Candice Washington

I was born in the colorful, vibrant 1980s, a time full of life, music, and expression, but also one where I became a familiar witness to the epidemic that shaped so many families, including my own. I learned early that joy and hardship can exist at the same time, and that both will teach you something.

I am the eldest of ten (some here- and some to be remembered). That alone tells you a lot. I did not grow up with the option of only thinking about myself. I learned how to care, how to step in, how to lead before I even had language for it. Responsibility found me early, and in many ways, it shaped how I move through the world.

I was named after my grandfather, a Washington I didn’t get to know deeply, but I came to know him through his children. In small, loud and quiet moments, I felt a kind of love that was real and steady. It came at a time when I needed it most. They held a part of me that needed saving, and they did it just by being who they were.

My mother is part of that story. The way love moved through her, the way it was carried forward, the way it found me. Even through the hardest chapters, when love shattered her and life tested her in ways most people never see, she kept fighting-and she still does. And it didn’t stop there. It crept through my sisters and brothers, who I hold tightly, and now I see it in my own life as a mother of two boys. The same love, still moving, still finding its way.

That is what being a Washington means to me. Not just a name, but a lineage of care, resilience, and showing up for each other even when life is complicated.

My pedagogy lives in that. I believe learning begins with what we carry. Our stories, our people, our memories. I create spaces where children and families can name who matters to them and understand that their lives are worthy of being remembered right now, not later.

I think often about who gets remembered and who doesn’t. And I choose to center the people who raised us, held us, and shaped us, even if their names are never written down anywhere else.

I want people to remember my grandfather.
I want them to remember his children who made sure his love reached me anyway.

And I want to be remembered too.

As someone who came from what some would say should have limited me, but didn’t.
As an advocate for children and families.
As someone who made space where there wasn’t any.

More than anything, I want those who come after me, including my boys, to feel what I felt, even if only briefly.

Love that reaches them.

Love that holds them.

Love that saves the parts of them that need saving.

Because sometimes that’s all it takes to change everything.