I used to think my mother was born a mother and that caring for me was the only life she ever knew. This was until I discovered that before she was my mother, she was a young girl just like me, who had hopes and dreams and was learning through her mistakes. On her quest to experience love, I don’t think she would have imagined that she would be carrying me. But I believe God planned for me long before my first breath. He knew I’d be hers, and I think He knew I’d learn a lot about love and resilience through her. I also know that she would tell me she wouldn’t change a thing, but still, I think about this often.
When I was younger, my mother was my most prized possession. She was my first love, friend and roommate.
My early childhood memories begin with us living in her childhood bedroom at my Pappa’s house. She had an interesting way of getting me to cooperate with her. Two of my personal favorites include the “cowgyal bath” and the “panty race,” both of which have come in handy in my adult life. And as unbearable as it probably was for her, she would also let me watch however many “Dora the Explorer” movies I wanted to watch. Saturday mornings were for cleaning and dance parties, and when an early 2000s classic came on, she taught me rhythm with a Caribbean flair.
Our little rituals are etched into my mind as core memories. We listened to Beyoncé’s “4” on repeat, cranking it through the speakers during early morning commutes to school and work. The combination of on-the-go karaoke and breakfast made the time spent in traffic fly by. Saturdays were for bingo and ironing uniforms. Sundays were for a classic Belizean “Sundeh Dinna.”
She was Albert Einstein to me before I knew who Albert Einstein was. She could help me with any assignment, give me all the answers, and somehow still make it fun. I remember working on several projects in our second tiny apartment, like a cultural booklet and a “parts of the arm” poster. All this after another long day at work and while quietly missing her own mom, who lived too far away.
I wonder how heavy that must have been for her to carry her own homesickness. Now, I get it.
In this same season, I also learned that my little sister was on the way. I was not amused. I think part of me felt the fear of how much change was to come, but what I didn’t know then was that her life would make mine better.
Shortly after this, my mom started dating someone, and I loved him for the laughter and joy he brought to our lives. She was on the verge of freedom, but I was only a couple of steps behind. After living at my pappa’s house for a while, we eventually moved out on our own, partly for peace of mind and partly to start fresh.
By the time I turned eight, my idea of family began to shift, and it was then that I felt the ache of absence. My understanding of a father came not as a concept, but as a presence I lacked. After years of no contact, then court-mandated visits, each interaction with my father left me with the weight of conflicting emotions.
My mother was my anchor in the chaos that was the complexities of this relationship. Her love and guidance came second and third to her presence.
As a teenager, my father’s lack of concern hit harder. I became fixated on academics, chasing high scores and any extracurricular I had even the slightest interest in. I struggled to find my worth outside of achievement and thought I needed to prove that I mattered. This was never something my mother required, but outside voices built this pressure, and I carried it myself. I believed that the more I could accomplish, the more I would be valued.
At this time, her avoidant tendencies and my hesitance to express my needs often led to it feeling like we were speaking different languages. Over time, I realized that the distance wasn’t a lack of care but a reflection of how she had learned to navigate emotions.
Sometimes I think about what her life would look like if things had gone differently. If the love was genuine and the timing was more understanding. If I weren’t the byproduct of a failed relationship. Would she have pursued her degree earlier? Would she have still lived in Belize? Would she have been able to live more freely without the weight of responsibility? Would she get more time to enjoy being a woman before being a mother?
Even with the physical distance that separates us now, as I pursue higher education, I am grateful for the unexpected closeness it has brought. I have come to understand and appreciate my mother’s efforts in filling the roles of both parents, even when she probably wanted to give up on just one. While she will always be my mother first, I have enjoyed getting to know the woman with her own dreams, fears and desires.
I used to want her to fit the version of mothers I saw on TV shows and movies. I hoped she would be more gentle, more open, more emotional. But her lessons of resilience have prepared me to face the world in a way that tenderness might not have. I see parts of her reflected in the depths of me: her persistence, her courage and her quiet way of showing love.
The ache of what was missing has turned into a deeper awareness of how much she gave up: parts of herself and her life in exchange for me to grow into who I am. And maybe that’s the part of motherhood that is the most difficult.
My mother wasn’t born a mother, but I am grateful for the woman she is still becoming, and for the mother she is to me.
