By: Dr. Phyllis Bivins-Hudson
There comes a moment in everyone’s life—but especially in a woman’s life—when she realizes she’s still showing up—but she’s no longer fully there.
She’s functioning. She’s responsible. She’s reliable.
But somewhere between surviving, serving, and staying strong, she misplaced herself. Her MoJo is lost.
This month’s blog is about that moment and what comes after it because losing one’s MoJo doesn’t mean you’re broken. It doesn’t mean you failed. And it certainly doesn’t mean your best days are behind you.
It means you’ve been “lifing,” and life happens. In this state, it also means grief, disappointment, caregiving, trauma, burnout, or sacrifice has taken its toll.
And for many women, especially women who are resilient by necessity, we don’t fall apart. But we do fade quietly.
In my research, one thing I found to be true is that, MoJo is not luck, youth, or perfection.
It is a person’s life force, creativity, voice, and authority over our own becoming.
And when our MoJo finally returns, it doesn’t bring us back to who we were—it introduces us to who we are now.
This month’s blog discusses reclaiming that spark. Not with shame. Not with urgency. But with wisdom, intention, and truth.
If you’re reading this and something inside you feels dimmer than it once did—this blog is for you.
While the word MoJo typically means a magic, charm, talisman, or spell, it is also the title of a song, with lines like ‘Got my mojo workin,' but it just won't work on you.’
The song continues with verses about going to Louisiana for a mojo hand to attract women and consult a gypsy woman for advice.
Hence, a magic, charm, talisman, or spell.
But what does “getting your MoJo back” truly mean to us beyond the cliché? “Getting your MoJo back” is often tossed around as a feel-good slogan, but beyond the cliché, it’s something far more earned than cheerful, and far more “quiet” than hype.
At its core, getting our MoJo back means returning to self-trust.
Not the version of us that was productive, impressive, or pleasing—but the version that knew when to say yes and when to walk away, moved with intention rather than obligation, and created, taught, loved, or led from alignment instead of survival.
When we look beneath the surface, “MoJo” is not a comeback; it’s a reclamation.
We’re not becoming who we used to be. We’re recovering what was buried under exhaustion, responsibility, grief, or other people’s expectations.
The MoJodidn’t disappear; it went underground to protect itself.
The good news is that our energy returns before our confidence does. 
MoJo comes back first as curiosity, then as irritation with what no longer fits, then as small acts of courage.
Confidence is the byproduct, not the starting point. When our MoJo is gone, we “function.”
When it returns, we “feel”. We laugh without forcing it. We cry without apologizing. We rest without guilt. We no longer need to prove strength because we inhabit it.
When we finally start getting our MoJo back, our voice gets sharper and softer.
We speak more plainly and explain less, while no longer over-justifying our boundaries.
At the same time, we extend more grace to ourselves most of all. Following the return of the voice, our personal self begins to reappear. We begin to show up again in all that we do, including work and relationships.
These things start to feel like ours again, rather than feeling like we owe the world something. All this brings clarity. A clarity that helps us be truly engaged in one true thing rather than ten hollow ones.
In short, getting our MoJo back means we are no longer living as a reaction to what broke us.
We are living as a response to what still calls us.
And for women—especially Black women, educators, caregivers, leaders, or survivors, getting our MoJoback is a quiet rebellion that calls for us to stay encouraged and keep present the mantra, “I will not disappear inside my responsibilities”.
That said, one has to wonder why so many high-functioning, accomplished people, especially women, minimize or delay addressing this loss.
In a few words, I believe this happens in part because we are rewarded for ignoring the loss long before we are given language to name it.
But to truly understand what happens, we have to look beneath the surface.
First of all, high achievers are taught explicitly and implicitly that if you’re still performing, nothing is wrong. So we learn to out-function our pain. Bills get paid, degrees are earned, and people get help.
So to someone on the outside looking in, life looks intact. But inside, something else is happening. Loss of MoJoshows up as muted joy or chronic fatigue masked as “busy” or creativity replaced by efficiency. In essence, because nothing is falling apart, it doesn’t feel urgent enough that it needs to be addressed.
However, we have to take a closer look at something else in play—how women have been socialized. Many women, particularly caretakers, educators, and leaders, are trained to ask, “Who needs me more than I need myself right now?”
But that question begs something bigger—addressing personal depletion, which gets postponed until:
The kids are grown, the crisis passes, the job stabilizes, and the season "slows down."
Conversely, as life happens, seasons don’t slow down on their own. And the “self” learns to wait indefinitely. Yet, accomplished people fear that naming loss will undermine authority, or disappoint those who rely on us, or even worse, we feel ungrateful given our success.
So what do we do? We minimize it by having self-talk such as “Others have it worse.”Or “I should be grateful.” Or“This is just a phase.” What is really working here is similar to Imposter Syndrome—“I don’t feel entitled to my own depletion.”
Finally, for many women, especially Black women, there is historical muscle memory because of a long legacy of survival over self-expression, strength over softness, responsibility over rest. Minimizing inner loss wasn’t a flaw; it was adaptive.
But what was once necessary can quietly become self-erasure when the danger has passed, but the posture remains.
In truth, these women, like many of us, delay addressing the loss because we were taught to be proud of how much we could carry, even when it cost us ourselves.
Getting MoJo back often begins when a high-functioning person permits themselves to say: “I am allowed to want more than endurance”.
In conclusion, for Black women, the loss of MoJo is often inherited before it is experienced.
It lives in the muscle memory of being strong, capable, and needed. It is passed down through praise that celebrates endurance while ignoring exhaustion.
Black women do not delay naming this loss because of a lack of insight; we delay it because strength has always been a form of protection, joy has been treated as optional, and rest as something to be earned, after everyone else is secure.
But there comes a moment when survival is no longer enough, when resilience, once sacred, begins to feel like a cage.
Getting your MoJo back is not a return to who you were before the world demanded so much. It is a refusal to disappear any further. It is the radical decision to believe that softness is not weakness, desire is not selfish, and wholeness is not betrayal.
The turning point comes when a Black woman stops asking, “How do I stay strong?” and starts asking, “What does my spirit require now?” That question is not rebellion for its own sake; it is repair. And answering it is an act of legacy.
If you read this blog and feel completely disconnected from yourself, consider what should be the first loving step to take right now. Then, complete this sentence: Getting my MoJo back begins when I finally __________________.
And once you have completed the statement, keep flying on your own wings.