The Love That Confuses Me
I grew up watching my mother.
I watched how she dressed—her careful fashion, the way she buttoned up her coats, how she sprayed her perfume like a final signature. I’d slip into her shoes and wear her clothes, standing in front of the mirror, pretending to be her. Back then, in my childhood eyes, she was everything. My role model. My first idea of beauty, strength, and womanhood.
Becoming a woman opened my eyes in ways I hadn’t anticipated. The image I held of her as just “mum” began to shift, revealing the woman she truly is. A woman of quiet strength, with hidden aches and difficult choices. Once, a little girl who had dreamed of fairytales, she had outgrown them early to nurture me. I began to see that those long showers weren’t about indulgence; they were moments of escape, brief silences in a world that often works against women. I understood why a simple dinner out came at a cost far beyond the bill, why the same worn shoes stayed on her feet for months. I noticed the endless stretch of her giving, how she poured herself out, time and again, until there was almost nothing left for herself.
As I grew older, I began to question her. Her decisions. The way she always chose others before herself. Why community meant everything to her, even when it was the very place her worth was stretched thin. Why she kept the memories we gathered along life’s journey like treasures, yet so easily laid down the things she once loved to raise us. I questioned the traditions she upheld, even when they cost her. Her opinions. Her silence. Her strength. I wrestled with it all. And still, even in my questioning, I obeyed. Because somewhere deep in my heart, I wanted her approval. I needed her to know that her sacrifices and the life she carved out for me were not in vain.
Somewhere along the way, as I tried to understand her, I stopped being just her daughter. I became her quiet companion. I began carrying pieces of her story, standing beside her in ways I never imagined I would. I held what grief I could, even when I didn’t fully understand its weight. I learned how to become light in her darker seasons, how to offer joy when the world felt unkind. And yet, in loving her, I also began discovering myself. Slowly, I stopped seeing life only through her lens and started looking through my own. Because this world has a way of gently loosening cords, inviting us to step beyond the stories we were raised in. Not to abandon them, but to write our own alongside them.
It’s a complicated love—messy and beautiful, wrapped in blood, sacrifice, and unspoken understanding. I admire her deeply. I wish I could relieve her of the burdens she never deserved to carry and be there to cheer her on during her small wins. Even still, I ache with guilt every time my choices don’t place her at the center. I want to be her, I want to be with her, but I also want to become myself. I want to carry her with me, without losing myself.
This is womanhood—this sacred, complicated, tender unraveling. This is the truth between mothers and daughters. It’s loving deeply where we come from and still choosing where we are going. It’s not neat. It’s not always fair. But it is real.
