mistakes stayed with me for years. It was divine timing. A message I needed to hear in my bones. And it reminded me that the most sacred guidance can show up in the most ordinary places—if we’re paying attention.

If you feel like a savior, pause. That story does more harm than good.

Even thinking of yourself as a “rescuer” assumes someone else needed saving. That someone else had misfortune. That you’re offering them something they didn’t have. That is a power imbalance. That is inequality where supremacy quietly takes root.

But here’s the truth you can’t ignore: your children know your whiteness better than you realize. BIPOC survival depends on understanding whiteness - its history, its impact, and its ongoing influence.

If white people hadn’t historically oppressed people of color, my children’s birth mother might never have chosen me. Did she choose me as adoptive parent so her twins would have greater access, more safety, and more opportunity - in other words, more privilege - simply because of my pale skin?

That realization is painful. Really painful. 
It took me years to let it fully land.

You’ll have to confront your own unconscious bias—especially when it scares you.

There were times I was angry about my son’s temper tantrums—really angry. And a dark thought crossed my mind: Am I afraid of the stereotype? The angry, big, Black male I might be raising?

I pushed the thought away. But the fact that it came up at all says something. And the fact that I dismissed it? Says even more.

This work isn’t just about advocating for your children in the world. It’s about confronting the world within yourself.

Representation in your child’s life isn’t optional—it’s essential.

Do you listen to black or brown podcast hosts? Authors? Watch BIPOC made and casted movies? Frequent black owned restaurants and theaters? Or do you avoid predominantly BIPOC neighborhoods and destinations? Do you immerse yourself in the world of the global majority (non-whites)?

Do you have Black or Brown professionals in your life? Do you rely on a black or brown therapist? Do you and your kids have teachers of color? Doctors? Do you trust a black or brown accountant? Do you confide in friends that look like your children?

I didn’t. I never had a role model for hanging out with many people of color, let alone raising Black children. And I wasn’t woke enough to even look for one.

Eventually, I hired a Black therapist. And you know what? She’s the reason I found this path as a life coach for white moms. She helped me understand my role in a way no one else could.

Thank you, Miriam.

Racism doesn’t pause for a crisis. And calling 911 is never neutral.

I’ll never forget the day my son was raging, and the Black grandparent of his best friend called the police on us.

I was flabbergasted. She should have known how dangerous it is to call 911 on an angry Black male. But then I remembered—this is intergenerational trauma. This is dysregulation. I have done the same.

And still—every time I’ve called for crisis support, my hands have trembled. My fingers shook over the numbers. My mind flooded with images of Trayvon Martin and Philando Castile.

I’ve always had respectful encounters with crisis responders. But that’s luck. (Unless it makes a difference that this white woman was at the scene...) Not policy. Not protection.

Perfectionism is a function of whiteness. It disconnects you from truth.

Whiteness teaches us that if we’re perfect, we’re better. Above average. Above reproach. It’s a lie—and a dangerous one.

Every time I pretended I knew what I was doing when I didn’t… 
Every time I avoided hard conversations because I wanted to seem composed… 
Every time I tried to “do it right” instead of just being honest…

…I upheld a system that keeps people posturing instead of healing.

Let your kids see you mess up. Let them see you take responsibility.

Let them see the cracks in your efforts. That’s how the light gets in.

You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stay connected.

This journey will break your heart open again and again. And still—your job is not to get it all right. Your job is to keep showing up. To repair when you get it wrong. To lean into discomfort. To let your kids change you.

Vulnerability connects. Every doubt, every fear, every unspoken insecurity—it’s all holy ground.

You don’t have to be the perfect parent. 
You just have to be a present one.

These ten points are not a checklist to complete or a badge to wear. They are windows into a messy, holy, heart-breaking, and heart-opening journey—one I am still on, and one I invite you into. If you’re raising Black or brown children as a white parent, you are navigating a legacy you didn’t choose but are responsible for. You’re holding both the love you feel and the systems your children will face. You’re uncovering your own blind spots while fiercely advocating for theirs.

That tension is real—and so is the growth. My hope is that in reading these reflections, you feel less alone, more awake, and more willing to keep walking the road less traveled. It won’t be perfect. That’s whiteness talking. But it will be real. And real is where the healing begins.

Reflections

Which point hit home for you?
Which one feels hard?
What is one small action step you can take today to show up more fully for your child?

Ready for Support on this Journey?

I offer 1:1 coaching and group coaching for white parents raising Black and Brown children with love and intention. My goal is not to be your expert – but to be your companion – a fellow traveler on a road less travelled.

Let’s grow together:

Your love matters. Your willingness to grow matters even more. Let’s walk this road. With courage, joy and truth.

With love,

Marion Van Namen

LET'S TALK

10 Truths Every White Parent Raising Black or Brown Children Needs to Hear

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