Before her stroke, my mom was a force.
She raised three girls on her own, powered by street smarts, common sense, and an unshakable work ethic. She wasn’t overly affectionate, but her heart was big. Always taking people in. Always helping when she could. Always showing up, not with fanfare but with quiet, powerful presence.
She worked in both the medical field and social work—always in service of others. And while she was kind, she was never a pushover. She had a quick wit, a sharp tongue when needed, and a catchphrase for every situation.
From her, I learned how to be independent. How to keep myself together, inside and out. She taught me to stay focused, stay sharp, and never let life shake my center. She modeled real strength—the kind that doesn’t always speak but is always felt.
Then everything changed.
After the stroke, our relationship shifted. The daily phone calls, the rhythm of her voice, her wit—all gone. In their place, something softer, more tender began to grow. Our bond transformed. It became less about words and more about presence. Energy. Care.
Now, I focus on making her smile. I bring beauty into her days however I can. I find small joys for her to hold onto. Healing has become something we do together—sometimes in silence, sometimes in stillness.
And still, the mother I still long for lives in my memory. I miss our conversations. I miss seeing her head out to work in sharp outfits, moving with purpose and pride. I miss her voice—so clear, so clever. That longing never really fades.
But in this new season, I see how she still mothers me—even now.
She reminds me to smile when something makes her light up. She grounds me in prayer when I feel lost. She teaches me that love doesn’t always need words.
And through caregiving, I’ve learned to mother myself, too. I give her the tenderness I once craved as a child: nurturing, gentle touch, emotional closeness. We didn’t grow up with much physical affection, but now? Holding her hand or brushing her hair feels like a sacred ritual. And in doing that, I’m reparenting myself—healing parts of me I didn’t even know were still tender.
Our relationship doesn’t look like what I imagined it would be. But it’s real. It’s sacred. It’s teaching me what love looks like: quiet, patient, resilient love that keeps evolving.
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🌐 Helpful Resource
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