Getting Sticky With Rajni Jacques

Photos by Lelanie Foster, Words by Anamaria Glavan

Rajni Jacques followed the classic editorial-to-tech pipeline: fashion features director at Nylon, editor-at-large at Racked (we miss it), fashion director at Teen Vogue, then Allure, and now the global head of fashion and beauty at Snap. She’s also the co-founder, alongside Kai Avent-deLeon, of Building Black Bed-Stuy, a community initiative rooted in mutual aid and long-term investment.

There were so many beautiful threadlines in our conversation with Rajni, from raising a daughter (“I never want her to feel like her body, or her hair, or her nose, or her skin isn’t enough”) to how a parent’s divorce can shape the relationship dynamics we seek.

We’ve included those moments below, but what lingered most was our conversation around aging — specifically, how consumed our culture is with halting it, hiding it, fixing it. It’s hard not to internalize the endless messages women receive about staying “young,” as if youth is a finish line we’re supposed to cling to forever. Through the story of her sister-in-law’s passing, Rajni reminds us: aging is a gift. To fear it is foolish.

Neither tangible nor visible 

It was at the infertility doctor that I found out I was pregnant. I had been trying for a year and a half and decided to see a specialist just to check things out. But even before birthing my child, I was already carrying all this anxiety. I remember thinking, If I’m this anxious now, what’s going to happen when I actually have this baby? What’s going to happen when I hit the three-month mark and start doing all the testing?

That’s when it hit me: what motherhood actually is. It entails so many things that aren’t tangible or visible. Even now, as you're nurturing and watching them grow, there's so much we do as mothers behind closed doors. Just knowing your kid is growing and you’ll probably need to buy them new pants or underwear in the next three months, keeping that in your head and then actually acting on it. All the invisible labor. The doctor’s appointments, always being three steps ahead. All of it.

And that was the first lesson in what motherhood is going to be like: worrying about something that’s technically still inside you, and knowing there are just certain things you have no control over. How the baby develops. The aches and pains that come with growing up. And for someone who isn’t a control freak per se, but definitely worries about the things I can control, that was hard. You realize, all that worry, that burden, that love, that admiration,, that commitment, is for the rest of your life.

Whole by one’s self 

My mom is a doctor and works all the time, but she always managed to instill love, laughter, and fun into our home. My mom went through a lot—being married, going through divorce—but she never stopped smiling, never stopped showing up for us.

She taught me the importance of identity outside of motherhood. I always knew having a career didn’t make me any less of a mom. She also raised us to be super independent. My dad, too. Their philosophy was always: try to solve the problem yourself one, two, three times. If you can’t do it on the third try, then come to us. That gave us such a strong foundation.

One thing I never wanted to carry forward was the sense of emotional dependency I saw in relationships in general. I saw what my mom went through in her marriage and her divorce. I love my father, but as a kid, there’s a point when you realize your parents are actual people with names and flaws. They’re not just mom and dad. You realize they have their own problems. Seeing that, I never wanted to be in a relationship where, if it ended, I’d be completely broken. I wanted to always have a sense of self that could carry me through.

“I want them to know I chose this” 

I’m first-generation and my parents came here in the late 70s. The immigrant mentality is strong. They always figured things out for themselves, and they wanted us to know we’d have to do the same. Not everyone’s going to hold your hand. I liked that. It gave me a real sense of self-rule within a safety net. If I graduated and couldn’t get a job and needed to move home, I had that. But they taught us to prove to ourselves that we could do the work.

I want my kids to see that I have a library of interests and that I’m a passionate person. It’s important for them to understand  that my happiness extends beyond our time together, so that when we are united, I can share that joy with them. 

I need them to know I chose this. Parenthood wasn’t something that happened to me, it was a conscious decision. I wanted this journey. And for those reasons, it is important to maintain my well-being for the stability of my family.

Be kind to your daughter by being kind to yourself 

When it comes to raising Lucienne, there are things I’m very conscious of, like not talking about my body in front of her in a negative way. I never want my daughter to feel like her body, or her hair, or her nose, or her skin isn’t enough. I do my best to instill those things in Diego too, especially as a young Black boy. But with her, there’s more emphasis on the physical because she’s a girl in this visually-consuming world we live in.

Being a mom in fashion and beauty, there’s a lot she sees—me doing my hair, putting on makeup, trying on jeans—and I’m very aware of what that can communicate. If I’m having a bad body day, I do my best not to say things like, Ugh, I feel big or fat. I’m tuned into it, especially since having her.

My mom was body-positive all day. But the world now—phones, TV, YouTube, Social Media—it’s a lot more layered than when I was growing up. I want to shield her from certain ideas while also educating her. We tell her she’s awesome, not pretty. I want to cultivate everything she is, which is beautiful and smart, without putting her into some narrow category of what being a “girl” means.

The Starbucks order name: Samantha 

My parents are Haitian, and they met in Guadalajara, Mexico before moving to the US. We started in Richmond Hill, Queens, which was pretty diverse at the time. But when we moved to New Jersey, and that changed. 

It was tough growing up in a place where not many people looked like me, or came from immigrant families, or spoke different languages, or carried cultural differences. As a self-conscious kid, I just want to blend in. I remember asking my mom, Why would you name me Rajni? 

No one could pronounce my name. It was so annoying. I always had to correct people on the pronunciation. Then they’d ask where I was from. All the things I hated in seventh grade, became what I love about myself now. I’m embarrassed I even thought of those things back then. I just wanted to fit in. Now, I love my backstory.

Brooklyn was where I wanted to raise my children, at least for the first half of their lives. I wanted them to walk down the street and see people who look like them every single day. I didn’t just want diversity in skin color, but in class, religion, culture, all of it. I wanted them to be surrounded by different kinds of people, but also deeply rooted in Blackness.

Now that they’re six and eight, I see how much that’s impacted them. The school they go to is incredibly diverse—not just racially, but across all walks of life. I love that for them, because ideally, the real world reflects that too. Different people, different experiences.

And they’re absorbing it. I got mad at Diego recently. I wanted him to answer a simple question and he kept doing these silly voices, avoiding it. I finally snapped and said, Can you just be normal for a second? And he shot back, Normal is boring. Don’t you want me to be different? You always tell me being different is a good thing.

I was like, oh my God. Don’t throw my own lesson back at me! But in that moment I realized we must be doing something right. He sees “different” as something to celebrate. That felt really good.

Building Black BedStuy, in it’s fourth trimester 

Community has always been part of my life. Growing up with working parents, it wasn’t just the nuclear family. It was friends, aunts, uncles, people you’d call “aunt/uncle” even if they weren’t related. That was the Haitian community around me. It gave me a sense of safety and belonging. My parents and their friends marched across the Brooklyn Bridge in the early ’90s, protesting the way Haitians were treated during the HIV/AIDS crisis. They organized and fought back against harmful narratives. 

I don’t consider myself an activist, but I do know how to activate. I know how to use the platform I have to share a message, to support the world I want my kids—and everyone’s kids—to grow up in.

Building Black BedStuy was an extension of that. It came from a community of women I deeply respect, women I feel at home with. We asked: What can we do for this community we love so much? Bed-Stuy, Crown Heights; these neighborhoods are the DNA of Black Brooklyn and that was changing.

During COVID, so many Black-owned businesses were at risk. Not getting PPP loans, not having access to resources. Meanwhile, new residents in the same neighborhoods were getting help. So we said, okay, we’ll help. We’ll raise money. We’ll support however we can.

Now, we’re reassessing. The financial and political context has changed, and anything that supports the disenfranchised is under extreme scrutiny. So we’re asking: What’s the next version of this? What does support look like now?

I’m also a mentor for the Virgil Abloh Foundation and Bella Charter High School in Bed-Stuy for Black and brown girls. I was a keynote speaker there last year's graduating class. I’ll do anything that helps young women step into the next phase of their lives. 

Representation really does matter. If they can see someone who looks like them in these roles, they can  see themselves there. And if it isn’t open yet, I want to show them that they can be the one to do it. That’s the same message I give Diego and Lucienne. 

Razr > iPhone   

I learn a lot from my kids. I’m a visual learner, and I watch their reactions closely. How do they respond to tone? To my frustration? I’ve gotten better about yelling. I’ve learned patience. And I’ve consciously curbed my own behavior around tech, especially social media.

I don’t doom scroll in front of them. I’m not glued to my phone when we’re together. Of course,  It’s part of my job—I travel, I post—but I don’t want them to be overly exposed. I’m not anti-tech but I believe in moderation. If you’re going to use the tablet, fine—but pair that with play. Get outside. We do no-tablet weekends to reset that balance. I want them to see screens as a bonus, not a crutch. We over-estimate the value we get with “stuff” and under-estimate the value we receive from experience. And when Diego starts carrying a phone in the near future to school, I told him he’s getting one of my old Nokias or Razrs. Something that calls Mom and Dad, and maybe plays Tetris. 

In our memories, through their families: lost loved ones are never gone 

I’ve been with my husband David for so long and met his sister Molly when I was 18. And even though she was technically my sister-in-law, she was truly my sister/friend. We came of age together. We were trying to figure out our careers, our identities, switching hairstyles, and style inspirations every few months. We grew up side by side, and then we grew into ourselves. 

Theo, Georgie, Lucienne, and Diego are all in the same age range. And to be in that season together, to talk about parenting and the world and what we wanted for our kids, that’s something I still hold close. I cry thinking about it. She was a good mom. A good friend. A good person.

We used to have real conversations, not always easy ones, but the kind of talks you only have when you know someone’s in your life for the long haul. We didn’t talk to fight; we talked to understand. It was the kind of dynamic you have with someone you love deeply. 

She was always around; on the corner during school drop-offs, a quick text if I saw something wild. And to have that suddenly ripped from you is still hard to grasp. It’s hard watching her kids grow up without her. Watching my husband mourn his only sister. Watching my mother-in-law mourn her only daughter. There’s no neat end to grief. I'm learning that you negotiate with grief over time. It's ongoing and heartbreaking. Everyone mourns in their own way.

The corner where I’d always run into her during drop off feels heavy now. People always say “time heals,” and maybe it will, but it still feels like a mindfuck. It doesn’t feel real.

But I try to hold onto the gratitude. I’m grateful for the joy and the chaos she brought. There are so many great  memories. I try to keep them running like a movie reel in my head, so I don’t lose them. And when I see her kids, Theo and Georgie, I feel her presence.

She loved to laugh. She loved a good, deep chuckle. So I try to remember her that way. Just last week, I was looking for a photo on my phone and came across this video. It was of me and my dad dancing. My dad’s really sick now, so it felt poignant. And at the end of the video, completely unprompted, Molly walks into the frame and says, Raj, I love you. Gives me a hug and walks out. I hadn’t even noticed it before. But there she was.

Getting older is the greatest gift 

I always tell people, with everyone you love, you’ve got to say what needs to be said. Since this happened, I don’t take aging for granted. Waking up another day, breathing, kissing your kids, it’s all a blessing. I used to dread the day of getting wrinkles, lines, simply getting older, but now, I know it’s a fucking blessing.

It’s a blessing to watch your children grow from six to seven to eight and hopefully beyond. To witness your own history unfold. I don’t take that for granted at all.

Her death really hammered home the importance of being present, of living in the moment. Not worrying about tomorrow or next week, but right now. Say what you need to say to whoever you need to say it to now.

Eighteen to forty-three years. That’s so many beautiful memories. That’s a long-ass time, longer than most relationships. She was always my friend, my sister, and always will be. It touches my heart for you to ask about her. She’s part of my story.