March 8th marks International Women’s Day, which always coincides with my mother’s birthday. This year, the celebration holds deeper meaning than ever before. The most significant woman in my life, for better or worse, has been my mother—shaping who I am in ways I’m still discovering.
My mom has been my only consistent parent throughout life. When I was 18, my father officially left our family, though emotionally, he had been absent for years before that. The truth is, growing up, I struggled to connect with my mother. I perceived her as cold, unkind, and emotionally unavailable. My childhood memories aren’t filled with warm embraces or words of encouragement—instead, they’re dominated by harsh criticisms and angry outbursts.
But adulthood brings perspective. As I matured, I began seeing my mother through a different lens. I came to understand that behind her hardened exterior was a woman deeply wounded by her marriage. Her emotional unavailability wasn’t simply a character flaw but a response to profound hurt.
My mother never learned how to process her feelings because no one had ever shown her how. As the eldest of eleven children, she was thrust into adult responsibilities at a tender age, tasked with helping provide for her large family. Her own emotional needs were secondary, if acknowledged at all. How could she possibly give her children what she herself had never received?
The pattern continued when she married my father, who betrayed her trust repeatedly throughout their 24-year marriage before finally leaving her for another woman—abandoning her with six children to raise alone.
In my twenties, I attempted conversations about our difficult past. These were met with defensiveness and denial. I tried again in my thirties, only to encounter the same walls. But something remarkable happened last week when the subject arose again.
For the first time, my mother acknowledged she might have made mistakes in raising us. “I didn’t know any better,” she said simply. It wasn’t a formal apology, but it represented something far more significant—growth.
I had already forgiven her years ago, understanding that she couldn’t possibly give what she had never received. The acknowledgment wasn’t for my benefit but represented her own internal shift.
What prompted this latest evolution? A few months before turning 77, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. This confrontation with mortality seems to have opened a new door in our already-improving relationship. Over the years, she had gradually become less critical, less prone to complaining, and our bond had steadily strengthened. But this recent acknowledgment represents a new depth of self-awareness.
There’s a bittersweet quality to witnessing this most recent transformation. Part of me wishes it hadn’t taken a potentially life-threatening diagnosis to catalyze this final piece of healing. Yet I’m grateful that she’s finding peace with herself, learning humility and honesty, and loving her children in ways they’ve always needed—even when that way of loving was never demonstrated to her.
What impresses me most is her ability to acknowledge fault without drowning in shame. That’s real growth. To look at one’s past actions clearly, admit shortcomings, and still maintain self-worth—this is wisdom that many never achieve, regardless of age.
My mother’s story reminds us that transformation is possible at any age. If she can begin this journey at 77, with no roadmap and no modeling, what’s stopping the rest of us?
So I invite you, regardless of how many trips you’ve taken around the sun, to pause and reflect. Don’t wait for a serious diagnosis to wake you up to what matters. Don’t postpone becoming the person your loved ones need you to be. That opportunity exists right now, today.
Life is too short and too precious to wait for tomorrow to start living authentically and loving deeply.
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