What My Mother Taught Me

My mother never sat me down and said let me teach you how to be a woman. She just lived, and I watched. I watched how she moved through a room. How she handled a crisis without losing herself completely. How she laughed — really laughed — at things that had nothing to do with being impressive.

She taught me that strength does not have to announce itself. That a woman can be soft and still be the most powerful person in the room. That loving people generously does not mean loving yourself less.

She also showed me the things she did not intend to show me. The way she stayed quiet when she should have spoken. The way she carried worries she never let anyone help her with. The way she put everyone else's comfort before her own, so automatically that I wonder if she even noticed.

I think about that often. About the lessons we inherit without choosing them. About the patterns that move through families like water through roots, invisible until they surface in us years later.

One of the greatest gifts of growing up is that you get to decide which things you keep and which things you put down. You can honour your mother — and the women before her — and still choose differently. That is not betrayal. That is the work of every generation.

So I carry what she gave me that was good. Her warmth. Her ability to make people feel seen. Her laughter. And I work every day to put down what no longer serves the woman I am becoming.

Mama, thank you. For everything — including the lessons that came sideways.