Shantrelle P. Lewis didn’t just make a movie. Honestly, she built a sanctuary. When In Our Mothers' Gardens dropped on Netflix via Ava DuVernay’s ARRAY Releasing, it felt like a collective exhale for Black women globally. It wasn’t just "content." It was a radical act of self-care and ancestral mapping.
People think they know what to expect from a documentary about family. They expect a linear timeline. Maybe some old photos. But this film is different because it treats the garden as a literal and metaphorical space where trauma gets composted into something beautiful.
Why we need to talk about the roots
You’ve probably seen documentaries that try to "explain" the Black experience to an outside audience. This isn't that. It’s a private conversation that we just happened to be invited to watch.
The film weaves together the stories of several formidable women, including activists like Tarana Burke and scholars like Dr. Brittney Cooper. They aren't just talking about their resumes or their public-facing "strength." They are talking about their grandmothers. They’re talking about the smell of collard greens and the specific way a matriarch would sit on a porch.
It’s about lineage.
Radical lineage.
In Our Mothers' Gardens and the weight of "Strong Black Womanhood"
One of the most intense parts of In Our Mothers' Gardens is how it deconstructs the "Strong Black Woman" trope. We’ve all heard it. It’s supposed to be a compliment, right? But as the film shows, that pedestal is actually a cage.
Dr. Brittney Cooper is particularly sharp here. She talks about how Black women have historically been denied the right to be fragile. If you’re always the one holding everything together, who holds you? The film suggests that the "garden"—whether it’s a physical patch of dirt or a spiritual practice—is where that armor finally comes off.
It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s incredibly quiet at the same time.
The cinematography by Imani Dennison doesn't feel like a standard talking-head doc. It’s lush. It feels like 4:00 PM sun hitting a kitchen table. You can almost feel the humidity. This visual choice matters because it centers pleasure and beauty in a narrative that could have easily just focused on struggle.
Healing isn't a straight line
Lewis takes us across the African Diaspora. We go from the American South to the Caribbean. We see that while the geography changes, the "gardening" remains the same. It’s about preservation.
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Think about the seeds.
Literally.
Enslaved women would sometimes braid seeds into their hair before being forced onto ships. That is a level of foresight and love that is almost impossible to wrap your head around. In Our Mothers' Gardens honors that specific kind of grit. It’s not just about surviving; it’s about making sure the next generation has something to harvest.
The film also dives into the "Mother Wound." Not every relationship featured is perfect. Some are strained. Some are full of regret. By including these nuances, Lewis avoids making the film a sugary-sweet tribute. It’s honest. It acknowledges that sometimes our mothers didn't have the tools to heal themselves, let alone us.
The impact of ARRAY and the Netflix effect
Let's be real: without ARRAY, a film like this might have stayed on the festival circuit and never reached the masses. Ava DuVernay has created a pipeline for stories that don’t fit the traditional Hollywood mold.
When In Our Mothers' Gardens premiered in May 2021, it wasn't just a release; it was an event. People were hosting watch parties. They were calling their moms. They were starting their own genealogical research.
It tapped into a hunger for "softness."
We spent so much of 2020 and early 2021 in a state of high alert. This film arrived like a cool cloth on a feverish forehead. It gave permission to slow down.
What most people miss about the symbolism
The garden isn't just about plants. It’s about "the dirt."
You can’t have a garden without decay. You need the old stuff to rot so the new stuff can grow. The film uses this as a metaphor for generational trauma. We have to look at the "dirt" of our family histories—the secrets, the pain, the things nobody wants to talk about—to understand why we grow the way we do.
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Cultural critic and author Glenda Carpio has written extensively about the role of the domestic space in Black art. She notes that for Black women, the "home" hasn't always been a safe space because of the history of domestic labor. In Our Mothers' Gardens reclaims that space. It says the kitchen and the backyard belong to us now. They are sites of power, not just labor.
Real-world shifts after watching
I’ve talked to people who, after seeing the film, started "legacy projects." They didn’t just write down recipes. They recorded their elders talking about their first heartbreaks. They asked about their dreams, not just their jobs.
That is the true SEO of this film. It’s "Search Engine Optimization" for the soul.
It forces you to look at your own "garden." What are you planting? What weeds are you letting take over? Are you watering yourself?
The global perspective
The inclusion of the Afro-Caribbean experience is vital. Shantrelle P. Lewis herself has roots that stretch beyond the U.S. borders, and she brings that "Global Blackness" to the screen.
The film shows us that the "Mothers' Garden" is a global network. Whether it’s a grandmother in New Orleans or a great-aunt in Kingston, the language of care is universal. It’s a language of herbs, specific tones of voice, and the "look" that tells you everything you need to know without a single word.
Common misconceptions
People think this is a "chick flick" or just for women.
Wrong.
Men need to see this. Everyone needs to see this. Understanding the labor—emotional and physical—that has gone into sustaining families for centuries is a universal requirement for being a decent human.
It’s also not a "how-to" guide for gardening. If you go in looking for tips on how to grow prize-winning tomatoes, you’re in the wrong place. You will, however, learn how to grow a prize-winning spirit.
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Actionable steps for your own legacy
You don't need a film crew to start doing the work highlighted in the documentary. The "garden" is accessible to everyone right now.
Start the "Uncomfortable" Conversation Call an elder. Don't ask them how they are doing—they'll just say "fine." Ask them what their favorite song was when they were sixteen. Ask them who their best friend was in third grade. These tiny details are the soil of your history.
Identify Your "Gardening" Tools What is your restorative practice? For some, it’s literally planting. For others, it’s journaling, cooking, or just sitting in silence. Identify the thing that makes you feel connected to those who came before you.
Document Everything We live in a digital age, but physical artifacts matter. Print the photos. Write the letters. In fifty years, your descendants won't have your iCloud password, but they might find a box under a bed.
Audit Your "Strength" If you’ve been carrying the "Strong Black Woman" (or just "Strong Person") mantle, put it down for an hour. See what happens. The world won't end. In Our Mothers' Gardens teaches us that rest is a form of resistance.
Create a "Vulnerability Sanctuary" Find a space—a room, a corner, a park bench—where you don't have to "be" anything for anyone. This is your personal garden. Protect it fiercely.
The beauty of In Our Mothers' Gardens is that it doesn't end when the credits roll. It’s a seed. Once you’ve seen it, you can’t un-see the patterns of love and labor in your own life. You start to see the "gardens" everywhere. You realize that you are the harvest of a thousand women who dreamed of you before you were even a thought.
Take that seriously.
Tend to it.
Watch the film on Netflix if you haven't yet. Then, go outside and touch the ground. Feel the continuity. You aren't just an individual; you're a continuation of a very long, very beautiful story.
Stop searching for "wellness" in a bottle or an app. Look at the women who survived so you could exist. Look at their hands. Look at their gardens. Everything you need to know about resilience is already there.