Thank You for Seeing Me: A Love Letter to My Restorative Justice Community

Y’all, I am so full of gratitude and emotion.

Right now, I’ve got Kirk Franklin & the Family’s “Whatcha Lookin’ 4” album blasting while I work. My favorites? “Conqueror,” “Savior More Than Life,” “Don’t Take Your Joy Away,” and “Let Me Touch You.” And when I tell you I had to stop everything to belt out the lyrics? Whew.
Let’s just say I’m real glad nobody else could hear me.

I sounded like a crying dog. My dogs even came running to check on me.
They probably thought I was in distress — but no, baby.
My spirit was lifting.

Gospel music has always been my balm.
It speaks for me when I don’t have the words.
It calms me when I’ve spiraled.
It lets me be human, flawed, full — and still centered in care. I mean R&B and trap music does too, but gospel is my childhood.

Even in relationships, I’ve always had to listen first before I could speak clearly.
If I was upset or wrong, I’d go listen to gospel before sending the real apology.
Not because I’m performative — but because I need to be grounded before I can be gracious.

So yeah, this post started because I was belting out Kirk Franklin.
But really?
This post is about gratitude — and the community that held me together when work wore me out.

RESPECT: My Restorative Community

I miss my people.
I mean it — I miss my restorative justice family from my last workplace.
Sophie, Nancy, Mary-Elizabeth, Joan, Heather, Dana, Greg, Dionne, Jenna, Don, Bob, Ekjot, Sheila, Tom, Cindy, Jo, Dominique, Isabella, Emin, Hira, Vernadette, Edwin, Fr. Holliday, Claudine, Danielle, Michelle, Lové — literally everyone and anyone I’m missing.

I miss the OGs — the “old gang,” though none of them are actually old in age because they, like me, are young at heart. They were the ones who built it with me back in 2019.

But let’s be real. It wasn’t just that they accepted me.
It was the first community where I fully allowed myself to be seen, and where I could more clearly see others in their full humanity.

(While writing the previous line, I hear my other friends saying… oh yea, Monique. You didn’t feel seen here. No, I’m not saying that. So, special shoutout to other amazing people and teams from past workplaces where I felt seen and where I hope I made you feel seen, heard, valued, understood, and delivered value to you — from the SCH Diversity Committee, to ODEI, P-WOCK ERG, KEEP and REACH squad, etc. and every colleague who helped sustain them, including Polly, Gerri, Dea, Liane, Karen, Shiobhan, Sally, Kathleen, Chris, Lorie, Simon, Carmen, Clara, Uma, Paula, Barb K, Hoi Ning, Natasha… and those who I’m forgetting— your memories are written on my heart even if your name isn’t typed on this post.  I mean there are many people who deserve a public thank you, including SJU peeps like Nada, Manouchkathe, Rosa, Linda, Doc, Nancy, Matt, EP, Eb, Nigel, Deana, Hira, Doc, Matt, Zahida, Christina, Sammi, Shanté, Aliya, Kamanie, Candice, Aliann… see and now I’m naming people not on RESPECT, and I will inevitably leave off someone I love, so yea–the point is, community can be made and taken anywhere.)

The restorative community that stays dear to my heart and practice was called RESPECT Bias Response Team.

It was the brainchild of Nada Llewellyn, my first supervisor in NYC — a woman I still love deeply.
She taught me how to lead with love, take mental health days, and treat leadership and people with care.

Under her vision, I was paired with Keaton — my co-conspirator, co-chair, and dear colleague — to help launch our university’s first restorative justice community for employees. They had a name for it, the RESPECT Bias Response Team. (It later did more than assist with bias response, it did what it was intended to do —built community.)

Keaton was analytical, organized, warm, and professional.
She was the yin to my yang. Or maybe I was her yin. Either way, it worked. We worked—hard.
We couldn’t have been more different, but our purpose and values were aligned.
Together, we built something beautiful.
She eventually stepped into a new role, but she left the foundation strong — one that I could carry forward for years.

What RESPECT Meant to Me

RESPECT was more than a program.
It was my workplace sanctuary.

When work was too much…
When emails were piling…
When I felt like no one understood the how or why behind what I was building…
I knew I’d see my RESPECT team twice a month.

I’d sit in circle with them.
Be held by them.
Share space with them.
Laugh with them.
Cry with them.

We were rooted in indigenous practices.
We practiced humility.
We made room for grace.
We told the truth — and held it with care.

I told those people all my business.
(And if you know me, you know that’s not a small thing.)

Because when you’re in a restorative space that’s built right,
— a space rooted in care and consent and shared humanity —
you don’t just show up, you become more whole.

During the pandemic, we moved online.
It wasn’t the same, but it was still sacred.
Those monthly meetings gave me something to look forward to —
and reminded me that harm still needed tending,
even when the world was shut down.

My Thank You

This post was supposed to be short.
But when I think of what RESPECT gave me…
When I remember how we built, how we served, how we loved…
I can't help but cry (and sing).

I want to thank:

• God, for the clarity and creativity that’s finally flowing again.

• My past students, colleagues, and community members — for letting me hold space with you.

• RESPECT, for being more than a title or committee — for being a piece of my heart.

• My co-chairs, tri-chairs, team members, and every person who ever sat in circle with me.
  

You helped me come out of my hole.
You helped me recover.
And you reminded me that I didn’t leave people — I left systems.
Y’all are still with me.

The Lo Down is…

Restorative communities don’t just shift culture — they save people.
They saved me.  Perhaps one day, with the help of the Tumble Dry Lo™ or your own doing, they can save you.

With Care,

Mo 💓

P.s., This is Part I of a two-part reflection. In Part II, I’ll share the blueprint behind building a restorative justice program that works — with structure, strategy, and soul.