I am my mother’s story.

All of the wild, bravery, love, mess, trauma, and excitement.

These pieces of her, each one combined, created my reality.

And that is beautiful.  

She raised me out of her experiences to be kind, courageous, and skeptical.

My mother trusted a few who violated her trust.  She was just a child and was left, unprotected.  She raised me to be aware of intentions, talking often about her trauma, as hard as that was.  She raised me to walk through life, head up and eyes wide open.  My senses were engaged in every setting, never to let that guard down. She spoke with ease about the hurt she’d suffered.  Not only did she teach me to watch out for other’s poor intentions but she taught me to look into the eyes of those who might have been hurt and to be a helper in a world that needs that.  

She left knowing that she deserved more.  She knew her worth and refused to lower her standards. She might not have realized it at the time that she packed her car and drove off with three small babies in tow, but those actions defined my ability to search for love. Because of her strength I married a good-man. I never once, for a moment, questioned my worth of lowered my standards.  She did that. She deserves all of that credit.  

I used to lay in my bed as a teenager and listen to her help other parents who were struggling with their children.  Her creativity in discipline scared the sh*t out of me.  I stayed, for the most part, in line and simply watched and listened to her brilliance as a mother from the comfort of my bed.  Now as a parent myself, I pride myself in my firm but loving hand.  Mine is the same hand my mother showed me.  My mothering is a direct reflection of hers and I couldn’t have asked for better.

She created a home that I could always return to - a small post-war bungalow, remortgaged several times to assist us, her 6 children, with all of our endeavours and failures.    That home created the base in which I ventured out from, never fearing failure.  I have never feared failure.  The home my mother created, the safety and security it provided, meant that I never once feared failing because I knew that I always had a soft place to land.  I still do. That home provided the security for me to always reach for my dreams, and then reach a little further. That home is the one I shut myself into in my darkest days, I couldn’t have imagined being anywhere else.

We were raised out of these experiences to be kind, courageous, and skeptical.

We are all our mothers’ stories.

All of their wild, bravery, mess, trauma, and excitement.

The pieces of the women before us, each one combined, creates our reality.

And that is beautiful.

Happy 65thbirthday, mama. 

 Without you, I am nothing.