Memoirs of Missy Con't

Recollecting My Bravest Experience

Bravery in the Field

Whenever you’re out on location as a news reporter, you have to be brave in ways most people never see. You walk into situations without knowing what you might en- counter — hostility, chaos, danger, or simply the sharp edges of truth people don’t want to share. Chasing down a story means pushing past your own fear. And sometimes, it means asking uncomfortable questions of powerful people who would prefer you stay silent.
I’ll never forget chasing down former Alabama Governor Guy Hunt. I wanted answers about his use of state air- planes for out-of-state preaching engagements where he accepted cash donations — a story that would eventually spark ethics investigations and charges. My news director had me staking out the Montgomery state capitol, wait- ing for the moment the Governor would appear so I could confront him directly.
My photographer and I would plan our positions like a strategic operation — where to stand, which angle to take, how to get close enough before his security could block me. And when that moment finally came, I remember running up to Hunt, microphone ready, questions sharp on my tongue. His bodyguards came at me hard, pushing, block- ing, using their physical presence to silence the questions they didn’t want asked. But I stood my ground because that was my job: to seek truth, even when truth tried to shove me out of the way.

In 1991, the Alabama Ethics Commission ruled that Hunt may have broken the law by using state planes for 18 preaching trips where he accepted nearly $10,000 in “love offerings.” He apologized for what he called poor judg- ment — though he fought the accusations at first. The preaching-trip charges were eventually dropped, but years later he was convicted of stealing from his inaugural fund, a conviction that removed him from office in 1993.

I had seen the story from the beginning — from the chase, to the questions, to the consequences.
Not all assignments involved politicians. Sometimes they involved danger of a different kind. I was always a little un- easy going on drug raids, or covering shootings, or con- fronting suspected criminals. There’s a particular tension that sits in your chest when you step out of a news car and into a neighborhood humming with violence or uncertain- ty. You never know what will happen next.

Working as a reporter taught me that bravery isn’t a loud thing. It’s quiet. It’s steady. It’s the moment you push fear aside because the story matters. It’s doing the job anyway — even with your heart beating in your throat.

Exploring Significant Figures in My Life

The Women Who Shaped Me

When I think about the people who have influenced my life the most, I realize just how blessed I am. I’ve had incredible role models — women whose wisdom, strength, and love helped hold me up and shape who I became.
One of the greatest blessings in my life is Mama Weezie. Eloise Miller came into my world over thirty years ago in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and from that very first moment, she became my go-to person. My safe place. My second mother. Whenever I needed someone to talk to — whether I was wrestling with life’s challenges or just needed to laugh through the chaos — I could pick up the phone and she was right there.
Part of why I got so attached to Weezie early on is sim- ple: nobody can touch her in the kitchen. That woman can cook her entire soul into a meal. She would invite a bunch of us reporters over, and you could smell her house from the driveway — ribs falling off the bone, greens per- fectly seasoned, potato salad mixed with the kind of love you can’t buy in any store. Her food was always clean, fresh, and seasoned just right. Being from Montgomery, Alabama, she brought that authentic, proud, Southern soul-food magic into everything she made.
But it wasn’t just the food. It was the way she lived. Weezie pays every bill on time, keeps her life clean, organized, and ethical. She taught me the importance of saving money, being prepared, handling responsibilities with dignity, and staying ready for the unexpected. She’s wise and deeply spiritual, and even in her eighties she keeps up with tech- nology, news, world events — you can’t slip anything past Mama Weezie.

What I love most is how she never hesitates to say, “I am stepping in as your mama — this is Tracee’s loss.” She claims me proudly. She loves me with intention. She filled a space my biological family couldn’t, and I honor her for that.

And life has a funny way of weaving stories together — her daughter, Kathleen Gay, and I went to the University of Washington in Seattle at the same time. I remembered her from those days, and reconnecting in Pittsburgh years later felt like fate. Between Mama Weezie and Kathleen, I never felt alone. They were, and still are, family.

Another woman who changed my life — and who I consider one of the baddest women in radio and television — is my Godmother, Bev Smith. Ms. Bev is pure Pittsburgh excellence, a true national treasure and history maker. Her motto says it all: “Stand up, Be counted, Get involved.” Ms. Bev began her television and radio career in 1971 as Pittsburgh’s first African American consumer affairs in- vestigative reporter. She went on to host a national ra- dio program on American Urban Radio Networks, earn- ing the title “Queen of Late Night Talk,” and later hosted “Our Voices” on Black Entertainment Television. To Black folks, Ms. Bev is our Harriet, our Rosa, our Michelle — all wrapped into one powerful woman who does not play games and does not sugarcoat truth.

You cannot step to Ms. Bev without your facts, figures, and sources lined up. She knows the plight of Black people like she lived it — because she has. She has spent her entire life advocating for our community, unapologetically lov- ing her people, and using her platform to uplift voices that needed to be heard.

I’ve worked beside her in so many ways — traveling with her when she was speaking, helping book her for nation- al appearances, producing her shows. She is one of the last great ladies: stylish, razor-sharp, courageous, and utterly committed. She has marched on picket lines, fought for women, advocated for those living with AIDS, slept among the homeless to tell their stories, and she can pick up the phone and call practically any Black political leader in Congress.

There is no shame in Ms. Bev’s game. She has lived in the trenches for decades, speaking truth with boldness, grace, and fire. Every time I am in her presence, I learn something new. She challenges me, stretches me, and influences me in ways I’m still discovering.

When she left Pittsburgh for Harrisburg to care for her mother, Mrs. Isabella Sloan, who lived to the remarkable age of 104, she did it with the same dedication she brings to everything. Ms. Bev believes in honor, in duty, in showing up for the people you love.

She has influenced me profoundly — through her dy- namism, her brilliance, her courage, and the simple fact that she was always nearby when I needed guidance. And my favorite thing she says — the line that captures her spirit perfectly — is:

“No one can tell me who to invite to my dinner table.” She knows she is the truth. And she taught me to walk boldly in mine.

With my God Mom Ms. Bev Smith, the Queen of Broadcasting

Revisiting the Most Profound Event

cultural moments have been so profound

Revisiting the Most Profound Event

Throughout my lifetime, several cultural moments have been so profound that they shaped my identity, my beliefs, and my understanding of this country. Some filled me with pride and hope, while others brought grief and deep reflec- tion. All of them left lasting imprints on who I am today. One of the most powerful moments was watching Barack Hussein Obama become the first Black president of the United States. On election night in 2008, I stood in awe, tears in my eyes, realizing I was witnessing history. For gen- erations, many Black families believed we might never see a president who looked like us—not in our lifetime. But there he was, a brilliant and steady Black man rising to the highest office in the land.

My family celebrated with pride. During the campaign, I proudly wore my Obama gear everywhere I went, hold- ing my young son Isaiah close. I hoped that one day he would understand the significance of this moment and what it meant for his future. President Obama carried himself with dignity, intellect, and compassion. Watching his hair turn from deep black to gray over his two terms was a reminder of the heavy burden of leadership. And Michelle Obama—elegant, brilliant, and unapologetically representing Black womanhood—brought a piece of all of us into the White House.
Living through his presidency felt like watching a shining star on the world stage. His excellence, scholarship, and presence were unmatched.

But not all defining moments were filled with celebration. One of the darkest days of my lifetime was September 11, 2001, when the United States was attacked in ways none of us could have imagined. At WPXI-TV, I was called in immediately, along with the entire newsroom. The day felt heavy—chaotic in the newsroom yet eerily quiet in the world around us.

Later that evening, after hours of nonstop coverage, I stepped out onto my balcony. The silence was unsettling. Then an army helicopter flew so low I could almost see the soldiers inside. That moment made it painfully clear: We were at war. America’s innocence had been shattered. The nightmares that followed were haunting—images of people jumping from the towers, scenes that stayed with me long after the day was over. Living so close to Shanksville, where Flight 93 crashed after heroic passengers fought the hijackers, made the tragedy feel even closer. Driving felt frightening. Our country had been violated in a way that changed all of us forever.

Yet there were also cultural moments that strengthened me—moments rooted in unity, pride, and the resilience of Black women. One of the most empowering was attending and covering the Million Woman March in Philadelphia on October 25, 1997, while working on the WPXI-TV documentary Sisters on a Sojourn. Standing on Ben- jamin Franklin Parkway, surrounded by hundreds of thou- sands—some say over two million—Black women was breathtaking.

The march was organized by grassroots activists Phile Chionesu and Asia Coney, fueled not by major institu- tions but by word-of-mouth, flyers, Black media, and pure determination. It focused on issues that directly impacted Black women: healthcare, education, incarceration, home- lessness, and the stereotypes that harm us. Listening to speakers like Winnie Madikizela-Mandela, Maxine Waters, and Jada Pinkett Smith was inspiring, but what moved me most was the sight of so many powerful Black women gath- ered together in unity and purpose.

Standing there, I felt affirmed, uplifted, and deeply proud. The march reminded me of the unstoppable power of Black women—our intelligence, resilience, skill, and deter- mination. We are, and have always been, warrior queens.

Pearls of Wisdom: Incorporating Vital Life Lessons

words of wisdom to my children

Pearls of Wisdom: Incorporating Vital Life Lessons

Throughout my life, I have always tried to pass along words of wisdom to my children—hoping that even if they don’t embrace every lesson right away, the messages will stay with them. Many of the sayings I repeat are the same ones that shaped me growing up: old-school truths with a sting of reality and a lifetime of proof behind them.

“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”
This NAACP slogan imprinted itself on me early. It taught me to invest in my mind, protect it, and use it.
“If it don’t come out in the wash, it comes out in the rinse.”
The elders said this often. It reminded me that truth has a way of surfacing no matter how deeply it’s buried.
“Every shut eye ain’t sleep.”
A warning to stay alert. Not everyone resting their eyes is resting their intentions.
“Don’t burn bridges.”
Because life circles back, and relationships—good or bad—have long memories.
My Uncle Reneeke added one of my favorite gems:

“If you don’t have anything good to say about anyone, don’t say anything at all.”
That piece of advice alone has saved me from many unnec- essary conflicts.

But the two guiding principles that anchor my life more than any others are these:
“The best friend you will ever be is the one to yourself,” and

“To thine own self be true.”
Long before I knew Shakespeare wrote the second line in Hamlet, I understood its meaning: be authentic, act with integrity, avoid self-deception, and stay loyal to your own standards—not someone else’s version of you.
Another lesson I pass along is the importance of following your dreams. I tell anyone who will listen:
Choose the career that sets your soul on fire.
Passion will carry you when money or circumstance can- not. Journalism and public relations were my dreams, and I pursued them with everything in me—yet I always kept the door open for reinvention.
I never imagined I would one day become an entrepreneur. But in 2008, I launched Beckham Media, and I have nev- er looked back. I haven’t worked directly for anyone else

since. Entrepreneurship taught me to love the hunt—to go out like a tiger and secure my own food, my own money, my own opportunities. I ate according to my drive.
I encourage everyone:

Don’t rely on one source of income. Diversify. Build some- thing of your own.
One of my proudest career moments was hiring WPXI-TV, my former employer, to work on my produc- tions. Walking back into those halls as a power broker—af- ter once taking orders there—felt like reclaiming some- thing. I thought of Spike Lee maxing out credit cards to fund his films. I’ve lived that grind too.

Nothing taught me more than realizing this simple truth: Nobody can sell you like you can.
If I could bring major campaigns to a station, why not bring them to myself?

Throughout that journey, a few people helped shape the way I think about business and leadership. One of the most influential was Elsie Hillman, the iconic Pittsburgh phil- anthropist and political force. I interviewed her on May 9, 2013, when she was 87 years old. Some people didn’t want her to do the interview, but she didn’t care—she lived un- apologetically and on her own terms.

She spoke candidly about her work, her life, and her com- mitment to bridging Black and white communities in Pittsburgh. Her sincerity struck me immediately. After the interview, invitations started coming: “Mrs. Hillman has arranged a table for you,” someone would say. And when the Queen calls, you show up.

One lesson from her has stayed with me ever since. I asked her once what she did after getting angry with someone. She told me, with a confident smile,
“I met them later with a smile to discuss business.”

That single sentence taught me the art of professionalism: don’t let personal emotions derail purpose. Handle busi- ness with grace. Know your worth. Stand in your brand.

Another towering influence in my life was Nate Smith, a legendary labor and civil rights leader in Pittsburgh. I met Nate in 1994 while interviewing him for my Black Histo- ry documentary They Stood Their Ground for WPXI-TV. From that day on, we stayed connected.

Being around Nate was an experience. We’d sit in coffee shops, drive around collecting old photos and newspa- per clippings, and talk endlessly about activism. He was a force—unapologetically Black, unafraid, and relentless in pursuit of justice.
In the 1960s and 70s, Nate and the Black Construction Coalition shut down major construction projects—the U.S. Steel Tower, Three Rivers Stadium—demanding ac- cess and opportunity for Black workers. When unions claimed there were “no qualified Black workers,” Nate put his home on the line to create Operation Dig, a training program that later became a national model and helped thousands secure union jobs.
He faced death threats, a drive-by shooting, and fierce op- position, yet he never wavered. His philosophy was simple and powerful:
“Don’t nothing happen if you don’t make it happen.” His life story was remarkable—running away at 12 to join the Navy during WWII, competitive boxing, becoming the first Black member of the Operating Engineers union by trading admission tickets for a union card, teaching him- self to read at 75, and earning an honorary diploma from Westinghouse High School.
Nate passed in 2011, but his spirit still pulses through Pittsburgh—and through me. I can still hear him say, “Every human being is entitled to wake up on Sunday morning and have eggs and bacon.”

Janice Brown, Elsie Hillman and I at a luncheon.

My Life's Biggest Challenge

Career, Calling, and the Children

My Life's Biggest Challenge

Career, Calling, and the Children Who Changed Me Breaking into television news was never easy. It wasn’t just about being smart or hardworking — you had to be talent- ed, relentless, lucky, and have that “look” the industry qui- etly searched for but rarely defined. It was fiercely compet- itive, and landing at a station where your voice could truly grow felt like trying to catch lightning in a bottle.
Every job I earned in news felt like a victory. Every contract felt like survival. I learned quickly that the industry doesn’t hand you anything — you earn your space, defend your work, and prove your worth every single day. Negotiating my role, my salary, and my future wasn’t just about career growth; it was about believing I deserved to be there at all. And as hard as the newsroom was, the truest, hardest job of my life never had anything to do with a camera.
It was motherhood.
The Hardest Work I’ve Ever Loved
There is no instruction manual for raising human beings. There is no daily script. Every day with children brings new mysteries, new fears, new victories, and new heartbreaks. And doing it as a single mother means the weight is constant. You’re the protector. The provider. The comforter. The disciplinarian. The cheerleader.
Your job is simple and impossible:
Keep them fed.

Keep them safe.
Keep them healthy.
Keep them loved.
And somehow, while doing all of that, you’re supposed to guide them toward adulthood without breaking their spir- it.
When I chose adoption, I wasn’t running from something — I was running toward something. I felt it in my spirit long before it ever appeared in paperwork or courtrooms. I always knew I was meant to adopt. What I didn’t know was how emotionally complex the foster-to-adopt process would be.
There is a period after you bring foster children into your home when nothing is guaranteed. They could be returned to unsafe homes. Parental rights could be restored. The child could be removed from everything they’ve begun to trust. You love with fear. You hope with caution. You pray without ceasing.
You attach to them.

And they attach to you.
And you live in that fragile, beautiful in-between.
The Day Everything Changed
On October 17, 2007, I was at work when an email came through from my caseworker at Three Rivers Adoption Agency.
Go to Mercy Hospital.
There was a little boy there.
Waiting.
Still in foster care.
Still legally in limbo.
But ready to be loved.
What most people don’t realize about foster adoption is that the first goal is never adoption — it is reunification. Courts and agencies work tirelessly to help biological par- ents get their children back. They offer support. Counsel- ing. Supervised visits. Every opportunity to heal.
I sat in rooms with Isaiah and Rainier’s biological parents. I watched their pain. I felt their struggle. There were mo- ments when my heart broke for them, because they were not evil people — they were broken people carrying impos- sibly heavy burdens.
Terminating parental rights is one of the heaviest legal and

emotional processes that exist. You don’t know how the story will end. You don’t know whether you’ll get to keep the children who have already wrapped their hearts around yours.

All you can do is pray. And trust.
Chosen — On Purpose I was blessed.

I adopted Isaiah.
And later, Rainier Sky.
From the beginning, I told them the truth — that they were adopted, that they were chosen, that they were want- ed. And I was stunned by the stigma I encountered. Peo- ple assumed things that had nothing to do with my reality. Some said, “Oh, so you couldn’t have children?”
That was never my story.
I adopted because my heart led me there.
Not my fear.
Not my biology.
Not my lack.
But my calling.
What the World Saw — and What I Felt
At one point, I was asked to write about our family for the

adoption agency. What they wrote reflected the light peo- ple saw from the outside — but what it didn’t fully capture was the quiet, sacred work of loving children who came from hard beginnings.

They described Isaiah as a natural leader — and he is. Bright. Curious. Dreaming of becoming an engineer. Inspired by President Obama. Disciplined through Tae Kwon-Do. Strong in spirit.

They described Rainier Sky — named after Mount Rainier, strong and beautiful. Even as a toddler, she carried big dreams of becoming a doctor. Full of energy. Full of light.

But what they didn’t see were the prayers whispered at night.
The fears I never spoke aloud.
The exhaustion.

The joy.
The ache of wanting to protect them from everything. The Truth About Being a Mother
Parenting has humbled me.
It has taught me that my dreams are not automatically their dreams. My path is not automatically their path. All I can do — all any mother can do — is love them hard, guide

them gently, and pray they grow into full, healthy human beings surrounded by support and joy.
There are no dull moments in motherhood.
Only fear and faith.

Pain and pride.
Worry and wonder.
But nothing — not a newsroom, not a contract, not a broadcast — has made my life richer than being their mother.
That is the work that changed me.
That is the calling that saved me.

Judge Dwayne Woodruff, former Pittsburgh Steelers player.

My Happiest Life Moment

Happiness in the Everyday

My Happiest Life Moment

Happiness in the Everyday
Happiness, for me, has never been about grand moments or loud celebrations. It lives in the quiet, steady rhythm of everyday life — the moments that seem small to the world, but mean everything to me.
Some of my happiest memories are wrapped around my children. Sitting beside them at school events. Laughing through family outings. Packing into movie theaters to watch the latest Marvel film — cheering through Wakan- da scenes and walking out feeling like we just shared some- thing sacred. Those are the moments that fill my spirit. It doesn’t take much. Just time together.

Of course, nothing can take the place of hanging out with your girls. I’ve had so many Sex & the City moments with mine—traveling to fun places, eating out, laughing until our sides hurt, dancing like we owned the night, and cre- ating memories that will always be treasured. Those mo- ments, effortless and joyful, are the ones that stay with you.

Home is where my peace lives. Being surrounded by my an- imals brings me a kind of calm I can’t explain. Dogs teach you loyalty without speeches, love without conditions. In the garden, with dirt on my hands and sunshine on my shoulders, I feel steady. Grounded. Alive.

There is also a deep happiness that comes from purpose. From building something with my hands and my mind. Watching my company grow. Chasing a story, developing a client, shaping a vision — and seeing it become something better than I imagined. Being able to provide for my family gives me a quiet kind of pride and a sense of safety that I never take for granted.

Nothing matches the feeling of watching my daughter study hard and come home with an “A.” Or seeing my son finally find his rhythm in college — excited about com- puter science, photography, design — discovering who he is through his work. Those moments don’t just make me happy; they make me feel whole.

Cooking for my family is another kind of joy. A full kitchen. Warm plates. Conversation around the table. Teaching them the value of slowing down long enough to be together. Creating a home where love has room to breathe.

The simple things lift me. Helping a neighbor. Showing up for a friend. Using my voice through my urban news plat- form to uplift the community and shed light on important social issues. I believe strongly in giving back — in being present — in caring.

Advocating for children, animals, and the environment makes me feel aligned with who I was meant to be. So does staying curious: learning new technologies, exploring new ideas, keeping my mind sharp and my spirit open.

For me, happiness isn’t stillness. It’s movement.
Growth.
Purpose.

Connection.
It’s being in motion — even if that motion is slow and thoughtful — knowing I’m headed somewhere meaning- ful.
That’s where I flourish.

Recounting My Most Heartbreaking Moment

The Shape of Grief

The Shape of Grief
Loss has been one of my greatest teachers, though I never asked for the lessons.
I have lost so many people I loved deeply, and each absence has left a quiet space inside me that never fully closes. I think of my step-parents, Mama T and Daddy Sarge, and how much it still aches that I wasn’t there in their final days. I think of my brother Kevin, taken too soon by liver disease, and the unbearable silence where his laughter used to live.
I miss my Uncle Joe, who I talked to almost every day about life, about struggles, about dreams. Those conversations were anchors for me, and sometimes I reach for my phone out of habit, forgetting for just a moment that he isn’t here.
My grandmother Cecilia — she called me her “Delicious.” That name still echoes in my heart. I miss sitting with her, just the two of us, listening, learning, soaking in her warmth. I watched my “Black Superman” father, Reginald, battle cancer and slowly fade away. There is no way to

describe the pain of watching someone so strong lose that fight.
I miss my Uncle Sonny, William Lovet — the laughter we shared in Mobile, Alabama, and the joy of traveling to New Orleans for the Essence Festival. I can still see my Grandpa Peter Boasten’s quirky smile, the one that felt like home, especially when I was working as a reporter in Mobile and felt his pride wrapped around me like a coat.

Aunt Nettie and Uncle Theo in Mount Vernon, Alabama taught me about my roots. They gave me a sense of history, of belonging. I miss them more than words can say.
Some losses are harder to understand than others. My cousin Michelle Boasten — brilliant RN, author, business- woman — lost to suicide. That grief feels different. It’s tan- gled. Confusing. Heavy with questions I may never get an- swers to. All I know is that I loved her, and I still don’t un- derstand how someone so bright could hurt so deeply.

I lost a friend and colleague, Kimberly Easton from WPXI-TV. Life was not easy on her, and I still miss our talks, our laughter, the way only work friends understand your world.

Grief doesn’t only live in death. It also shows up in broken friendships — people who disappear from your life, leaving years of unanswered questions. Sometimes those quiet heartbreaks feel just as sharp.
I grieve the world, too.
I grieve the loss of thinking stars like Chadwick Boseman — gone too soon, leaving stories unfinished and inspira- tion behind.

Through my work in journalism, I’ve seen too much pain up close. Children living on the streets without safe homes. Families crushed by poverty. Immigrants fleeing danger, only to be met with cruelty instead of compassion. It breaks my heart to watch a country built on hope forget how to love.

Hate groups rising. Division growing. People finding rea- sons to dehumanize one another.
I grieve for children who cannot read, who don’t have the mentors I had at Mitchell Elementary, who don’t get to run freely in their neighborhoods or feel safe in their own com- munities. I grieve the loss of innocence. The loss of care. No one deserves to live in shame.

Everyone is valuable.
And I grieve the way so many who lead this country seem to have forgotten the words that built it: “We the People...” The blood spilled by soldiers, the lives lost by ancestors, the

battles fought so we could have a chance at freedom.
Still — I live in hope.
I am heartbroken, but I am not hopeless.
I believe in my children. I believe in future generations. I believe they can mend what has been broken, restore what has been damaged, and fight like hell to protect the free- doms so many fought and died to give us.

My heart carries grief. But it also carries fire. And it still believes.

With grandma Cecilia Jones

My Greatest Achievement

Proud Moments

My Greatest Achievement

Proud Moments
When I look back over my life, I see a trail of quiet victories and brave choices — moments where I stood up, stepped forward, and believed in myself long before the world told me I should.
Some of my first proud moments came in childhood, when I had the courage to raise my hand, to enter contests, to stand on stages, to compete instead of shrinking back. I learned early that my voice mattered and that effort was something to be proud of.
That courage carried me all the way to the University of Washington, where I earned my Bachelor’s degree in Broadcast Journalism, and later to the University of Illi- nois, where I completed my Master’s degree in Public Af- fairs. Those weren’t just degrees — they were declarations. Proof that I could finish what I started.
My career brought more moments of pride than I ever imagined. Not just awards — though I earned national and local honors and worked on powerful documentaries — but the people. The young journalists I helped get intern- ships. The ones I helped land their very first jobs.

One of the moments that stays with me happened at an event. A man introduced me to his son, and later, when I was out of earshot, he told his child that I was the person who helped him get his first television job — the break that led to everything that came after. I didn’t know he would ever say that about me. But it told me something impor- tant: I mattered in someone else’s journey. And that will always be one of my greatest honors.

I am proud of building Beckham Media from scratch. No business degree. No safety net. Just faith, grit, and a vision. Nearly twenty years later, it’s still standing. Still growing. Still evolving. I keep learning. I keep trying new things. And I love the process — even the hard parts.

I am proud of my children in a way that words almost can’t carry. Watching my son graduate from one of the toughest schools in the state, Shady Side Academy, filled me with a quiet kind of awe. I pray he stays the course and finish- es his college journey. Watching my daughter prepare for her own graduation, dreaming about her future, imagining her college opportunities — that kind of pride feels sacred. I am proud when they feel excited about their lives. I am proud when they understand they are valued. That they are loved.

I am proud of the simple things, too. That I can run my company from home. That I have a home. That I have a reliable car. That I can still create, still build, still honor the legacy of those who came before me.

I see myself as a shining star — not out of ego, but out of purpose. I move through this life intentionally, seriously, with direction. I don’t take my blessings for granted. There are so many proud moments.

And I thank God for every single one of them.

Managing Trust's Shattered Bonds

Betrayal & Boundaries

Managing Trust's Shattered Bonds

Betrayal & Boundaries
Betrayal is something none of us escape. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, how loving you are, or how careful you try to be — at some point, someone you trusted will let you down. Sometimes it’s family. Sometimes it’s friends. Sometimes it’s lovers. And every time, it leaves a mark. My first instinct has always been to talk things through. I try to explain the problem, search for solutions, and under- stand the “why” behind the hurt. Over time, I’ve learned that patience is powerful — but so are boundaries.
I believe this deeply: not everyone deserves a front-row seat in your life. And yes, that includes family.
There are hard lines I will not cross, especially when it comes to drugs. I watched addiction tear through my fam- ily and tear through lives that could have been beautiful. I’ve seen the chaos, the lies, the broken promises, and the danger it brings into homes. I have compassion for addicts — they need real help and real support — but I also carry anger for the destruction their choices left behind.
I’ve had to disconnect from people I love. I’ve had to shut doors completely — not halfway, not with cracks left open, but iron-clad closed. I understand people can change. I be- lieve in recovery. But I also believe in protecting my peace. In love, I have known betrayal too. Men who weren’t hon- est. Secrets revealed. Affairs uncovered. Hidden agendas brought into the light. And every time, I chose myself. That doesn’t mean I didn’t grieve. I did. I mourned what I thought we had, what I hoped we could be. But I nev- er forgot my worth. I understood that love does not come wrapped in deception.

Betrayal has taught me some of my most important life lessons. It taught me discernment. Strength. Self-respect. None of us gets through life without being hurt. But what matters most is what you do afterward.

You rise.
You fall.
You learn.
You begin again.
And I believe, in God’s time, He really does make foot- stools out of your enemies.

Choosing One Day to Relive in a Time Machine

Days I Would Return To
As a woman now in her sixties — more focused, more set- tled, and wiser — there are so many moments in my life I would revisit if I could. So many days I would walk back into, not to change everything, but to understand more clearly.
I would start at the very beginning — the cold hospital room where I was born. I wonder who held me first. Did my mother cradle me? Was there fear in her heart, or love in her arms? Did a tear slide down her cheek because she had already decided whether she would keep me? Or was it a kind nurse who wrapped me in warmth and passed me gently into the hands of an angel who has guided my life ever since?
I would go back to the day I met my mother face-to-face for the first time. Not as a wide-eyed teenager, but as a grown woman. I would have hard questions for her — woman to woman. I would come prepared, not gullible, not fragile. I would bring a list of promises. A list of truths I deserved. Boundaries I would no longer negotiate.

I would sit beside my Uncle Joe in his garden again, watch- ing tall sunflowers sway in the wind, and ask him how a poor boy from Alabama managed not just to survive, but to thrive. I would listen longer. Learn deeper. I would sit at the feet of my elders and absorb everything I once thought I had time to hear later.

I would revisit my friend Kim’s kitchen. Instead of replay- ing her voicemail singing “Happy Birthday,” I would spend just one more ordinary day with her — watching her cook those scrambled eggs she made better than anyone. I would memorize the sound of her laugh.

I would run barefoot down Marion Street again, that bumpy stretch of childhood freedom, popping in and out of neighbors’ houses, understanding — finally — that those moments were never small. They shaped me. They were worth every ounce of pain that came later.

I would sit in my elementary school classroom and wait patiently for my parents to walk through the door and see me shine. Then I’d run back out to the blacktop and chase laughter, friendships, and the wild freedom that only chil- dren understand.

I would sit with my father, Reginald, and try to understand the weight of his life as a Black man in America. I would ask him where things went wrong. What broke him. What he carried that he never had the language to explain.
I would go back to my college years and sit with my friend Katie Beck inside the little coffee shop we built with our own hands — Sweet Springs Café. I would watch her cre- ate one-of-a-kind clothing while music drifted through the air, and I’d press pause, realizing I was already living magic. I would gather my girls — Susie Brozek, Angie Corley, Tangie Lanagan (who cancer took too soon) — and head back to Chicago. We would find the biggest party, the loud- est music, and dance until our feet ached and our hearts felt like they might burst. I would hold those nights tighter. And I would return to the sidelines of my children’s lives — my son’s first touchdown, caught forever on tape, and my daughter crossing the finish line, proving to herself she could do hard things. I would watch them learn discipline, resilience, and courage through sports, and I would relive the pride swelling in my chest.

Some days aren’t meant to be erased.
They are meant to be honored.
They are meant to be remembered.
And if I could revisit them, I wouldn’t change them. I’d just hold them longer.

Friends, Ms. Vicki Gladney, Anji Corley, Marlo Reese, Me, Susan Brozek

Embracing the Signs of Aging

The Moment I Felt Time

Embracing the Signs of Aging

The Moment I Felt Time
The first time I truly noticed I was getting older wasn’t whenIsawagrayhairorfeltanacheinmyknees—itwas when I started needing naps.
Not wanting naps...
Needing them.
That was the moment I realized Father Time was walk- ing right beside me. And honestly, I felt grateful. Aging is a privilege denied to so many. If we’re lucky, we get to grow older — and with that comes clarity, softness, and wisdom.
I started turning down more invitations. Not because I couldn’t go, but because I didn’t want to. I began choosing quiet nights over crowded rooms. A movie wrapped in a blanket. A warm cup of coffee or a glass of wine in my own space. Peace started feeling better than applause.
Writing this book has become part of that realization. I feel the urgency — not fear, but purpose. I want to capture my life while I still can, hold my thoughts in words for my chil- dren, because one day they might want to sit with my sto- ries and hear my voice again through these pages.

With age, your purpose sharpens.
Your vision clears.
You no longer have time for nonsense.
You realize these are your golden days. And you guard them. You guard your time, your energy, your peace. No more confusion. No more chaos. No more hostile situa- tions.

Getting older teaches you something powerful:
Peace of mind is luxury.
I may not run ten laps around the track anymore. I can’t eat whatever I want without a little help from stomach pills. My body moves slower — but my spirit feels fuller.
These are treasured moments of aging.
These are sacred days.
Every morning I open my eyes, I try not to waste the gift. I try not to take a single day for granted.
Because growing older isn’t losing life.
It’s learning how precious it really is.

How I Wish to Be Remembered

How I Want to Be Remembered

How I Wish to Be Remembered

How I Want to Be Remembered
How would I like to be remembered?
That is a powerful question.
I hope these words live in the hearts of those I love — and maybe even those I’ll never meet.
I want to be remembered as a vibrant, loving daughter, sis- ter, aunt, godmother, and mother — a woman grateful to be alive and thankful for the journey God set before me. My beginning wasn’t typical. It wasn’t neat or perfect by anyone’s standards. But God designed my entrance into this world exactly as it was meant to be.
And really — what is perfect?
Who gets to decide what is right?
A life filled with laughter, love, and purpose is more valu- able than any “perfect” beginning.
I want to be remembered as a child of God — always pro- tected, always guided, always covered by an angel. From my free-spirited days growing up in Denver, with the Rocky Mountains in the background, I didn’t understand how poor we were. I only knew I was rich in love. Rich in fam- ily. Rich in neighborhood. Those blocks around Mitchell

Robin Dee Beckham 211

Street didn’t feel like hardship — they felt like home. When I think back, I don’t feel sadness. I don’t feel pain. I feel motion. Purpose.
Missy was on a mission.
Remember me as a woman who had purpose — who didn’t sit on the sidelines of her life, but showed up fully. I didn’t watch life happen. I lived it. I set goals and went after them.
Don’t let my brown skin fool you — I have worth, and I was never intimidated by privilege or power. I walked into rooms knowing I belonged.
Remember me as someone who valued people over posses- sions.
Friendship over flash.
Family over fortune.
Remember me as a creative, socially conscious woman who understood the system — and knew how to make things happen within it.
I want to be remembered as a winner — not because I never failed, but because I was never afraid to try. I took risks. I fell. I got up. I kept going.
Remember that I honored my ancestors.
The enslaved who ran toward freedom.

212 "Memoirs of Missy"

The civil rights warriors who stood on the front lines. The ones who made my survival possible.
Black lives matter to me.
Justice matters to me.

Equity matters to me.
I don’t want to be remembered for regrets or what might have been. I am grateful for what did happen — because it made me.
I am a devoted mother.
A loyal friend.
A community-minded woman who cared deeply about her people.
I’d like to be remembered as someone simple who did big things — on my own terms.
And most of all, remember me as a sista who didn’t play. If you stepped to me, you better come correct.
Remember me as that little girl on 32nd and Mitchell Street — in the Mile High sun, full of fire, running on nothing but faith, adrenaline, and a dream to conquer the world.

Passing the Torch

A Message to the Next Generation

Passing the Torch

A Message to the Next Generation
If I could leave anything behind, it would be this:
Soar.
Go for it.
And don’t let anything distract you from your purpose. Your dreams are not too big. They are not impossible. Everything is possible if you dig deep enough inside your- self.
Figure out who you are and why you’re here. Protect that purpose. Don’t get pulled into bad crowds or negative en- ergy. Stay close to people who inspire you, stretch you, and challenge you to grow. Choose mentors. Learn from them. And don’t be afraid to walk alone sometimes — the strongest relationship you’ll ever have is the one you build with yourself.
Never lower your standards.
I enrolled my own children in one of the best private schools not because I had the money — but because I un- derstood there was always another way in. Stop standing on the outside looking in. Move your way to the front. Use your voice. Like my godmother, Ms. Bev, always said:

216 "Memoirs of Missy"

“Stand up. Be counted. Get involved.”
We are living in a world of rapid change. Artificial Intel- ligence, technology, innovation — the future belongs to strong minds who are ready to compete, create, and lead. Treat your career like the most important race you will ever run. Don’t waste time on shortcuts, distractions, or the okie-doke.
Create something. Build something. And remember — there are very few truly “new” ideas. Take a good one and make it better.
Challenge injustice. Fight for your rights. Smile more. Spread joy where you can.
Visit your elders. Sit with them. Listen to their stories. Learn from their mistakes so you don’t repeat them. Re- spect their wisdom.
Pray. Think things through. Be kind. And never take love for granted.
And if all else fails — get yourself a dog or a pet. Animals will teach you loyalty when the world gets confusing. Honor matters. Courage matters. Love of country matters. Step outside your comfort zone. Meet people who don’t look like you, think like you, or live like you. Growth lives there.

And finally, understand this:
The universe is about 13.8 billion years old.
The Earth is more than 4.5 billion years old.
Modern humans have only been here about 300,000 years. You?
You are a single breathtaking moment inside all of that eter- nity.
So the question is simple:
What are you going to do with your moment?
Don’t waste it.
Don’t fear it.
Don’t shrink.
Live it fully.

Acts of Kindness in My Heart

The Power of Kindness

Acts of Kindness in My Heart

The Power of Kindness
I have never taken acts of kindness lightly. I carry gratitude for every hand that ever reached toward me in love, sup- port, and protection.
I am deeply thankful for my children’s godfather, James Everett, fondly known as Uncle James. When life gets heavy, he steps in without hesitation — helping with tu- ition, helping buy cars, showing up when conversations get hard and guidance is needed. He doesn’t just give — he in- vests. He listens. He shows up. And his help is never taken for granted. His kindness has always arrived right on time. There were seasons in my life when I had to stay with an uncle, lean on a friend, and rest in someone else’s home just to stay steady. Those moments teach you how cold the streets can be — and how important it is never to burn bridges. When someone gives you shelter, safety, or peace, that kind of love stays with you forever.
I am grateful for the teacher who takes extra time with my son — not because they have to, but because they see his potential and want to help him rise over the hurdle. I am grateful for the special teacher who pushes my daughter to be her best, to stretch her mind, and to believe in herself. That, too, is kindness.
I hold deep appreciation for people like my contributor, Jack L. Daniel — a man of wisdom and steady encourage- ment. One text and he’s there, quick with insight, always repeating the same powerful message:

“Get it done.”
That kind of steady motivation matters more than people know.
Kindness stretches farther than money, farther than suc- cess, farther than praise. People may forget what you said, but they never forget how you made them feel. At the end of the day, we all need someone. None of us make it alone. We all face storms, loss, setbacks, and fear — and it’s kind- ness that helps us grow through it.
I am thankful for my neighbor who brings coffee when the power goes out.
For the landscaper who blows the extra leaves and lifts the heavy things.
For the quiet gestures no one sees but your heart feels. Kindness has shaped my life.
Kindness has saved me.
Kindness has kept me standing.

And because of that, I try to live by one rule:
Whatever kindness the world gives me, I give it back — multiplied.

Message to Loved Ones

Stay the course.

Message to Loved Ones

A Message to My Children
Stay the course.
Life will challenge you. You will face disappointment, heartbreak, and moments that make you question who you are. That is life — but you rise anyway.
Protect your peace of mind.
Guard your spirit.
Do not let negativity build a home inside you. Stand for peace, speak for justice, and walk with integrity even when no one is watching.
If I was tough at times, it’s because I saw your greatness be- fore you did.
You are worthy.
You are capable.
You are more powerful than you know.
The road will not always be fair, but it is worth walking. Trust your instincts — they are wiser than you think. Never underestimate your potential.
Dig deep when life pushes you down.
Rise higher every single time.
All eyes will be on you, and that means you must stay awake.
Pay attention.
America is beautiful, but it’s filled with traps that can pull you into systems designed to break your spirit.
Stay smart. Stay focused.
Be your own friend when the world feels unkind. Cherish your family and the people who love you.
Do not take anyone for granted — love is a gift, not a guar- antee.
Be kind.
Smile often.
Lead with love.
And know this, above everything else:
Your mother loves you more than life itself.
Always. Forever. Without condition.

With my kids Rainier in High school as a junior, Isaiah in collegiate a sophomore.

Unveiling the Most Impactful Decision

Forgiveness, Roots, and the Family I Found Along the Way

One of the most important decisions I ever made was choosing to forgive my parents for the rocky start I had in life. The road was bumpy, especially when it came to my mother, Tracee. But at some point, I realized that carrying resentment was only weighing me down. Forgiving her for giving me up—whatever the circumstances were—was an act of freedom. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, because I ended up with solid step-parents early on who helped shape the foundation of the person I would become.

But forgiveness didn’t erase my desire to understand where I came from. Early on, I made a conscious decision to em- power myself by learning more about my biological roots, particularly on my mother’s side. I wanted clarity, connec- tion, and truth. I wanted to see the faces of the people whose blood ran through me and learn the stories that my childhood never gave me access to.

Taking an ancestry test turned out to be one of the best choices I ever made. Suddenly, all these cousins started ap- pearing—names, faces, branches of a family tree that had

always existed but had never included me. They reached out to me, and I reached out to them, and slowly a picture of my mother’s world began to form.
I learned stories about my mom visiting her father, Gordon McCrea, who helped oversee the McCrea Ranch in Rea, Idaho. That side of the family opened up like a treasure chest. I discovered the history, the land, the ranchers, the legacy—and how deeply it resonated with me. No wonder I have always loved cowboys. Something in me recognized something in them.

My ancestry journey took me even further back—to my third great-grandfather, Amos Jerome Snell, one of the most successful tycoons of his era. His murder became one of Chicago’s longest unsolved cases, a story that fas- cinated me as I dug deeper into my roots. I even launched AmosSnell.com as a way to honor that process of discovery. I learned about his daughter, my great-grandmother Alice Snell McCrea, once considered one of the most beautiful women in Chicago—glamorous, complicated, and full of escapades that made her unforgettable.

The more I learned, the more I understood myself. Snell and many others in my lineage were ambitious leaders and entrepreneurs. In their stories, I recognized a spark that

lives in me today—drive, initiative, the instinct to build, to create, to leave a mark. Maybe DNA really does whisper across generations.
Forgiving my mother didn’t erase the heartbreaks, but it allowed space for healing. And with that healing came a beautiful gift: new cousins who embraced me with warmth, who had no idea I existed but welcomed me as if I had always been part of the family.

Still, some stories were harder to swallow. One of the sad- dest memories I carry is the day my maternal grandmother, Shirley McCrea, refused to meet me. I was just a young girl then, full of hope, standing outside her apartment in Den- ver. I had brought a friend with me for support. We wait- ed. And waited. But she refused to come to the door. The silence of that moment echoed in me for years. It haunt- ed my soul, that feeling of rejection from someone whose blood I shared.

Shirley is gone now. And though she never opened that door, I’ve made peace with her choice. One day, I hope to find her grave and place flowers there. Not out of anger or lingering pain, but as a gesture of closure—an offering of grace, the kind I’ve learned to give freely as I’ve grown into the fullness of who I am.

Published article in PittsburghUrbanMedia.com December 8, 2025

by Robin Beckham, PUM Editor

What’s Legacy Got to Do With it?
As a Black woman born into an interracial family that once caused a scandal, I never imagined my roots stretched back to one of Chicago’s most powerful men.
My name is Robin Beckham — and I am the 3rd great-granddaughter of Amos Jerome Snell. He had “A million-dollar estate. A mansion on Chicago’s West Side. A brutal murder still unsolved 136 years later.
I grew up never knowing much about the white side of my family.
Then ancestry research uncovered the truth: I descend from Snell — a Gilded Age titan, real estate baron, and the victim of Chicago’s most enduring murder mystery. What would you do if you discovered your ancestor was one of Chicago’s wealthiest tycoons — and the victim of one of its most infamous unsolved murders? You just got to tell that story...

I used to believe legacy was something other people inherit- ed — people whose families kept neat records, who passed down stories over dinner tables, who knew exactly where they came from. My life was nothing like that. I grew up as a Black girl in Denver’s working-class neighborhoods, the daughter of an interracial marriage that ruffled feath- ers, caused family arguments, and left gaps in my identity I didn’t know how to fill.

The white side of my family was a blank wall. No pho- tographs. No stories. No names. Nothing but silence. Then one day, through DNA matches and late-night dig- ging through digitized archives, old Chicago newspapers, and yellowed public records, a door cracked open. And behind that door stood a man I had never heard of — a man so large in Chicago’s early history that entire neigh- borhoods shifted because of his decisions.

A man named Amos Jerome Snell.
When I first learned I was his 3rd great-granddaughter, I felt the air shift around me. It wasn’t pride, exactly — it was something heavier, something more complicated. Because this man was not just a successful businessman.

136 "Memoirs of Missy"

He was not just wealthy.
He was not just influential.
He was a titan of the Gilded Age — and a controversial one.
A man praised as the poor man’s friend and condemned as a monopolist.
A man who employed hundreds and encouraged them to save their wages.
A man who also charged tolls that farmers cursed as they paid to use his roads.
A man whose generosity and toughness lived side by side like two truths that refused to cancel each other out.
And a man whose life ended violently — shot in his own mansion, murdered by burglars in 1888, a crime that re- mains unsolved to this day.
This is the man whose bloodline flows into mine.
The Man I Found in the Archives
The more I read, the more the story unfolded like a novel. Amos was born in 1823 on a farm in Herkimer County, New York — Mohawk Dutch stock, raised in a house full of strong, hardworking children. He had only a basic edu- cation but used every bit of it. At eighteen, he earned farm wages to travel to Ohio. At twenty-three, he taught school.

At twenty-four, he married a young woman named Hen- rietta Sedam.
The newlyweds arrived in Chicago with $18.50 — count- ing it over and over because it was all they had.

From there, his climb was steady and fierce:
He ran a store and post office.
He secured a lumber contract for the North-Western Rail- road.
He purchased 2,000 acres of timber in Wisconsin.
He ran crews of men and teams of horses.
He bought worthless prairie land and turned it into for- tune.
He became known not for speculation but for produc- tion — building hundreds of solid, well-crafted homes and renting them out with care. He maintained his famous “plank road” impeccably, even as people complained about the tolls.
People said he was severe.
People said he was fair.
People said he was brilliant.
People said he was stubborn.
But everyone agreed on this:
Amos Snell got things done.

138 "Memoirs of Missy"

And then one winter night in 1888 — a noise, a staircase, a confrontation, a gunshot. Chicago woke to headlines an- nouncing the murder of one of its wealthiest, most in- fluential men. The killer never named. The mystery never solved.

A titan gone in an instant, leaving behind an empire, a grieving family, and a trail of unanswered questions. Where I Fit into This Story
So how does a Black woman — born in 1964 at Fitzsi- mons Army Medical Center, the daughter of a mixed mar- riage that once caused my grandmother to call the police — make sense of descending from a man like that?

A man who lived in a world where the state of Illinois tried to prevent Black people from entering entirely.
A man whose opportunities were built in systems designed for men like him — and against people like me.

I had to sit with that.
I had to sit with the contradiction that my ancestor-built roads that farmers hated but undeniably needed.
That he lifted workers up while blocking others’ paths. That he created value and created tension at the same time.
Legacy isn’t always pretty. But it is always honest.

And in that honesty, I began to recognize something that surprised me. Not his privilege — but his nature. Because buried in his story were traits that echoed in my own life: the instinct to build,

the refusal to be ordinary,
the ability to create something out of nothing,
the drive to make my own way.
I didn’t inherit Amos’s millions or his marble-front homes.
But I did inherit his persistence.
I built my own company.
I carved my own place in the media world.
I dug for truth, uncovered stories, and created opportuni- ties.
My empire looks different — built on storytelling, com- munication, and voice — but its foundation is the same: grit.
The Shadow We Both Carry
And then there is the darker piece — the piece I might un- derstand even more intimately than I expected:
the mystery.
The unfinished business.
The need to understand what others tried to bury.

Is it coincidence that I became a storyteller? A researcher?
A woman who always needs to know why? Maybe not.

Maybe the need to untangle hidden truths is its own inher- itance — passed down through bloodlines just as surely as ambition.
Claiming My Complicated Inheritance

Being the 3rd great-granddaughter of Amos Snell does not mean bowing to his memory. It does not mean glossing over the controversy. It means acknowledging:
the power he held

the privilege he wielded
the limits he never had to face
and the obstacles I overcame that he could never imagine It means understanding that I am both the continuation of his story and the disruption of it.
My existence — a Black woman descended from a wealthy white Chicago industrialist — is something he never would have foreseen. Yet here I am, breathing life into a lineage that stretches from a Gilded Age mansion to the streets of Denver to the woman I became.
Legacy, I’ve learned, is not neat.

It is not clean.
It is not comfortable.
But it is transformative.
And now that I know the truth, I refuse to shrink from it. I am not the heir to his fortune.
But I am the heir to his complexity.
I am the living chapter he never saw coming.
I am the bridge between divided histories.
And I am the one — finally — completing the story. Being the third great-granddaughter of Amos J. Snell has forced me to rethink what legacy really means. On paper, he was a titan of the Gilded Age — a man who built rail- roads, toll roads, businesses, timber operations, and en- tire neighborhoods in Chicago. A self-made force who rose from nothing, arriving in Chicago with eighteen dollars and a willingness to work harder than the next man. It is es- timated that Snell would be worth over $75 million today. He built more homes than almost anyone of his era, treated workers with fairness, invested in communities, and carved out a fortune not through speculation but through sheer creation.
And yet, his life ended in violence — an unsolved murder that shook the city and left behind unanswered questions.

A man so powerful in life, taken suddenly in death. That duality became part of the family mythology, even if no one ever passed it down to me directly.
For years, I didn’t know any of this. I didn’t grow up with land deeds, portraits on the wall, or family history lessons. I grew up as a Black woman trying to make sense of where I fit in a country that often erases women like me from its historical rooms. So how do you connect those dots? How do you reconcile billion-dollar streets, old Chicago news- papers, and a Gilded Age magnate — with your own life, your own identity, your own struggles?

This journey into my family tree gave me a surprising an- swer:
legacy isn’t something you receive — it’s something you claim.

I didn’t inherit Amos Snell’s wealth or his status. I didn’t inherit a mansion on Washington Boulevard or a portfolio of toll roads. But I did inherit something invisible yet pow- erful: the drive to build something out of very little. The resilience to start from scratch. The instinct to create value, to push forward, to carve out space where none existed. Maybe I didn’t become a titan of industry, but I built my own company. I raised children with vision and grit. I created my own lane. And maybe that’s the real inheritance — not the fortune lost to time, but the fire that stayed alive through generations.
So, if you ask me today,

“What’s legacy got to do with it?” I’d say: everything.

Learn more about Amos Snell at AmosSnell.com

Pivotal Moments of My Life

Pivotal Lessons That Shaped Me

Some of the moments that shaped me most were not soft or easy — they were forged in pain, in observation, in the kind of hard-earned wisdom life gives you whether you ask for it or not. I watched several family members fall into drugs and lose everything. Their lives unraveled in front of me, piece by piece, teaching me a lesson I never forgot: drugs don’t just destroy the person who uses them — they tear through families, communities, and futures.
Because of what I witnessed, I have always been firmly against drugs. I learned early that drinking should be in moderation, if at all. And smoking was never an option for me — not after watching my father die from lung cancer, a consequence of smoking and drug use. Those were some of the most painful lessons life handed me, and I carry them with me even now. They taught me what not to do, what not to risk, and what not to take lightly. And they shaped how I talk to my children today. When I harp on these top- ics, it isn’t out of judgment — it’s out of fear, love, and the desire to keep them safe from the dangers that destroyed people I cared about.
Another pivotal turning point came when I realized I wasn’t willing to marry just for the sake of having children. I wanted a family deeply, but I knew in my heart that there was no one I wanted to marry. That truth was hard to face at first, but it led me to one of the greatest blessings of my life: adoption.
Adopting my son, Isaiah, was transformative — not just for him, but for me. Later, adopting my daughter, Rainier, expanded my heart in ways I hadn’t even known to ex- pect. Going through the adoption process showed me how love can be chosen, deliberate, and incredibly powerful. It taught me that family is something you build, piece by piece, through commitment and intention.
Those experiences stayed with me so strongly that I later served on the board of the Three Rivers Adoption Agency, advocating for children who needed safe, stable, loving homes. It felt like a calling — a chance to give back to the system that gave me my family.
Looking back, these moments — the painful lessons and the triumphant decisions — shaped who I am today. They taught me strength, clarity, purpose, and the courage to

build the life I wanted, even when the path wasn’t traditional or expected.

Feelings That Unveiled in Remembering Life

This is my memoir—Memoirs of a Black Woman

Feelings That Unveiled in Remembering Life

This is my memoir—Memoirs of a Black Woman—the story of a journalist who loved her craft, built a business from grit and vision, and lived a life shaped by curiosi- ty, courage, and constant movement. It is the story of a woman who chased the truth for a living, who believed in words, in justice, in storytelling as both a calling and a re- sponsibility.

But more than anything, it is the story of a mother.
A mother devoted to her two children, Isaiah and Rainier Sky Beckham, whose well-being, happiness, and future were the light guiding every choice I made. Through every deadline, every transition, and every chapter of reinven- tion, they grounded me—and inspired me to rise.
As I reflect on the path that carried me from the streets of Denver to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, from the classrooms of Rainier Beach High School to the Uni- versity of Washington in the rainy, beautiful city of Seat- tle—where Mount Rainier’s majestic presence reminded me daily to live boldly and rise above—I see the shape of a life built with intention. The mountain stayed with me

so deeply that I named my daughter after it, a tribute to its strength and grace. Later, my journey led me to the Univer- sity of Illinois, where I earned my master’s degree in public affairs. Each place shaped me. Each chapter strengthened me. Each moment stitched together the woman I became. I see a Black woman who learned, who fought, who built, who dared.

A woman committed to her people—telling our stories, el- evating our voices, strengthening our communities. I used my platform to improve lives, to spotlight injustice, and to give space to those who had been overlooked or silenced. And I understood, deeply, that as a Black woman you don’t always get the luxury of simply being. Sometimes you must push harder, fight louder, and show up twice as strong. Sometimes you have to jump in and make it happen be- cause no one will hand you permission.

This memoir is not just a collection of memories—it is a testament.
A testament to my children, so they may understand where they come from and the depth of my devotion. A testa- ment to anyone who has ever struggled, questioned their worth, or wondered if they could rise again.

My story is proof that even when life challenges you, breaks

your heart, or forces you down unexpected roads, you can still create something meaningful. You can still rise, still build, still dream.
Isaiah and Rainier Sky—may you read these pages and feel my love in every word. May you use my journey as a guide for building a life filled with integrity, purpose, and joy. And may you always know that your mother believed deeply in you—your potential, your brilliance, and your right to walk boldly in this world.

And now, as I sit here remembering my life, I finally under- stand something:
I will always be that little girl named Missy, running up and down the streets of Denver. I understand now why the old folks smiled at me, why they blew me kisses, why the angels protected me all my life.

This is The Memoirs of Missy—the story of a little Black girl who rose from 32nd and Marion Street in Denver and found her way with courage, grit, and grace.

Memoirs of Missy the next chapters

Recollecting My Bravest Experience

Bravery in the Field

Exploring Significant Figures in My Life

The Women Who Shaped Me

Revisiting the Most Profound Event

cultural moments have been so profound

Pearls of Wisdom: Incorporating Vital Life Lessons

words of wisdom to my children

Captured Moments: Adoption Ceremonies

My Life's Biggest Challenge

Career, Calling, and the Children

My Happiest Life Moment

Happiness in the Everyday

Recounting My Most Heartbreaking Moment

The Shape of Grief

My Greatest Achievement

Proud Moments

Managing Trust's Shattered Bonds

Betrayal & Boundaries

Embracing the Signs of Aging

The Moment I Felt Time

How I Wish to Be Remembered

How I Want to Be Remembered

Passing the Torch

A Message to the Next Generation

Acts of Kindness in My Heart

The Power of Kindness

Message to Loved Ones

Stay the course.

Through the Lens: An Exploration of Mass Media's Impact on Society

Unveiling the Most Impactful Decision

Forgiveness, Roots, and the Family I Found Along the Way

Pivotal Moments of My Life

Pivotal Lessons That Shaped Me

Feelings That Unveiled in Remembering Life

This is my memoir—Memoirs of a Black Woman

Memoirs of Missy the next chapters

Recollecting My Bravest Experience

Bravery in the Field

Exploring Significant Figures in My Life

The Women Who Shaped Me

Revisiting the Most Profound Event

cultural moments have been so profound

Pearls of Wisdom: Incorporating Vital Life Lessons

words of wisdom to my children

Captured Moments: Adoption Ceremonies

My Life's Biggest Challenge

Career, Calling, and the Children

My Happiest Life Moment

Happiness in the Everyday

Recounting My Most Heartbreaking Moment

The Shape of Grief

My Greatest Achievement

Proud Moments

Managing Trust's Shattered Bonds

Betrayal & Boundaries

Embracing the Signs of Aging

The Moment I Felt Time

How I Wish to Be Remembered

How I Want to Be Remembered

Passing the Torch

A Message to the Next Generation

Acts of Kindness in My Heart

The Power of Kindness

Message to Loved Ones

Stay the course.

Through the Lens: An Exploration of Mass Media's Impact on Society

Unveiling the Most Impactful Decision

Forgiveness, Roots, and the Family I Found Along the Way

Pivotal Moments of My Life

Pivotal Lessons That Shaped Me

Feelings That Unveiled in Remembering Life

This is my memoir—Memoirs of a Black Woman

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