Rearview Mirror is a series born from age, clarity, and the courage to finally say the quiet parts out loud. It’s about looking back not to reopen old wounds, but to understand them – to revisit the places, people, and moments that shaped us, both the ones that lifted us and the ones that nearly undid us.
In this third installment, written on the 33th anniversary of my mother’s passing – a milestone that is hitting me harder this year – I revisit her life and the ways her courage, compassion, and foresight continue to guide me as I navigate my own journey.
I’m Becoming More Like My Mother
There’s a saying that daughters are reflections of their mothers – mirroring their strengths, their flaws, their sacrifices, and sometimes even their unspoken dreams. As I get older, I see the truth of that more clearly. A daughter carries her mother’s best qualities forward, but she also grows beyond them. She becomes continuation and evolution all at once.
Now, 33 years after my mother’s passing, I find myself looking at her life – and my own – through a softer, wiser lens. And yet, when I was younger, I didn’t really see her for who she was. I loved her, admired her, and leaned on her wisdom – but mostly, I saw her as my mother.
Her identity as a woman, a professional, a person with her own hopes, struggles, and quiet rebellions, was hidden behind the daily rhythms of motherhood. Only now, approaching the age she was when she died, can I see the full measure of her courage, her insight, and her extraordinary vision.
A Blessed Childhood
I had a blessed childhood. As an only child, I grew up wrapped in undivided attention, the kind that fills a home with security and certainty. My mother had worked before she married, but once I arrived, she poured everything into motherhood. She came from a generation that married young and started families quickly, yet she defied that path – marrying in her mid-30s and having me just before that decade closed. Even that choice, I now realize, was a quiet act of autonomy.
My mother was strong, compassionate, and startlingly ahead of her time – a feminist before the word made headlines, before the movement gave language to what she already believed. She taught me the essentials: self-respect, discernment, the value of choosing my battles carefully, and the unshakeable truth that once chosen, I should never back down. And yet, when I was younger, I sometimes took these qualities for granted, seeing only the surface – the fairness, the guidance, the discipline – but not fully recognizing the depth of her courage and moral imagination. At the time, she was just my mother.
Compassion in a Judgmental World
I remember one striking example from our neighborhood. In the 1970s, a man in our small, conservative, judgmental town began transitioning to female. I was about 16 at the time, and I thought it was insane – frankly, even disgusting. I shunned him whenever he crossed my path, treating him as someone to be avoided. In my defense, I was 16 and just beginning to understand the complexities of the world.
The reaction in town was predictably cruel: whispers, stares, exclusion. My mother could not understand why anyone would make such a choice either, especially a man who appeared to have the perfect wife, the perfect job, the perfect life. But her curiosity and empathy outweighed her puzzlement. She asked me gently, “Did you like him before he transitioned?” And when I said yes, she explained that while he was changing on the outside, he was still the same person inside and deserved to be respected as a fellow human being – even if I didn’t understand what was happening, and quite frankly, even if she didn’t fully understand either.
She did not let judgment take over; she let compassion lead. Where others turned away or whispered behind his back, she reached out, treated him with kindness, and accepted him for who he was becoming. I didn’t fully grasp at the time how radical and courageous this was. Only now can I see her as a woman making her own choices, acting with principle and bravery – even when no one else would.
Years later, when my mother passed, that same person, now a woman, came to her wake, overcome with grief. My father, part of the Greatest Generation, a man of his time who had never embraced gayness – let alone trans identities – consoled her, and days later told me that in that moment he realized this woman was no different than anyone else, just a fellow human.
In that small, deeply personal way, my mother’s courage and empathy had changed him too. She left a legacy not only for me, but for those around her: the quiet power of seeing people fully, beyond labels and fear.
Guiding a Young Adult
I never fully realized that my mother had once been young herself until specific situations unfolded in my own life. In college, I had a boyfriend whom she genuinely liked and approved of – my father, on the other hand, hated him for reasons I still don’t understand. My mother defended him quietly but firmly, speaking up when my father’s criticism went too far. She even taught me how to cover up the tacky hickies I received so that Dad wouldn’t have another reason to despise him.
One day, she came home early and caught us in a compromising situation. She shook her head, smacked him on the back of his head, sent him home, and gave me a talk—not about morality, but about practicality: how to be smart, how to stay safe, and how to protect myself without surrendering my life or my choices.
In that moment, I saw her as both a parent and a woman who remembered what it was like to be young – alive with curiosity, consumed by raging hormones, and testing the boundaries of the world. She combined pragmatism, care, and wisdom in a single gesture, guiding me with insight she had not forgotten from her own youth. Only now do I understand how deeply she balanced strength, foresight, and empathy in her life beyond being my mother.
Protecting Childhood and Shifting Roles
As an only child, I received almost everything I wanted, and I never fully realized the sacrifices behind it. My father was a good man, but a less-than-stellar businessman, and as finances shifted, my mother shielded me from that reality. She didn’t overindulge me, but she made sure I felt safe and secure, never aware that my father was struggling to fulfill the traditional role of provider.
Later in life, in her senior years, my mother returned to work. At the time, she said it was out of boredom, but now I understand the truth: she took on a role she never expected, to help support us financially, to step into a new identity after years of being at home. I feel deep empathy for her as I reflect on this, approaching the age she was when she passed. The courage it must have taken to shift gears, to enter a world she had left decades earlier, is something I only now fully appreciate.
Lessons in Independence
Small moments continued to reveal the depth of her guidance. I went to Catholic school, and around the age of 12 or 13, we received an assignment to write letters to local politicians opposing abortion. At that age, I wasn’t sure how I felt about the issue, and the task felt confusing and heavy. My mother, who had worked hard to give me a Catholic school education – a commitment I now realize must have been a financial hardship by the time I reached high school – taught me something profound that day. She said I had to complete the assignment, but that there was nothing stopping me from writing to those same politicians on my own time to express my own views.
At the time, I thought it was simply a way to appease my very temperamental nature and navigate a difficult situation. Now I see it for what it really was: her leading me to think for myself, to make my own decisions, and to act with integrity beyond what society, my school, or our faith expected. That lesson – of discernment, courage, and self-respect – was her gift, quietly given, shaping not only that moment but the woman I would become.
Faith and Reflection
I, too, find myself shifting gears at this stage of life – not out of necessity, but out of choice and curiosity – through funeral service, life coaching, and writing. Reflecting on my mother’s life, and writing pieces like this, gives me both strength and a sense of value. I can see now how her resilience, foresight, and dedication shaped not only my childhood, but also the path I walk today.
And yet, as I navigate my own journey, I face questions she never seemed to wrestle with – or at least never let me see. My faith falters at times, a lot actually, as I shared in my recent Sixty & Me piece. I used to tease her about her devotion to St. Anthony, marveling at how unwavering and sure her belief always seemed.
Now I realize she must have struggled in ways I never witnessed, and still, she chose to believe – a quiet, courageous act of faith I hope to find within myself, though it feels far harder in the life I lead today.
Looking Back, Seeing Clearly
It is only now, decades later, that I truly see the fullness of her life. The mother I thought I knew was just one part of her story. She was a woman of vision, principle, and boundless empathy – qualities that quietly shaped me, and continue to guide me as I navigate my own life. In the rearview mirror, I finally recognize the extraordinary person she was, the courage she carried, and the gift of being her daughter.
Let’s Have a Conversation:
When did you realize your mother was more than a mother? What did you learn about her that you know shaped who you are?