The Healing Power of Othermothering: Singing Medicine and the Return to Belonging

In a world where loneliness is rampant and hyper-individualism is often mistaken for freedom, a quieter truth is calling to us: we were never meant to do this alone. As someone who was othermothered back into life by a woman who had every reason to turn away, I have spent my life answering that call doing my best to be a presence of belonging for others.

Othermothering is a concept rooted in many Indigenous and African traditions: it describes the profound practice of a woman caring for a child who is not biologically her own. It is a way of life that prioritizes collective well-being over separation. It is a fierce and tender stance of saying: I see you, you are real, you matter.

When I was eight years old, I was abducted, assaulted, and left alone in war-torn Rhodesia during the civil war. I survived a night in the wild, climbed into the hollow of a tree to rest my injured ribs, and found my way to a rural village where something extraordinary happened. A woman—Black, strong, and seated in the sun—began to sing to me. Her lullaby called me toward her with a kindness I didn’t yet know how to receive. She made no demands. She simply sang. And when I was ready, I stepped forward. That was the moment I felt the eyes of mothering for the first time. I saw that she liked me. And I began to exist.

That act of singing medicine changed everything. It did not erase my trauma, but it opened a path to belonging that has shaped the rest of my life. I have now given Singing Medicine to over 16,000 people, each one a living moment of reconnection. I sing to the nervous system, not to perform but to say: I see you. You are not invisible. You are worthy of being held.

Othermothering isn’t reserved for women or for those with children. It is a cultural medicine we can all offer. It lives in the way we pause to listen without fixing, the way we say someone’s name with care, the way we allow people to belong before they prove anything. In a world that often extracts more than it nurtures—from land, from people, from relationships—choosing to tend and welcome is a powerful way of restoring wholeness. For those who are interested in joining our experiential class: Othermothering and Singing Medicine September 13, 2025.

Many people ask me: how do we create a collectivistic culture in a society built on separation? My answer is: we begin by practicing the medicine of inclusion. We restore our capacity to attune to one another’s needs and celebrate one another’s existence. We learn to offer sanctuary to the people who cross our path. Sometimes that looks like parenting. Sometimes it looks like mentorship. Sometimes it’s the stranger who sits next to someone grieving and says nothing, but stays.

This is not soft work. To othermother is to be with people in their most vulnerable moments and to love without needing to control. It asks us to repair the myth of the self-made person and return to the truth that we are all made by relationship.

To the ones who have never been mothered, to the ones who long to give what they never received, to the ones who are tired of waiting for permission to matter—this is your invitation. You are already worthy of belonging. And you are already capable of offering it.

Let us remember what my Zimbabwean mama knew so well: that presence is power. That the simple act of seeing someone can return them to themselves. That our voices, when rooted in care, can be medicine strong enough to change a life.

We are living in a time that aches for cultural repair. Let’s begin by becoming the presence we once needed. Let’s sing each other back into our bodies, our stories, and our rightful place in the human family.

This is what it means to love bravely.

If this reflection stirred something in you, Loving Bravely goes even deeper.

Robin Aisha Landsong’s memoir tells the full story of what it means to be sung back to life—and how that moment of grace became a lifelong path of healing, creativity, and belonging. It’s a book for anyone who has longed to be seen, to feel real, and to find home again in their own body.

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