To My Mother

This is written in public, but it’s for you, and I want to make that clear from the start so no one mistakes this for a performance. I’m not usually the type to post something like this, and you know that I tend to keep important things either short or private, but every once in a while it feels right to say something like this. You were actually the one that encouraged me to be more vulnerable on this platform. There’s also something about putting it in the open that forces clarity, that keeps it from dissolving into a quick “love you” text that doesn’t carry the full weight of what I actually mean.

I was thinking about how I wanted to deliver this “card” to you, and I think that this is the most pertinent way. I wanted to list some of the things I see when I look at your life, some of the qualities that have shaped mine more than I understood at the time, and I wanted everyone to know about them!

Most people talk about their mom in broad categories, caregiver, protector, the one who was always there, and all of that is true, but what doesn’t get talked about much is the actual person inside that role.

The mind behind it, the way she thinks when no one is watching, the way she turns things over slowly instead of reacting fast, the way she carries questions around for a while instead of rushing to tie them off neatly. That’s the part of you I’ve come to appreciate more as I’ve gotten older, especially now that we’re not just in a parent-child dynamic but something closer to two adults who happen to share history.

We’ve grown closer through books and poetry and long conversations that don’t need to go anywhere in particular, and I think that’s because you’ve always been the kind of thinker who doesn’t feel the need to dominate a room to prove that you’re sharp. You notice patterns. You’re comfortable with silence. You’re willing to let a hard question sit on the table without grabbing the first clean answer just to make the tension go away.

As a kid, you don’t have language for that. You don’t think, my mother is modeling intellectual humility or emotional steadiness. You just grow up inside a tone. You absorb how disagreement is handled, how uncertainty is treated, whether questions are welcome or inconvenient. In our house, thinking wasn’t rushed, and doubt wasn’t treated like rebellion. You didn’t hand me pre-packaged answers just to wrap things up and move on, and you didn’t panic when I wrestled with ideas that didn’t have easy resolutions. You let me search, and without ever standing at the front of the room and giving a speech about it, you made it clear that thinking carefully is a way of honoring life instead of skimming across the surface of it.

There’s a specific memory that comes back to me sometimes, the front office of the house, you at your desk, me in the green chair, and I wasn’t myself in that season. I was spiraling inward, disconnected from things I cared about, convinced in my own head that something had gone off the rails permanently. You saw it before I had words for it, and you didn’t overreact, you didn’t scold me, you didn’t turn it into a crisis that made everything louder. You spoke calmly, suggested I talk to a therapist, and said something that stuck harder than the suggestion itself, which was that you knew that I could bounce back, even if I couldn’t see that from where I was sitting. You managed to hold both realities at the same time, that I was struggling and that I wasn’t broken, and that combination mattered more than you probably realized.

You’ve always been like that. When things in my life felt unfinished or confusing or half-formed, you weren’t another source of pressure demanding clarity before it was ready to show up. You didn’t treat my timeline like a project that needed micromanaging. You trusted that I was becoming something or at least trying to figure that out, even when that something wasn’t obvious yet. Trust gives space. It says, I’m not worried about you proving yourself to me.

There were seasons where I wasn’t easy to be around, where I pulled back, got sharp, isolated myself more than I should have, and I can see that more clearly now than I could then. You didn’t meet that version of me with resentment or coldness. You kept the door open. You kept treating me like someone worth investing in, even when I wasn’t making it convenient. You treated exploration like development instead of instability, and that posture has worked its way into how I handle other people now.

You’ve also loved people in ways that most people don’t even try to do, especially through hospitality. The house has always been ready before anyone arrives, beds made, towels set out, small details handled quietly so no one feels like they’re imposing. That kind of preparation communicates something strong and simple, you’re welcome here and you’re not a burden. I grew up around that, and I don’t think I realized how formative it was until I saw how rare it can be.

When you send me music now, I know there’s an unspoken instruction attached to it, slow down, actually listen, read the lyrics, and don’t just let it play in the background. You’ve taught me to look for meaning instead of just consuming noise, and that carries over into everything else. A lot of what I value now, depth, patience, the refusal to simplify complex things just because it’s easier, can be traced back to watching how you interact with the world.

You also made choices that cost you something. There were things you could have built for yourself, ideas you carried about creating something around food and care, maybe a small food truck, something with your name on it. Instead, you keep choosing stability, you choose to keep the family steady, you chose to pour your energy into something that barely gives visible credit back. I didn’t understand the weight of that when I was younger.

As I’ve gotten older, especially after coming home from Ecola and starting to build an adult life alongside you instead of just under you, I’ve started to see you more as a full person, not just my mom but someone with her own interior life, her own disappointments, her own hopes that don’t revolve around me.

There’s a strange realization that hits at some point in adulthood, which is that your life is resting on foundations that you didn’t lay. The emotional climate you assume is normal, the sense of safety you take for granted, the way you approach conflict or uncertainty, all of that was built for you before you knew to ask for it. You’re one of those foundations for me.

So this is my way of saying thank you, without overdoing it, without turning it into something sentimental for the sake of being sentimental. I see the steadiness. I see the thoughtfulness. I see the quiet strength that never needed applause to keep going. And I’m grateful for it.

Happy birthday, Mom.

This is written where other people can read it, because who you are deserves to be seen!