At Beyond the Bell, we believe education extends beyond classrooms and titles. Sometimes the people who shape us most are not teachers or administrators, but those who simply show up, care, and hold us accountable when we need it most. To begin September, our first article of the month honors one of those people: Gerhonda “Momma G” Wood. She was the mother of Logan and Aaron Wood, both day students at Brehm Preparatory School, but she also became an honorary mother to many boarding students between the classes of 2016 and 2018, especially my own class of 2017. Her presence, voice, and love are part of why I work in boarding schools today.

On August 9, I got a message from Logan Wood telling me that her mom, Gerhonda, had passed away. I will be honest, I have some tears while writing this. Because to me, she was not just Logan and Aaron’s mom. She was Momma G. And for boarders like me at Brehm, she became the honorary mom we all needed. She had no official role at the school, but her presence filled the campus. She gave us family when ours could not always be there.

Momma G was everywhere. She was at soccer games, basketball games, and even at a couple of my golf matches. She was the first to clap, the first to yell encouragement, and the last to leave. She had a way of turning ordinary games into events that felt bigger than life. A Tuesday night in the small Brehm gym felt like the NBA Finals when she was in the stands. A chilly Saturday soccer game felt like the World Cup when you could hear her voice echoing across the field.

She was there for the highs and the lows. My junior year, we made the playoffs and hosted for the first time in maybe ten or fifteen years. The gym was packed, the energy electric, and she was right there in the middle of it, cheering us on. My senior season we went even further, making it to the Sweet 16 of the Southern Illinois region. Those games were history-making moments for Brehm basketball, and she was there to celebrate them with us. When we won, she was beaming. When we lost, she reminded us that we were more than a scoreboard.

Her care extended beyond the games. At one soccer match, Grady went down hard, landing on his elbow. I was no more than ten feet away, and that image has never left me. The field was silent, everyone waiting for the trainer to decide what to do. And then her voice rose above it all, steady and strong. She reminded him that he was tougher than the pain, that he could get through it. She could not stop the injury, but she made sure he was not alone. That was her gift — making sure none of us ever felt alone.

She carried that same energy when one of us messed up. Bales got caught drinking and was suspended for three games. Honestly, if timing had been five minutes different, it could have been me, Grady, and Bales together. Cat’s out of the bag. Sorry, Brehm. But Momma G did not let that moment define him. She still showed up, still treated him like one of her own, still cheered. She believed in redemption. She believed in grace. She believed that one mistake never erased who you were.

And then there was practice. Coach Lee had just introduced a new basketball play, and Grady — all 6’3 of him — was holding back and playing like he was 5’10. Momma G, all 4’10 of her, stood up and yelled across the gym for him to stop playing small and use his size. The whole gym cracked up. And here is the part that will always stay with me. Aaron Lee, our coach, was one of the toughest people to make smile, let alone laugh. But that day, even he broke. He smiled, he chuckled, and for that moment, the whole gym felt lighter. That was Momma G. She could break through walls, even the ones adults put up.

She was also the voice in your ear when you were out of line. After a tough basketball loss, I was fuming, ready to let my anger spill over onto everyone around me. She cut me off right there, telling me firmly, “Never come home angry.” She meant it. In a boarding school, home is your dorm, your classmates, your dorm parents, the faculty who came to support you. She made it clear that it was not fair to drag bitterness into the space where others cared for you. She ripped into me in the best way, like I was her own son. I needed that lesson, and I still carry it with me today.

But her impact stretched beyond sports. She remembered birthdays. She noticed when you were having a rough week. She asked about classes and pushed us to be proud of ourselves. She celebrated little wins, not just the big ones. She hugged hard and laughed loudly. She had that rare ability to hold you accountable and build you up in the same breath.

And then there was graduation day in 2017. The culmination of four years, the end of my time at Brehm, and the beginning of something new. I looked out and saw the faces of classmates, teachers, families. Of course I hugged my family first, but the very first person outside of blood family that I hugged was Momma G. That was how much she meant to me. That was how much she meant to all of us. She was more than a fan, more than a supporter, more than just Aaron and Logan’s mom. She was family.

The Lesson

Momma G taught us that community is a responsibility. “Never come home angry” was not just about cooling off after a tough game. It was about remembering that in boarding school, home is shared. You owe it to those around you — your classmates, your dorm parents, your teachers — to bring respect and care back with you, no matter the scoreboard. And when I hugged her after graduation, it was a reminder of the other half of that lesson: that family is not only blood. Family is chosen, and belonging is built when someone shows up for you again and again.

That is the lesson I carry into my life and my work today. In schools, and especially in boarding schools, what keeps students rooted is not just academics or athletics, but the people who care enough to tell you the truth, to celebrate your wins, and to hug you like you are their own.

From Her Brehm Family

We admired how she was always there. We remembered her voice when one of us went down on the field. We laughed when she shouted from the bleachers at practice and reminded us to play bigger. We smiled remembering how even the toughest people to crack could not resist her energy and warmth. We felt her care even when mistakes were made and suspensions were handed down. We loved that she could see through the tough exteriors and reach the softer side inside each of us. We cherished how she cheered for soccer games like they were professional matches and clapped at basketball games like every basket was a championship shot. We will never forget that at graduation, she hugged us like we were her own, because in her heart, we were.

To Logan and Aaron: we know Momma G is looking down at you both, bursting with pride. Logan, you have grown into a great mom yourself, carrying forward the same strength and love she poured into all of us. Aaron, we see how hard you are working, and we know she sees it too. She is proud of you both, every step of the way.

Rest easy, Momma G. At 4’10, you somehow stood taller than all of us. You will always be remembered, always loved, and always part of our Brehm family.

Her Legacy Lives On

As I work toward my doctorate, researching how belonging and student life shape whether students choose to stay or leave a school, I keep coming back to people like Momma G. She was not a teacher or an administrator, but she embodied the truth that belonging is everything. Students stay when they feel cared for, when they feel seen, when they feel like family. Momma G created that feeling every time she showed up. Her example lives inside my work, my research, and my purpose. She reminds me that The Second Enrollment — the choice to stay — is built not just in classrooms, but in the stands, at practices, in the hugs after graduation, in the rare moments when even the toughest people smile, and in the love we carry forward.