By Dr. Laura McGuire
Dear Mom,
I know you don’t always think I see you for all that you genuinely are. More than as my mother, my children’s Nonna, or my rock—but as a human being. At times, you may think I only see you through a critical lens—that I bring up what you are not, the ways in which I wish you were different, or that I make comparisons between you and other moms. Perhaps I do. But I want you to know that, no matter the torrid troubles that may lay ahead and despite the rocky road that got us to this point, you are my ride or die and the person I admire most on this earth.
I see you for the woman you were before I came along—confident, feisty, brave. You were the first female manager of your high school men’s cross-country team. You went to China as a single woman, alone with another female friend in the politically turbulent times of the 1980s. That same decade, you joined the Air Force to continue our family’s tradition of military service. All 4 feet and 11 inches of you got through bootcamp with a pulled ligament and bronchitis—you never gave up and, because you stayed, you met my dad and my life came to pass. You love tradition, family, and your role as a wife and mother, but you are also a maverick. Breaking molds while simultaneously holding close the traditions you feel connected to. Now that I am the same age you were when you had me, I see so much of myself in the shadow of your life.
You were a nurse in Appalachia when you got married, caring for people who rarely left their mountain cabins and paid you in melons from their farms. You were called a foreigner for not being “the right kind of white” and for your Mediterranean cooking. You labored for three days without medication to give birth to me—some would say foreshadowing the challenges I would forever bring to your life.
You raised me proudly, though your Appalachian neighbors told you that you were “lucky I wasn’t dark like you.” You taught me never to be ashamed of my multi-cultural background, but to find richness in my many identities.
When my dad decided he wanted to be single again, leaving his wife and toddler behind, you vowed you would never let me feel that I lacked for anything as a result of his neglect. As a nurse, you chose to work night shifts so that you could be home with me during the day—volunteering at my school, leading my Girl Scout troop, and teaching my Sunday School class. I teased you for how much coffee you drank; now, I can’t imagine what living on four hours of sleep per day was like for you.
You wanted me to grow up knowing my dad, so when he stopped visiting us, you drove me to him every month—on your dime and with no child support. You gave and gave and asked for nothing in return. You turned down seminary at Princeton to be near him, in hopes that he would one day come home to us. He moved on, leaving us in the dust, to start a new family. Yet, you never gave up hope in life, love, and the pursuit of a purpose-driven life. I am still trying to live up to the optimism you modeled.
When I was a teenager and giving you endless grief, you also became the caretaker for your parents. Your saint of a mother had a traumatic brain injury and your siblings were “busy with their own lives.” You, who had nothing and had already given everything, gave even more. I look back now at how you worked a full-time job, cared full time for your parents, and stayed fully involved in my teenage life. You never had time to be a person, a woman, a human being. And yet, you never once complained, finding grace and joy in every task. Perhaps this is why I also find such drive in a life of service to family and humanity, though I cannot imagine matching your energy or patience.
When I found myself in an abusive marriage, you did everything to encourage healing and peace. You have shared my every burden of being a single parent, uplifting your daughter and grandchildren, giving us a life filled with laughter, optimism, and support in every sense of the word. You have even followed me around as I’ve moved to grow in my career. Many comment that I’m so lucky to have this support—I tell them that they have no idea how blessed I am.
I am not only blessed to have you as my mother but to have a matrilineal legacy of great mothers that came before you. I hold tightly to your mother’s strength in helping raise me—the joy and delight she took in me. How she always told me I was so smart, how she loved Jesus so dearly, the way she could make anyone laugh and feel loved. I never met her mother, your grandmother, but from everyone’s stories, I know I look the most like her and that she has the same magical blend of strength and kindness. I wear her ring everyday, a reminder that I am simply the latest link in a chain of mothers who love with all they have and give their all daily.
Mom, I know we sometimes look at each other and see such different people. I know you certainly didn’t imagine a queer, non-binary, sexologist for a daughter. But, after all, it was your mold shattering that has given me the strength to be who I am today. Many days, I feel that I could never measure up to you—you do and have done more for humanity and your family than anyone will ever know. I can only pray to be half as kind, half as selfless, half as full of grit as you are. In my own way, I am working to get there. Despite all of my best efforts, I know I will never be quite as incredible as you are. Many moms are great, but you are revolutionary. You are more than the word mother can quantify and far more than I could ever deserve. Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy.
