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Join us online March 31st for Focus 2021, Momentum’s largest-ever virtual event. Sign up, log in, and get ready! We’ve got an hour and a half of nonstop inspiration that is laser-focused on success in 2021.

Our keynote speakers from the Momentum 2020 conference, Risha Grant and Robyn Benincasa, will be back for an encore performance. Plus, we’ll have some of your favorite Momentum speakers on hand to give you tips and tools you can really use to focus on success in 2021. There is no registration fee, just sign up and share. Every woman who is motivated to make a difference in 2021 needs to be there!

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Our board works hard to make sure Momentum can achieve its goal of empowering women in Alabama. We are incredibly grateful for our 28 board members, and we want you to meet them! Here are just 7 of the team, but more board members will be featured next week!

Nancy Kane, President

EVP, Acquisitions and Corporate Development

Protective Life Corporation

Tiffany DeGruy


Bradley Arant Boult Cummings

Carol Maxwell

Foundation Director

Vulcan Materials

Tricia Kirk

Executive Director

Exceptional Foundation

Tere' Edwards

Director of Compliance


Michele Elrod, President-Elect/VP Programs

Retired CMO


Joy Carter, VP, Marketing

Communications Manager

AMERICAN Cast Iron Pipe Co.

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Book Discussion on April 8

Join a Momentum mentor pair as they reveal takeaways from the book.

Register for the Zoom discussion here!

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Past Momentum intern M.K. Foster is now a published author! She just completed a PhD at the University of Alabama.

Below she shares a poem honoring her grandmother.


Two years after she died, I found my grandmother living

in the walls of my body, sleeping by day, waking by night—

we’re so good at being good; it’s hard to tell how bad we are

at being women. When their babies die, mother whales carry

their dead calves’ bodies in their mouths like cobalt knives,

haul like marble fists through blue glass until their dead have

blown away or apart. And a woman is supposed to dig a hole.

Or look away. I look away. In all my dreams, Evelyn and I are

either watching the ocean as we would a child playing near

the ocean, or else searching ourselves, reaching as though for

house keys in a street grate—and nothing’s bringing us closer

or taking us farther away: only the beginning of how it feels

when you bear, only to lose, your children inside your body.

She is sleeping, I tell myself when I touch the photos of her

as a young woman—her mouth, now my mouth—smiling,

doubled-over, laughing as easily as screaming, holding herself,

turning her face into the sun. She’s sleeping, so I’ve found

when I close my eyes and hold my head as I once saw her

hold a melon she caught from falling in a farmer’s market—

open my mouth, and there is nothing, but song: our ribs, like

light lost in loblollies, our skin, every sycamore in November.

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