Reflections on my Mom's Journey: From Childhood Struggles to Lasting Lessons
Growing up, my earliest memories are of the time after my parents' divorce when I was around five-six years old. My mom and I moved in with my grandmother in a quaint house on the waterfront in Stonington, Connecticut. It was a magical place to grow up, with my own little boat to row out for crabbing, clamming, and fishing adventures. We lived in my grandmothers house that she bought with her husband back in the 40s. Although we were not wealthy, we lived in a very upperclass area. I went to school in the charming town of Mystic, CT, now known as one of the best travel destinations in America. However, this picturesque town and childhood still had its dark moments. At that young age, I was unaware that my counseling sessions were due to my mom's struggle with mental illness. Although I don't recall her being admitted to a mental hospital, I learned later in life about her hospitalization for a mental breakdown. During her hospital stay, I lived with my grandmother, who became my primary caregiver and a mother figure to me, which explains our deep bond. Back then, the prevalent approach to mental health issues was heavy medication, which often did more harm than good. Recognizing this, my grandmother took my mom out of the hospital and helped her get the care she truly needed. I think I've suppressed much of that time, including memories like when my mom had a bipolar episode while we were riding my tricycle around the block. I recall these incidents only because my mom and grandmother shared a few stories, and I've recently read about them in her journal.
I stumbled upon a journal my mom had begun a few years prior to her passing. It delves into her childhood, the challenges she faced with an abusive father, she talked about being molested by close family members (yes, plural), her boyfriend Todd whom I’ll elaborate on more later and about marrying my dad who made her feel lonely and alone. She later learned my dad was actually bi-sexual and an alcoholic and the feelings she internalized and thought were her fault…was actually his to own. He made amends with her while she was living with me, in her final days, and she confided to me that really meant so much to her. Reflecting on her journey, I'm deeply inspired by her resilience and strength, which I had not fully grasped before. I had always seen myself as more of a guide or even a parent to her. However, reading her words and understanding her struggles has brought me full circle. I now recognize that much of who I am today is a result of everything she endured and triumphed over in her life.
My mom became pregnant as a teenager, a time when society frowned upon unwed mothers and support systems were lacking. She was sent to a facility in Worcester, MA, run by nuns, where she gave birth to her daughter. Subsequently, my grandmother's brother adopted the baby, raising her as his own, and to me, she was always my cousin Maureen. It wasn't until Maureen turned 16 and expressed a desire to know her biological mother that the family decided to reveal the truth. Before this revelation, we had all vacationed together—me, Maureen, and my mom—in Florida, exploring St. Augustine and Disney World. It seemed like just another family trip. However, soon after, my mom, in tears and struggling with her emotions, sat me down to explain the connection. At the time, I didn't fully comprehend the gravity of what I was being told. Maureen and I had a falling out after my moms passing but reconnected a few years ago when we were both living in California.
We lived with my grandmother until I was in the 8th grade, after which my mom bought a house in Westerly, Rhode Island, just a few towns away from our old home. This move meant starting fresh socially, though I had one lifelong friend at Westerly High, whose mom had been friends with mine for decades. We moved into a neighborhood of modest, cookie-cutter homes, designed to be affordable for lower-income families. Westerly and its upscale neighbor Watch Hill, where celebrities like Taylor Swift have homes today, contrast sharply. Watch Hill is akin to the Beverly Hills of the East Coast, bustling with wealthy summer visitors from elite boarding schools. As a local, or "townie," I felt embarrassed by our modest home and often opted to meet friends elsewhere or at their houses. It's only now that I fully appreciate the sacrifices my mom made to buy that house and how proud she was of her achievement. Looking back, I wish I had understood the value of her efforts at the time.
As I recount stories about my mom, it might seem like she wasn't a force to be reckoned with who influenced my path. But she was. A single mother who defied the odds, she fought, persevered, and embraced life to its fullest. Though I may have been a typical teenager, sometimes embarrassed by my mom, looking back now, I deeply admire her strength and resilience. And absolutely, like every individual, she made mistakes, as we all do. Her life was tragically cut short, leaving little time for reflection and learning. However, I've had the opportunity to reflect on her journey, and the invaluable lessons I've gleaned from it will stay with me forever.
My mom had a penchant for dating younger men, one of whom was so young that he used to buy kegs for me and my friends' parties. Another was Todd, one of her boyfriends from my late teens/early 20s, is someone I still keep in touch with to this day. They met when she was 44 and he was just two years older than me, a fact I only realized years later when I noticed his birthday on Facebook and saw he was the same age as my then ex-husband. Although I knew Todd was significantly younger than my mom, it hadn't clicked just how close in age he was to me until then. They shared a wonderful relationship and he truly loved her, but it ultimately didn't last because he wanted children and my mom was past the age of having more. Now, having navigated single life in my late 40s after three divorces, I understand her perspective better. When I questioned why she didn't date men her own age, she would say, "They all look so old; I feel like I'm dating a grandfather. And they're all so boring, not wanting to explore and have fun." Experiencing dating again, I found myself echoing her sentiments, amazed at how old my age-matched dates seemed. How could they possibly be the same age as me? What I came later in life to realize, relationships are not about age; they are about connection and common ground, about shared experiences and love. My mom's relationships, especially with Todd, taught me that age is just a number when there's a genuine bond. They enjoyed each other's company, laughed together, and shared similar interests. While their relationship had its challenges, it showed me that what truly matters in a relationship is the connection and compatibility between two people, regardless of age. Currently, my boyfriend is a decade younger than me, yet our age difference doesn't affect us. We share mutual interests and support each other, highlighting that compatibility and understanding are paramount in any relationship.
As a teenager, I acted out a lot and one time got arrested for shoplifting, which led to court-ordered counseling that both my mom and I attended. During one of these sessions, which connects back to the story about my mom's younger boyfriends, she accused me of sleeping with her boyfriend. I was so upset by the accusation that I stormed out and walked home—a journey of over 12 miles. I never slept with her boyfriend; he was 19 and I was 16, and he was just the guy who bought us beer. I actually picked up the phone and called my dad. “I want to come live with you!”. The next day, I was on my way to California for high school. Looking back, I understand that her accusation stemmed from her own insecurities and the realization that her relationship, though lacking in depth, was a convenient scapegoat for deeper issues rather than addressing the real problems.
I know moving in with my dad deeply hurt my mom. However, she stood by me through thick and thin, always offering unwavering support regardless of my missteps. She made incredible sacrifices to ensure I could pursue higher education, going as far as mortgaging her home and selling belongings to finance my college tuition. Despite her efforts, I eventually dropped out, feeling like I had let her down. Surprisingly, she never wavered in her support, remaining my biggest champion. I often reflect and ponder whether my mom had the same support system that I've been fortunate to have. While I know my Grandmother was her pillar of strength, I wonder if she had a trusted confidant with whom she could openly discuss all the challenges she faced, including those that I discovered in her journal. Shannon and Jonna, my two closest friends, and I have built a bond where we can discuss anything without fear of criticism. We listen to each other, share our thoughts, and provide advice when needed. Most importantly, we cheer each other on, encouraging one another to live life boldly and fearlessly. Rick, my boyfriend, is also my most trusted confidant. He's the first man I've been with with whom I have no secrets. Honestly, it's an incredibly liberating feeling.
In contrast, my father, who was financially well-off, showed little faith in my abilities and contributed minimally to my college expenses. His lack of belief felt like a confirmation of my failures when I eventually left college. However, as I matured, I realized that this was just a part of my journey. It fueled my determination to strive harder, learn from my experiences, and grow. Although I didn't follow the traditional path, dropping out of high school, I refused to let that define me. I absorbed lessons from those around me, constantly adapting and evolving. Today, I hold a significant role as the manager of a project management office, earning 480% more than the average high school dropout. I am very proud of this accomplishment and directly attribute it to my mom’s unwavering belief in me. But for now, let's circle back to the incredible woman who shaped my journey – my mom.
In my late twenties, I relocated to New Mexico with my first husband. During her visit, my mom revealed that it had always been a dream of hers to live out West. By the end of that trip, she made up her mind to move. Less than a month later, she became my new neighbor, buying a home less than a mile away. While working with me at a call center, she pursued photography as a side passion. Eventually, she turned her photography into a part-time business and gained recognition in various books and magazines. She possessed a unique eye for beauty that often went unnoticed by others. Traveling extensively across the West Coast, she captured moments, connected with people, and explored new horizons. Her adventurous spirit and fearlessness have continuously inspired me. A year after moving to New Mexico, my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer, a condition that had also affected my grandmother a few years earlier. Initially, I believed she had completed her treatments, only to discover later that she had stopped them prematurely because they made her feel sick. I find myself grappling with this contradiction: why did she display bravery in some aspects of her life but chose to ignore her health concerns? Why didn't she consult her doctor to address her discomfort? Why did she ignore the signs of her cancer returning, despite knowing deep down what was wrong? It seemed she was too afraid to confront the truth, perhaps hoping that by denying it, the problem would simply disappear. Sadly, that wasn't the case.
When my mom called me to tell me her cancer was back and the outlook was grave. I was living in Massachusetts at the time. I immediately flew to New Mexico to be by her side. I loaded up her car and we drove across country. I wanted her to be able to get the best medical care that we could find and be close to family. The journey across country was both a blessing to have the time with her but also a very taxing emotional experience. She would sit in the passenger seat moaning from pain and it was so hard to listen to. I couldn’t help and the sounds just hurt deep down. After her passing, I discovered her journal detailing our cross-country journey. She described my impatience as she asked for frequent stops and dealt with pain, and I carry a deep sense of guilt for that today. In her writing, she also expressed love for the person I am and admired my strength, recalling how I stepped up to care for her without hesitation. Despite these positive words, I find myself fixating on the moments of harshness and regret over what I said.
My mom's last days were spent in hospice care in the Worcester MA area. It was a spacious, lovely home by a lake, and she had a private room with a patio overlooking the water. It was a sight my mom couldn’t appreciate, as she wasn't conscious during that time. I invited relatives to bid their farewells, but one later regretted coming. The image of my mom in that state stuck in his mind—he couldn’t shake it. She wasn't the vibrant powerhouse of a woman he remembered; she was frail, jaundiced, and unable to speak. It was tough to witness, tough to accept. I knew her journey was ending, and I didn't want her to suffer anymore. Leaning close, I whispered, "I love you. It's okay to let go. I'll be okay." After being there tirelessly for four days, I finally drove the short distance home, hoping for some rest despite the unlikelihood. When my phone rang, 5 min after leaving my moms side, I didn't need to check who it was. It was the news of my mom's passing. Had she heard me? Did she find peace knowing I'd be alright?
When my mom passed away, I faced the daunting task of cleaning out her house, which was packed from floor to ceiling with belongings. She had accumulated collections and a lifetime's worth of belongings that filled every nook and cranny of the house. While I was in the process of clearing things out, an incident brought to light just how extensive her accumulation was: a woman was seen rummaging through our dumpster, and passersby mistook the piles of discarded items for a yard sale. The sight of a stranger rifling through my mom's possessions, despite my having discarded them, was deeply intrusive—She was waist-deep in the dumpster, tossing items around as if they were trash (although they were in a dumpster, they weren't just trash to me). I politely asked her to leave and asked that she stop from touching my mom's belongings. However, she ignored my requests, leading to a heated argument and eventually prompting me to call the police to have her escorted away. I vividly recall her shouting at me, "Why do you care? You threw it away!" Why did I care, indeed? It was more about honoring my mom's attachment to these items. Although I had no intention of keeping them, they still held memories of my mom, and seeing someone tossing them around like junk didn't sit right with me. Over time, I carried around my parents' “stuff”, realizing that these material things didn't hold my memories. I don't have kids to pass them down to, so I wondered if giving these items away would be a true gift or just handing off a burden. Coming to terms with the fact that my memories don't rely on material things was freeing.
As I reflect on my mom's journey, from her childhood struggles to the lasting lessons she imparted, I am reminded of the resilience and strength she embodied. Despite facing numerous challenges, she navigated life with courage and determination, teaching me invaluable lessons along the way.
One of the most profound lessons I've learned from my mom is the importance of resilience in the face of adversity. She encountered hardships, from her struggles with mental illness to personal traumas, yet she never gave up. Instead, she persevered, seeking help when needed and taking steps towards healing. Her resilience has inspired me to face challenges head-on and never lose hope, no matter how difficult the circumstances may seem.
Another crucial lesson I've gleaned from my mom's journey is the significance of self-belief and perseverance. Despite setbacks and disappointments, she remained steadfast in her pursuit of happiness and fulfillment. She made sacrifices to ensure that I had opportunities for a better future, showcasing the power of determination and unwavering faith in oneself.
Furthermore, my mom's approach to relationships taught me valuable insights about connection and compatibility. Her experiences with dating younger men highlighted the importance of shared values, interests, and genuine connections in relationships. Through her relationships, especially with Todd, I learned that age is just a number, and what truly matters is the bond and understanding between individuals.
Additionally, my mom's journey emphasized the importance of empathy and understanding. She stood by me through thick and thin, offering unwavering support and compassion. Her actions taught me the value of empathy in building meaningful relationships and supporting loved ones during challenging times.
As I move forward, I carry these lessons with me, honoring my mom's legacy by embodying resilience, self-belief, empathy, and the importance of genuine connections. I strive to live authentically, embracing life's challenges with courage and learning from every experience. My mom's journey continues to inspire me, shaping the person I am today and guiding me towards a future filled with purpose and fulfillment
