I am my mother’s daughter.
But it took me a while to realize how true that was. As a child, she was the strongest person I knew. She worked hard, she cared for us and cared for so many others. As I grew older her personal struggles became more apparent but I didn’t understand how life had worn her down.
She grew up as part of a huge family with 8 siblings, and as the oldest acted as their protector and supporter. Her parents’ employment had them moving around frequently between Boston, Ma, York, PA, and Wadesboro, NC, making stability challenging.
By age 21 she had me. She was scared and her parents weren’t exactly thrilled about it. Right after I was born, she would take me to work with her at Mass General Hospital during her shifts, putting me in the hospital nursery while she worked.
And she never stopped working. I remember missing her because she worked so much, but understood that she was doing her best to provide for us and others that needed help.
Even in the worst of times, I remember how she tried to do special things for us, whether it was drawing a picture for us to wake up to, taking us to the beach, or going to the county fair, even in her exhausted state, she did her best to give us bright spots of her sunshine.
Whenever she had the energy she would journal and read inspirational books to try to heal the hurt she accumulated. She passed her passion for writing on to me.
Somehow she also made time to be civically engaged and circulated petitions to improve school budgets and marched to increase the minimum wage. She also helped people in her community get legal aid.
We Are Beautiful Not Broken
But life’s struggles got the best of her and she died a premature death at the age of 47. My siblings and I struggled with guilt wondering how we could have done more to help. It took time to realize that her challenges were bigger than us. Many of her issues were steeped in society’s ideals that our worth is based on how much we produce.
Looking at my mother, and her mother, and her mother something became plainly apparent to me; we deserve rest, care, support, and protective boundaries. We can’t keep pushing martyrdom. We can’t keep dying literally and figuratively to provide food and shelter for our families. We deserve to have joy-infused lives and feel no guilt while doing so.
I don’t just want to be my mother’s strength, I want to be her laughter and happiness as well. I want my niece and nephews to experience an abundance of joy and self-confidence to get them through the rough patches. I want them to know that they are wonderful, magical, loved, and seen.
I want this for all of us, instead of just some of us. When we are balanced, grounded, centered, and whole, we can better support those around us. Choosing our health and joy is a form of protest.