Getting Through It: An Open Letter To My Mother

went in the archives for this one.

Mother’s Day is around the corner and I know that this day can be a very fraught time for any number of reasons for many people. Consider this a warning for those who may be struggling with the loss of a mother or a mother figure this year…feel free to skip this piece. We’ll get through the next one together. Take care of yourself this weekend.

Went in the archives for this piece I penned for my mother three years ago. I thought about what

Rachel Leeke

said about how many writer’s mothers are subscribed to their newsletters and how affirming it has been to have a mother who always supports my work. Even when its made her uncomfortable to read the ways that life has, at times, brought me to my knees…she keeps right on reading.

So, here’s what I wrote then and still feel now.

---

Lessons passed down between greased scalps and braided cornrows. Love taught through homemade chicken-noodle soup and morning smoothies. Joy shared through early Saturday mornings while cleaning to Anita Baker’s Rapture album. The makings of us. And me. The dynamic simplicity of a Black mother and her daughter. Ever hard to pin down, even more difficult to explain.

The journey between “I’m not one of your little friends” and “Girl, let me tell you ...” is wrought with hard-fought battles. There are hills and valleys of experience to cross before you begin to see the person who gave you life as something other than “mother.” Years of miscommunication on the road to being able to hear each other clearly. The times that I could not comprehend the care in your critique. Found it hard to recognize the protection in your rejection of my creative angst that would have led me to quit long before I even got started. I could not grasp everything my mother tried to instill in me and my sister — things like resiliency, mental fortitude, and discernment — in real time. I needed life to help me decode it.

I am learning now.

So, to my mom — who found out she was pregnant at 22 while performing with her dream dance company and redirected her life to take care of me — there’s no way I can pay you back, but my plan is to show you that I understand. I understand that it was not easy. That it did not always go as you’d hoped. Because no one plans for a divorce. Or to mother alone when a partner dies suddenly. I understand that you were trying to do things differently than they’d been done in your life. That the first person to untie the knots left in stomachs by generational trauma always has it the hardest. You had it the hardest. You taught us what you knew. And improvised on what you didn’t.

But it was enough, Mom.

And not because of any perceived successes of mine or my sister’s. Not because we managed to “turn out all right” or because we’re lucky enough to be living the lives we dreamed of. No, these things are not markers of the value of your mothering. They are simply anecdotal add-ons. The true fruit of the seeds you planted in us is clear in who we are. Mirrors of you in our own way. It is in my compassion. My sister’s fierceness. It is in the drive we both have. A relentless fire that won’t allow either of us to quit. It’s in our love for books. Our flair for the dramatic. It is in our spirit. The spirits you nurtured through church, family, arts, and laughter. The spirits you have never tried to break, even when they rose up in opposition to you when we were desperately trying to prove our independence. It is in our hearts. The hearts you stitched together with a deep reverence shown through sacrifice, discipline, and, at times, critique. The hearts you taught by example to remain open even when it would hurt less to stay closed.

You taught us beauty.

The beauty of giving. The beauty of forgiveness. The beauty of family — the ones we are born into and the ones we choose. I have learned more about the beauty of mercy from watching you graciously move through turmoil while never questioning your worth or wavering in your faith than I’ve ever read in the pages of a Bible. It is the reason why I bend but never break. You are the offering, Mom. The burnt sacrifice of proving your unconditional love for us by seldomly choosing yourself first during our childhood. But you are also the redemption. How many times have you saved us from ourselves? How many crosses have you carried for us silently? How many times did you feed not only us, but the children of others? What manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us that we should be called the daughters of Judy Milner?

I get it now.

I get how special this bond is. How special you are. I get the days you would spend pouring into the students you’ve taught dance to. Picking them up, dropping them off. Helping them get into the best programs. I get how rare that is. How unusual. I get why you cautioned me about my sensitivity. The sensitivity you recognized as your own. I get the fear of seeing me hurt the way you had been. But knowing that I’d recover because I am yours. I get your commitment to my sister’s dream of following in your footsteps. I get the strength it must have taken to let go of the reins and allow her to soar on her own. I get the hope. I get the fight. I get all of it.

None of the usual colloquialisms we assign to parenting done right even matter when I think of how you mothered us. So just … thank you.