Describe a family member.
In all honesty the only family I really knew to be familiar, felt the furthest from being family..
It is strange how sometimes the people who share our blood can feel like strangers, and the ones who raised us can still leave us feeling unseen. I could never bring myself to describe my only sibling, there is too much bitterness there, too much darkness, and honestly, I have made peace with that silence. So instead, I will speak about my mother, a woman of GOD, of grit, of unwavering resilience.
My mom was strength personified. She carried storms in her chest and still found ways to smile through them. Life did not go easy on her, she fought battles in silence that most would crumble under. Yet even in her tired eyes, there was always a quiet kind of faith, a belief that somehow, tomorrow would still hold light.
But if I have to be honest, there is always been a part of me that aches when I think of her. I wish she had loved me the way she loved my sibling, openly, freely, without conditions or comparisons. I wish she had seen me, not as a duty, but as a daughter who just wanted her mother’s warmth. My mom gave her all to the ones who demanded it most and left me learning how to love myself in the spaces where her love did not reach.
Still, I cannot deny that her strength shaped me. My dad gave me his heart, kind, pure, and unshakeable in his truth. He was poor, and people looked down on him because of it. They respected my mom because she could be persuaded, but never him because he stood too firm in his values. And maybe that is why I am who I am today .. I inherited his moral backbone and her endurance. From him, I learned dignity, from her, I learned survival.
My sibling, spoon-fed and entitled, will never understand the weight of standing alone, of having to earn love and respect with your bare hands. But I do. I learned that being overlooked does not mean being unworthy. Sometimes it means you are being refined.
After my father’s death, my mom became the pillar that held what was left of our world. Not for me so much, but still, she stood strong. She worked until the age of 81, her hands wrinkled, her faith unshaken. I think about her often, about the woman she was, the one who fought through exhaustion and heartache and never gave up.
She may not have given me everything I needed emotionally, but she gave me something far greater, proof that a woman can be broken and still rise. That is where I draw my strength from now, from her resilience, her endurance, her unwavering spirit.
So yes, my mom was not perfect. Our love story is complicated, layered with longing and lessons. But she was real and maybe that is what makes her unforgettable.
